My Life, the Theater, and Other Tragedies

by Allen Zadoff

  “The circuit board and the dimmer board! It’s all crap!” he shouts.

  “Then fix it,” Johanna says. “We can’t do it for you.”

  “We can’t act for you,” Benno says. “Why don’t you fix your performance?”

  “Why don’t you fix your pants?” Jazmin says to Half Crack. “I’ve seen more of your ass than my baby brother’s.”

  “Enough,” Mr. Apple says. He stuffs a chunk of glazed donut in his mouth. “I’ve got plenty to worry about without these little catfights.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Derek says to Mr. Apple. “We’re going to act like professionals.”

  Derek points at the techies.

  “Am I right, gentlemen?”

  We nod. Reach grumbles next to me.

  “What does it matter?” Johanna says. “We’re screwed.”

  “It’s going to be okay, honey,” Wesley says.

  “Are you a doctor?” Johanna says. “Can you fix her?”

  Derek clears his throat.

  “You mentioned there was good news, Mr. Apple. We could certainly use some.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Apple says. “The good news is that we’re theater people, and theater people flourish in adversity. The show must go on.”

  “But how can it go on without Miranda? She’s a lead,” Peter says.

  “We’re going to have auditions,” Mr. Apple says.

  “We’ve got three more days,” Johanna says. “That’s not enough time for someone to learn the role.”

  “Exactly right,” Mr. Apple says. “We need someone who is already a part of the show, knows the blocking, is familiar with the lines.”

  “Who?” Johanna says.

  “One of the fairies,” Mr. Apple says.

  A stir goes through the cast.

  I look for the girl from the hall. She’s standing in the group of surprised fairies. She’s dressed like a normal girl now—jeans, tank top, hair flattened down rather than wild.

  “Mr. Apple, I’d like to address the techies if I might,” Derek says.

  “You have my blessing,” Mr. Apple says. “And now, without further ado…”

  Mr. Apple hefts himself up. He tucks Carol Channing under one arm and his bag of donuts under the other.

  “I’ve got a date with a bag of donuts, and I don’t want to disappoint.”

  He heads for the theater doors.

  “Prepare yourselves, actors,” he says over his shoulder. “We’ll have auditions first thing in the morning.”

  He flings open the door, then looks back at the cast.

  “Fate will smile on someone tomorrow,” he says.

  Carol Channing snaps at the bag of donuts and he pulls her back fast.

  “That’s not star behavior, Madam!” he says, and he goes out.

  “Poor Miranda,” Jazmin says.

  “We should go to the hospital and visit her,” Johanna says.

  “Totally,” Hubbard says. “We can bring her a cake or something.”

  “She loves chocolate,” Johanna says. “Dark chocolate.”

  She bursts into tears. Wesley puts his arm around her, trying to comfort her.

  “Come on, everyone,” Peter says.

  “I need to speak with the crew,” Derek says. “I’ll meet you there. And I’ll pick up some flowers on the way.”

  “Thanks, Derek,” Johanna says.

  “Tech crew meeting in two minutes,” he says.

  The actors wander out into the house, while the techies head backstage.

  I remember the fan is still running on the spotlight.

  “I’ll be right there,” I tell Reach. “I have to turn off the spot.”

  I head for the ladder, and Johanna comes charging towards me.

  “I know what you’re up to,” she says.

  My mind goes through a rapid-fire list of things I might be guilty of. Looking down Miranda’s shirt. Standing near the dressing room door with Benno last show so we could get a peak at actresses changing. Popping my zits on the catwalk even though there are people below.

  “I saw you up there before Miranda fell,” Johanna says.

  “I had nothing to do with that. It was Mindy,” I say.

  “You were running towards the light.”

  “I was trying to stop her from making a mistake.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “I think you’re trying to destroy the show. I saw Phantom of the Opera. I know how guys like you work. First the plan, then the mask, then the creepy stuff starts.”

  “Why would I want to destroy the show?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Some weird techie vendetta.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I’m watching you. We all are.”

  She makes that motion, two fingers to her eyes, then one finger pointing at me.

  We’re watching you.

  I AM SICK WHEN I DO LOOK ON THEE.

  The entire tech crew stuffs itself into the Cave to wait for Derek. I look at the Techie Wall of Fame, covered with our pictures. I was proud when Reach got me onto the wall. I felt like I belonged. I had a purpose. It was two years ago, but it seems like another lifetime.

  Derek strides in with a clipboard in his hands.

  “Where’s Mindy?” he says. He scans the room for the little spot op.

  “Right here,” she says, throwing him a big smile. “I’m really sorry—”

  “You’re off spot,” Derek says.

  “No way,” she says.

  “Yes way,” he says, and turns his back on her.

  Her face cracks and tears well up in her eyes.

  “But you promised—” she pleads.

  He spins around and shushes her like he’s silencing a child.

  I look across the room at Grace. She bites her lip.

  Mindy jumps up and runs out of the room.

  “That was harsh, dude,” Half Crack says in a whisper.

  Derek snaps him a look.

