My Life, the Theater, and Other Tragedies

by Allen Zadoff

  I want to tell her my name.

  I want to tell her how pretty she is.

  But it all sounds stupid in my head. I’m a zit-faced techie with a dead father, standing in the dark looking at her legs. That’s not exactly high romance.

  A moment passes, the two of us watching each other.

  “Okay, I’m going to head back to the Fairy Factory now,” she says, backing away down the hall.

  I have to say something to her.…

  But I don’t.

  I watch her go, her pale legs receding farther and farther until they disappear in shadow at the end of the hall.

  SORROW’S HEAVINESS DOTH HEAVIER GROW.

  I’m a coward. There’s no other word for it.

  I’m on the catwalk trying to hang and focus the rest of the lights, but I keep thinking about it. I don’t understand how I can run around twenty-five feet in the air and handle dangerous electrics, but when it comes to girls, I’m Chicken Little.

  The idea makes my zits ache.

  I move from light to light, trying to lose myself in work. I push the actress out of my head. It’s important not to get distracted when you’re teching. That’s how people get hurt.

  At some point Ignacio walks onstage pulling the ghost light with him. The ghost light is a bare lightbulb on a pole that burns downstage center when nobody is in the theater. It’s one of those theater superstitions, like not saying the name of a certain Scottish play or telling people to “break a leg” instead of “good luck.” Some people say we need a ghost light because ghosts roam the theater at night, and they’ll get angry if they can’t see where they’re going. Other people say the light is like a talisman that keeps ghosts away from the theater in the first place. Reach has a more practical explanation. He says the ghost light is there so the last person out of the theater and the first person in don’t trip and kill themselves in the dark.

  “You almost done?” Ignacio says.

  “Can I get five more minutes?” I say.

  “I’m out of here, but Mr. Apple is still around.”

  No kidding. He’s probably breathing into a paper bag in his office right now.

  I wave to Ignacio. He plugs in the light and exits.

  I look at the glow of the ghost light on the empty stage. There’s something sad about it, like the last streetlight in a deserted town.

  I lean back and lay my head on a sweatshirt on the catwalk. I’m not planning to go to sleep, only rest for a minute. I’ve barely put my head down before I’m back in the school hallway in my dreams, looking at the pools of light and shadow that hopscotch the long hall.

  “I used to love you,” a girl says. It’s the actress with long black hair, the one playing Peaseblossom. She dances down the hall, spinning until I see her red panties.

  I know it’s crazy that a girl I’ve never met is talking about being in love with me. But it’s one of those dream things—it’s true in the dream even if it’s a lie in real life.

  “You don’t love me anymore?” I say.

  “Not anymore.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing to do, nothing to be done,” the fairy girl says. “You can’t change the past.”

  I don’t even get to have a girlfriend in a dream. I only get to have a breakup. Sad.

  The surprising thing is how much it hurts when she says it. There’s this deep ache in my chest, like the time I had bronchitis for two weeks and I could feel my lungs hurting.

  “It’s a shame,” she says.

  But her voice sounds different now, like a man’s voice.

  “I used to love this,” a man says.

  I open my eyes.

  I’m up on the catwalk. My head has slipped off the sweatshirt, and it’s resting on cold metal. I glance down to the floor where Mr. Apple is lying on a chaise longue in the middle of the stage, his enormous bulk draped over the sides, a cell phone pressed to his ear.

  He says, “I used to love the theater, Sylvester. Now I hate it.”

  He dangles one foot to the floor where Carol Channing lies next to him. He slips off his loafer and rubs her fur a little too hard with his pudgy toes. She yelps and scurries away from him.

  “Don’t tell me it’s not that bad,” Mr. Apple says. “You should have seen the last rehearsal. Shakespeare turned over in his grave, threw up, then rolled into his own vomit. And whose fault is that? Mine! I’m the atrocious director of an atrocious production. This is what it’s come to, Syl. I’m not only a high-school drama teacher, I’m a terrible high-school drama teacher.”

  It feels bad to listen in on Mr. Apple’s private call, but I’m stuck. If I say something now, he’ll know I’ve heard the whole conversation.

  “I’m doing everything I can,” Mr. Apple says, “but I have no inspiration, sweetie. It’s like the lights are off. It’s Midsummer in the dark.”

  He scratches at one of his stomach folds.

  “Of course you inspire me, Sylvester, but in a different way. My God, why do you have to take everything so personally?”

  I shift on the catwalk and my arm hits a gel frame.

  Mr. Apple stops in mid-sentence.

  “Hello?” he says.

  He pauses for a moment, then says into the phone:

  “I’ve got to go, honey. I’ll be home in a little bit. Dinner sounds nice. You know I love your salmon croquettes.”

  He hangs up.

  “I hate salmon croquettes,” he says to no one in particular.

  He hefts himself up to a sitting position on the chaise.

  “Is someone here?” he says.

  He looks around the theater, scanning everywhere. Then he looks up in my direction. Does he see me? I can’t be sure.

  Derek rushes in.

  “I’ve got it!” he says.

  “They have medicine that will get rid of it,” Mr. Apple says.

  Silence.

  “That was a joke,” Mr. Apple says.

  “Yes, sir. Very funny,” Derek says.

  Mr. Apple sighs, unappreciated. “All right, Mr. Dunkirk, what do you have for me?”

  “An amazing inspiration,” Derek says.

  “I can’t wait to hear it. But why don’t you start by telling me what inspired the blackout earlier?”

  “You heard about that?” Derek says.

  “I’m the director. An actor passes gas in the dressing room and I get a memo. Often a long memo.”

  Derek shuffles from foot to foot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him nervous before.

  “That blackout was a fluke,” Derek says.

  “A fluke is a onetime event. We’ve had set problems, light problems, even costume problems. That’s not a fluke. It’s a trend.”

  “This one was not my fault. One of the techies made an error.”

  “Which one?” Mr. Apple says.

  “The lighting guy, Adam Ziegler. You know him?”

  “I do,” Mr. Apple says.

  I flash on Mr. Apple in the bathroom stall, mopping his forehead with wet towels.

  “I’ll get rid of him,” Derek says.

  Mr. Apple scratches at his goatee, thinking.

  I have to speak up now. I have to defend myself.

  But how I can explain a blackout when I don’t know why it happened?

  “Here’s what I think …,” Mr. Apple says.

  I try to say something, but I can’t.

  This is how it ends. I’m going to sit up here and watch myself getting thrown off the crew, and I’m going to do nothing. Because that’s what a coward does.

  “I understand that you’re a student and there’s a lot of pressure on you,” Mr. Apple says.

  “I can handle it,” Derek says quickly.

  “I hope so,” Mr. Apple says. “But I don’t want you firing people quite yet. You’re in a position of authority now. You need to take care of your people. Teach them. Guide them.”

  “I’d rather get rid of him,” Derek says.

  “You’re not hearing me,”
Mr. Apple says. “I gave you a big opportunity on this show.”

  “I know you did. And I’m grateful.”

  “What has been given can be taken away,” Mr. Apple says.

  Derek’s face goes pale. I can see it white and clammy on the edge of the ghost light.

  “I assure you, Mr. Apple—”

  Mr. Apple holds up a hand. Silence.

  Derek takes a moment to regroup.

  “This brings me to the inspiration I mentioned,” he says.

  “Let’s hear it,” Mr. Apple says, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

  “I’ve noticed the show is lacking a certain—”

  “Talent base,” Mr. Apple says.

  “Panache,” Derek says.

  “Very politic,” Mr. Apple says.

  “I have something I think will improve it. A spotlight.”

  “More light? You’re going to brown out Northern Jersey.”

  “Not just more light,” Derek says. “The perfect light.”

  “We can’t afford any more equipment in our budget.”

  Mr. Apple rises from the chaise, slipping his bag over his shoulder.

  “Money is no problem,” Derek says. “My father will take care of it.”

  “I see,” Mr. Apple says. “Fine, then.”

  He nods and walks slowly from the stage.

  Derek calls after him, “About that techie—”

  “No firing,” Mr. Apple says.

  “At least not yet,” Derek says.

  “That’s right,” Mr. Apple says. “Give the poor boy another chance.”

  SHE, SWEET LADY, DOTES, DEVOUTLY DOTES.

  I’m walking home feeling so angry I can’t see straight. I want to kill Derek for trying to get rid of me, wipe his name off the tech board, off the call sheets, off the play program forever. I think about Reach’s offer to come up with a plot to bring him down. Why shouldn’t I take him up on it? Derek doesn’t give a crap about the work I’ve done for him. And if I make a mistake, I’m gone. So what do I care if Derek goes down in flames? It might even be better for me.

  I don’t wait for the light to change at the crosswalk, I just step into the road. A big SUV blares its horn at me. I jump back onto the sidewalk, my heart racing.

  It wasn’t close. But it was close enough.

  The SUV guy gives me an angry fist wave, throws the truck into gear, and roars away down the street.

  I’m tired of being that guy, the one who is afraid all the time. I fantasize about being brave, but I do nothing.

  The fairy girl, Reach, Derek.

  My whole life is like that. I need to speak my mind and I don’t. I need to stick up for myself and I don’t.

  That’s what fear does to you.

  I think about the kind of person I’d be without fear. I try to imagine myself brave and honest, but I can’t.

  Instead I think of my brother, Josh.

  He’s that kind of guy; nothing fazes him.

  When Josh went to school in Montclair, he pretty much ran the place. He played sports, he had clear skin, he was captain of things, and he had girlfriends. Emphasis on the plural. There were girls around Josh from as far back as I can remember. When he was in fifth grade, girls started coming over to the house to ask for him. There would be a knock at the door, and I’d open it to find some girl standing there looking nervous, biting a fingernail or twirling a strand of hair. When I asked Josh about them, he said, “They’re friends. No big deal.” That just confused me more, because my friends didn’t show up unannounced and they didn’t bring gifts.

  Josh got his first actual girlfriend in seventh grade, then another more serious one in eighth. He had three or four in high school. Maybe more. I lost count. The longest was Meredith, who he dated for two years. She was gorgeous. Sometimes she came over the house when Mom wasn’t home, and she and Josh would go into the den and close the door. I used to pretend it was me in the den with her instead of Josh. I’d sit in my room alone watching TV, but in my mind I was in the den with Meredith, and Josh had never been born.

  I thought girls would come to the house looking for me just like they did for him. When it didn’t happen in fifth, I told myself to be patient. Maybe I was a late bloomer. Then it didn’t happen in sixth or seventh.

  By eighth grade, I knew I was in trouble. Girls weren’t going to show up for me.

  Josh and I may have been brothers, but things were different for me. Girls didn’t see me the same way.

  I was going to have to do something, or high school was going to be terrible.

  When Dad died in the summer before ninth, that was it for me. I started high school with this weight on my chest. I couldn’t talk to anyone, especially girls. I could barely get up in the morning and drag myself to school. I didn’t shower, didn’t change my clothes. For a while everyone was super nice, but eventually people started to avoid me.

  Except the techies.

  Showering is kind of optional with us.

  Reach brought me into the fold, and I’ve been there ever since, my picture up on the Techie Wall of Fame inside the Cave.

  What if Josh was in the same situation as me now?

  He’d know what to do.

  I need to talk to Josh.

  The thought hits me hard.

  It’s been a million years since we’ve spoken, and that’s not right. He’s my big brother, and brothers talk about things. At least they’re supposed to.

  So I take out my phone.

  I hate dialing Josh’s number. I’m sure I’m bothering him and he’s going to be angry with me. Isn’t that crazy, when you won’t call your own brother because he might be angry?

  To hell with it. I dial the number.

  It rings once, twice, and then I hear Josh’s voice, happy and excited.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  I chuckle to myself, thinking I was stupid to worry. Josh checked his caller ID, saw his baby brother, and snapped up the phone. He’s even excited to hear from me. What was I so worried about?

  “Hey, Josh. What’s going on?” I say.

  “It’s Josh,” his voice says. “Go ahead and leave a message. If you can make me laugh, I’ll call you back.”

  It’s one of those phone message that tricks you into thinking it’s a conversation.

  The phone beeps, and I hang up without saying anything. My face burns red, and I feel like an idiot all over again.

  SUMMER STILL DOTH TEND UPON MY STATE.

  “Are you hungry?” Mom says when I walk in the door. She’s always trying to feed me because she thinks I’m too thin.

  “No.”

  “But you’ve been gone all day.”

  “I had a granola bar at rehearsal.”

  “That’s not enough,” she says.

  “I’m starving my zits. If I withhold nutrition, what choice do they have but to go elsewhere?”

  “They’ll stay, and you’ll get too thin.”

  Mom opens the freezer and pokes around. Then she closes the freezer and opens the cabinet. Then she closes the cabinet and opens a drawer.

  “Aha! Found them!” Mom says, and pulls a package of Milano cookies out of the drawer.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I say.

  “Anything,” Mom says.

  “It’s about girls.”

  Mom stops what she’s doing.

  “Girls or girl?” she says. She seems excited, which makes me feel kind of sick inside. Mom is desperate for me to be happy. I guess that’s what a mother is supposed to want, but it feels like a lot of pressure.

  “It’s about girls plural,” I say. “At least for now.”

  “Okay.” Mom sits across from me, biting at a fingernail.

  “What do girls want?” I say.

  “The same thing as you,” Mom says. “What do you want?”

  “Girls.”

  “Okay, maybe not exactly the same thing.”

  Mom opens the package of Milanos, sniffs at the inside, then closes them again. I notice s
he’s looking thin, too. Not just thin, but tired.

  “Do you think girls are so different?” Mom says.

  “They are,” I say.

  “Am I?”

  “You’re not a girl.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “I mean you were a girl, but you’re a woman now.”

  “I still remember being a girl,” Mom says, “even if it was ten thousand years ago.”

  “Okay,” I say. “What did you want ten thousand years ago?”

  Mom thinks for a second.

  “Boys,” she says with a laugh.

  I consider that. Girls want boys as much as boys want girls. I think of Maria dancing around the stage in West Side Story, thrilled because she met a boy. For a second it seems like an exciting idea, but I don’t believe it. Because girls don’t want boys in general; they want certain boys. Boys with accents. Boys who play sports. Boys who are popular.

  I don’t think Mom is lying, I just don’t think she has the whole story. Mom hasn’t dated anyone in the two years since Dad died. And if you count her time with Dad, it’s been over twenty years since she was on a date. So I can’t trust her memory on things like this.

  Mom sighs, looks out the kitchen window.

  “Can you believe it’s still light out?” she says. “And it’s past seven.”

  She gives up on the Milanos and puts them back in the drawer.

  “Have you thought about summer vacation?” she says.

  “No,” I say, even though I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

  “I was thinking we could go away somewhere. You know, get away from things.”

  “All of us?” I say.

  Mom hesitates. “Josh is doing a summer school program. So it’s just you and me, kiddo.”

  “Big surprise,” I say.

  “That’s not fair,” Mom says. “Josh is in college now. He’s got different priorities.”

  “Fine with me,” I say, because I don’t want to get into it. “You and I should do something.”

  “Good,” Mom says.

  Summertime.

  We never had to think about summer before. Summer was simple. It was about painting.

  Every summer Mom would take some time off from work, and we’d all go to New Hampshire, to this place outside of Concord where we had a little cabin and Dad had a painting studio down the road.