  “Harsh. The entire tech program is about to go down the drain, and you think I’m being harsh?”

  “I’m not the one who hired her,” Half Crack says.

  Derek steps back like he’s been hit. I wince, waiting for him to attack. Instead he lifts his hands to the air like he’s surrendering.

  “Fair enough,” Derek says. “I made an error in judgment. Even the best have their off days. But that’s ancient history. The question before us now is: what’s next?”

  The room is silent.

  “People are going to see this show. Important people,” Derek says.

  “Like your dad?” someone says under their breath.

  “My father will be here to see my work. It’s true. But think about what’s at stake for all of us.”

  He paces the room, looking from face to face.

  “It’s not just my work up there. It’s our work. The techie reputation is on the line. We may not be LaGuardia Arts, but damn it, we’re Montclair. We can give them a run for their money!”

  The faces in the room soften.

  “I need your help to get us back on track. I can’t do it without you, fellows.”

  It’s quiet for a moment, and then Benno says, “We can’t let it go down like this.”

  I notice a bunch of techies looking at Reach. Derek notices, too, because he says:

  “What do you think, Mr. Patel?”

  Reach leans back, crosses his arms.

  “I think if this show goes down the crapper, it shouldn’t be for technical reasons.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Half Crack says.

  Heads nod around the room.

  “What are we going to do?” Ignacio says.

  Reach stands up.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he says. “I’m going to suck in my nuts and tech this mofo!”

  The techies cheer.

  “Brilliant,” Derek says, patting Reach on the back.

  Reach looks at me and shrugs his bony shoulders, like, What else can we
do?

  “Thank you so much, Rishekesh. That was quite inspiring,” Derek says. “To begin, I need a new spot op. Someone who knows his business.”

  Grace’s arm shoots up.

  “I didn’t realize you were still here,” Derek says to her.

  “I’m a techie,” Grace says.

  “Not for long,” Benno whispers.

  A few chuckles around the room.

  “Any other volunteers?” Derek says.

  Four or five hands rise.

  Reach nudges me. I consider raising my hand, but I don’t. Derek already knows I want it, and that all but guarantees he won’t give it to me. Begging is just going to make it worse.

  Derek studies the faces in the room.

  “Let me think on it,” he says. “And meanwhile, I ask you to think about how we can make this show better. Together.”

  The techies grunt their agreement. Derek heads for the door, pausing when he sees me.

  I get this crazy thought that he’s going to ask for my help. He’ll put his arm around me and say, We have to let bygones be bygones. I want you on my team, Z.

  “My beamer,” he says.

  “I haven’t had a chance—” I say.

  “I’m starting to wonder where your loyalties lie,” he says, and he walks out.

  “All right, everyone,” Ignacio says. “Get a good night’s sleep. There’s going to be work to do in the next few days. Lots and lots of work.”

  He gets this wild, panicked look in his eyes and starts scribbling on a yellow pad.

  “You’d better fill up that beamer,” Ignacio says as he rushes by me.

  “Better him than me,” Half Crack says.

  “Nobody wants to see you bending over and pumping gas,” Benno says.

  “Why not?” Half Crack says, oblivious.

  The techies shuffle from the room. Grace grabs a chunk of wall next to me.

  “I can’t tell if Derek is evil or a genius,” I say.

  “I think he’s an evil genius,” she says. “But did you see me volunteer? And I hate him! Why would I volunteer?”

  “Why would any of us?”

  “That’s the genius part,” Grace says. “He makes people love him, too.”

  And then she moans like she has a stomachache.

  Reach walks over, arms crossed. He looks from Grace to me.

  “Do you know Grace?” I say.

  “I know of her,” he says.

  Grace looks at the floor.

  “She’s good people,” I say.

  “Good at what?” he says.

  He and Grace look at each other in a silent standoff.

  “I’m going to bolt,” she says to me.

  “See you tomorrow,” I say.

  “So the rumor is true,” Reach says when she’s gone.

  “What rumor?”

  “The rumor I haven’t told you about yet, but is somehow making you turn bright red. The one about you in the Cave with a certain girl.”

  “There was no girl.”

  “So Grace wasn’t in there with you.”

  “She was there, but she’s not a girl. I mean she’s a girl, but I don’t think of her that way.”

  Reach sighs, rolls up his sleeves.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Reach says. “Techie love is a beautiful thing. But not Grace. She’s on our Do Not Call list.”

  “She kissed Derek. It’s not like she has cancer.”

  “It’s worse than cancer. She’s infected with Derek. What if a speck of his spit is left inside her mouth, and you get too close and it sprays on you? It’s like you had sex with Derek instead of her.”

  “They didn’t have sex.”

  “How do you know? Because she told you they didn’t? Forgive me, buddy, but you’re a little naïve about these things.”

  Maybe Reach is right. But Grace is still my friend.

  I say, “I don’t think you should be criticizing Grace right now. At least not for sucking up to Derek.”

  “What does that mean?” Reach says.

  “You gave him what he wanted.”

  “I didn’t do it for him,” Reach says. “I did it for us. For our reputation.”

  “If we look good, he looks good.”

  “Welcome to techie hell. Our entire job is to make someone else look like a star. Those are the rules of the game.”

  “Maybe I’m tired of the rules,” I say.

  “Let’s discuss this on the walk home,” Reach says.

  “I still have work to do.”

  “But my mother is making chicken tikka,” he says.

  Reach thinks I love his mother’s chicken tikka, probably because I always tell him I do. The truth is it gives me gas.

  “Maybe we can walk together tomorrow,” I say.

  He sighs, gives me a little salute, and heads out.

  I feel a pang in my chest. Reach and I used to walk home from rehearsal together every day. We’d talk about people, discuss tech theory, and plan our future conquests of girls and theater. Most of the time we’d get home then call each other again just to continue the conversation.

  At some point we stopped doing that. It wasn’t us. It was me. I was the one who stopped. I can’t even remember when it happened. It’s one of those weird relationship things—you never decide to do it, but it happens anyway. It’s not until much later that you realize something changed. By then it’s too late.

  SINCE NIGHT YOU LOVED ME.

  Rehearsal is long over, and I’m still up in the catwalk. The house lights are at 50 percent. Even though the theater is huge, it feels intimate, like a room lit by candles.

  The spotlight sits untouched out over the audience. I walk across the catwalk and stand behind it.

  I grip the handles on both sides. I swing the metal, feel the mechanism swivel. Even though it’s new, the side screw sticks slightly. It needs a shot of WD-40. I make a mental note.

  “Hello!” I shout into the theater. “Anyone here?”

  I’m alone. I flip the power switch on the light.

  There’s a humming sound as the fan comes to life, and then I press and hold the red button that sends a spark across the wires.

  A beam of light shoots out the end of the spot and paints a hard circle on the stage floor.

  It’s like my Maglite, only on a giant scale.

  I move the circle from side to side, pan up the wall and down again. I change the iris, shrinking and widening the beam. I do it fast and hard like a rock concert, then I do it smoothly like you would in a straight play.

  I flip the spot up to the ceiling, look at it high in the air, then slash pan back down to the stage.

  Someone is there.

  It’s the actress with black hair, standing alone in the center of the stage.

  “Hello?” she says.

  Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  “I know you’re up there,” she says.

  I want to speak to her, but I have a real tendency to say the wrong thing when I talk to girls.

  The best I can do is wag the light back and forth a little so she knows I heard her.

  She looks up at me, cocks her head to one side.

  Then she steps into the light.

  Startled, I move the light off her, about two feet away to the side.

  She puts her hands on her hips like she’s pissed. Then she hops to the side, landing in the center of the light again.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. She looks so funny.

  “I can hear you laughing,” she says. “So I know you’re not an alien.”

  I move the light away from her again. She slides to the right, keeping up with me. I move it forward and she moves forward, then I move it back and she moves back. Almost like we’re dancing.

  Dancing with light.

  She looks up at me, holding her hands above her eyes so she can see.

  “My name is Summer,” she says.

  “That’s a strange name.”

  “Thank you very much.”

 
“I didn’t mean it like that. I guess I meant—I don’t know how I feel about it.”

  “About my name? Why would you feel anything?” she says.

  Summer. There are so many things I hate about summertime, so many that I love.

  “I have issues with summer,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

  “Do you have issues with me?”

  “I don’t even know you.”

  “Good. Then we’re starting from scratch.”

  I dim the light so it doesn’t blind her.

  “Are you the guy who almost killed Miranda?” she says.

  “That’s a lie.”

  “The actors believe there’s some techie trying to kill them.”

  I think about what Johanna said. I’m watching you.

  “Actors are crazy,” I say.

  “Look who you’re saying that to. Actor,” she says, raising her hand.

  This is why I don’t talk to girls. I make a mess of it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I feel bad for Miranda. Really. It was a stupid mistake, but it wasn’t my mistake. I just got blamed for it.”

  “Why you?”

  “I’m the lighting guy. They always blame the lighting guy.”

  “Why?”

  “The same reason they blame the techies. It’s easy.”

  “Does the lighting guy have a name?” Summer says.

  “Just lighting guy.”

  “That’s kind of mysterious.”

  “You’re the first girl in history to find techies mysterious.”

  “What are you talking about? James Bond is all about tech,” she says. “He’s pretty mysterious.”

  “He uses tech, he doesn’t make it. He gets everything from Q. You don’t see Q doing a lot of dating.”

  “Not on-screen. But off-screen he’s a player.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Oh yeah. James goes on a mission, and Q is sleeping with female spies two and three at a time.”

  I laugh.

  “I know I’m not supposed to be in here,” Summer says. “But I really need to practice for my audition. And it feels different standing on the big stage, you know?”

  “I was practicing, too,” I say.

  “Maybe we can practice together.”

  I swing the spot towards her and pull focus so she’s centered in the middle, head to toe in light.

  She gives me the thumbs-up.

  Her whole posture changes. Her shoulders slump, and she grasps at her stomach with one arm like she’s exhausted and hurting. Then she does lines from the play: