My Life, the Theater, and Other Tragedies

by Allen Zadoff

She starts to get up.

  “No, stay there,” Derek says. “I promise this won’t hurt a bit.”

  He fiddles with something around her butt.

  “What are you adjusting exactly?” Summer says.

  The actors laugh.

  “True that it’s difficult to adjust perfection,” he says.

  I’m praying he won’t be able to fix the problem, that he’ll look like an idiot in front of everyone.

  But he twists his wrist for a couple seconds, then steps back.

  The stump swings freely on its hinge now. There’s a spattering of applause.

  “And Bob’s your uncle,” Derek says.

  He tosses the pliers in the air and catches them one-handed before passing them back to Grace.

  “How lovely,” Mr. Apple says. “That should cinch you the Tony for Best Stump this season. Now continue!”

  WESLEY

  I do not, nor I cannot love you?

  SUMMER

  And even for that do I love you the more.

  The stump breaks and Summer tumbles to the floor. Wesley jumps forward to catch her and trips over her instead, which sends him flying into Peter, who bangs into Johanna. All four of them go down like dominoes.

  “Stop!” Mr. Apple shouts. “Stop! Stop!”

  Carol Channing leaps off Mr. Apple’s lap and spins in a circle, yelping.

  “My God,” Mr. Apple says. “This is terrible.”

  He buries his face in his hands.

  “I was about to say my line,” Wesley says from the floor.

  “It gets worse when you speak,” Mr. Apple says.

  “That’s not cool—” Wesley says.

  “We’re trying to act,” Johanna says, “but someone keeps pausing because they don’t know their lines.”

  She indicates Summer.

  “I’m doing my best, too,” Summer says.

  “Maybe your best isn’t good enough,” Johanna says.

  Summer looks up, desperation in her eyes. I wish I could signal her somehow, tell her she’s doing okay, but I know she can’t see me behind the light.

  “Take it easy,” Peter says. “She’s had the role for a day and a half.”

  “She could have it for a year and a half and it wouldn’t matter,” Johanna says.

  The actors split into warring group, arguments breaking out all over the stage.

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Apple says.

  He’s ignored.

  “Hello?” he says.

  Wesley pushes Peter and he bumps into a set piece. Now Derek is up and shouting at the actors. Everyone is yelling at everyone else. Total chaos.

  “I hate my life,” Mr. Apple says quietly beneath me. He puts his head in his hands.

  Derek is gesticulating wildly onstage, trying to show the actors where they should walk to avoid trouble. Meanwhile the headset is filled with chatter, techies blaming one another for various mistakes.

  “I—HATE—MY—LIFE!!!” Mr. Apple bellows at the top of his lungs.

  The theater goes silent. Everyone freezes.

  “I hate my life, I hate this theater, I hate Shakespeare. I hate salmon croquettes!”

  He throws his script on the ground.

  “He’s freaking out,” Peter says.

  “You know what else I hate?” Mr. Apple says. “I hate Sylvester for making me pay half the rent. I’m an artist! I need a sugar daddy. Then I could spend my days doing yoga and getting pedicures like Tad. And I could do my little plays at night. Tad has a theater company, and he gets pedicures. Where is my pedicure? Where is my Kundalini?”

  “Who’s Tad?” Johanna says.

  “I so don’t want to be gay right now,” Peter says, covering his face with his hands.

  Mr. Apple rifles through his briefcase until he comes up with his brown paper bag. He paces up and down the aisle breathing into it.

  “You’re scaring us, Mr. Apple,” Johanna says.

  “What should we do?” Summer says.

  “Seriously,” Wesley says. “Tell us what we should do and we’ll do it.”

  Mr. Apple puts down the bag.

  “This is supposed to be a love story,” he says. “Haven’t any of you been in love?”

  The actors look at each other.

  “Sort of,” Wesley says.

  “That’s not what you said last week,” Johanna says.

  “I can’t be responsible for what I say during a make out session.”

  Johanna punches him.

  “I’m not talking about high-school love,” Mr. Apple says. “I’m talking about the big L, passion, the kind of love they write plays about. The kind of love that makes you go to acting school when your mother wants you to be a dentist. The kind of love that has you marrying your boyfriend even though he’s a social worker specializing in HIV prevention in underserved communities, and you have exactly zero chance of buying a condo.”

  Mr. Apple gets upset again and buries his face in the paper bag. He mumbles to himself as he paces the floor.

  “Why is he talking about real estate?” Hubbard says.

  “I think he’s having a nervous breakdown,” Peter says.

  “I was this close to dental school,” Mr. Apple says, measuring off an inch with his fingers. “I could taste the nitrous oxide. But I had passion. I had to move to the city to eat ramen noodles and go to Stella Adler. And what good did it do me? I end up at Montclair friggin’ High School. My personal vision of hell. No more. No more!”

  He pops the paper bag with his fist. Then he packs his briefcase, jamming sheets of paper into the bottom.

  “I’ve had enough,” Mr. Apple says.

  There’s a gasp from the actors.

  Derek says, “Please, Mr. Apple. Let’s step out and discuss this.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Mr. Dunkirk. I’m out of inspiration, and none of you seems to have had any to begin with.”

  He flings his briefcase over his shoulder.

  “Please, Mr. Apple,” Derek says.

  Derek steps towards him, but Mr. Apple holds up a hand to stop him.

  “I refuse to be a part of bad high-school production number three thousand four hundred and infinity. Directed by Jonathan Apple Jr., fat failure.”

  He rushes up the aisle and throws open the theater door.

  A white blur shoots up the center aisle and passes through the door with a loud yelp.

  “Carol Channing! You screwed up my exit again,” he says, and he chases her out.

  Nobody speaks for a long time.

  “That was horrible,” Johanna says.

  “I’ve never seen a teacher have a meltdown before,” Peter says.

  “That wasn’t a meltdown. That was Chernobyl,” Wesley says.

  “What’s Chernobyl?” Johanna says.

  “What do we do now?” Summer says.

  I watch as the actors fall apart onstage. Some of them cry, some stand around, shocked. I wait for Reach or a techie to make a crack on the headset—anything to take the edge off—but it’s silent.

  I climb down the ladder and join the crowd onstage.

  It’s the perfect time for an inspirational song, à la Les Misérables. I imagine myself standing in front of the actors, waving a flag, rallying them to the cause.

  We have to fight, I say. It can’t end like this.

  And then I burst into song. It begins as a solo, but it swells into a group number with full chorus.

  The problem is I don’t know how to inspire people.

  But Derek does. He walks to the front of the stage, then hoists himself up into the middle of the actors. His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says. “I’m sorry I had to see it. Mr. Apple is clearly distraught and doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

  “We open in two days,” Jazmin says.

  “How can we open without a director?” Johanna says.

  Derek thinks for a moment.

  “Right you are,” he says. “We need
a director….”

  He scratches his chin.

  “What are you thinking?” Wesley says.

  I start to get a bad feeling. Derek is too excited by Mr. Apple walking out. I edge towards the side exit.

  “Where are you going?” Reach whispers

  “I have to find Mr. Apple,” I say. “Fast.”

  I rush out the back of the theater.

  I run through the halls of the theater department. I look for Mr. Apple around the rehearsal rooms. I check his office, but the door is locked.

  I start to panic, thinking he may have already gone home.

  I rush out to the school parking lot.

  There are only a few cars left in the lot, and one of them is Mr. Apple’s Civic. From across the parking lot, I can see him sitting inside, the seat pushed all the way back so his stomach doesn’t hit the wheel. As I get closer, I notice he’s chewing rapid fire, his hand moving from the seat to his mouth in a blur. A box of Hostess Cakes is torn open next to him, the plastic wrappers scattered across his lap. He looks up, startled to see me. There are tears coming down his eyes as he sticks a chocolate cake in his mouth.

  “Mr. Apple,” I say.

  He peeks at me through an inch of open window. He wipes snot from his nose.

  “Are you okay?” I say.

  He starts the car.

  “We need you,” I say.

  “You don’t need me,” he says. “You need someone who cares about you. Who cares about the theater. The way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Please don’t go,” I say.

  He wipes tears from his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, lad.”

  He rolls up the window and backs out of the space, his tires squealing as he speeds from the parking lot.

  I stand there stunned, watching him go.

  I hear the voices of the techies behind me.

  I turn to find the cast and crew streaming out the back door of the school.

  “You’re too late,” I tell Reach. “He’s already gone.”

  “We’re not here for him,” Reach says. “We’re going on a field trip.”

  “What?”

  “A journey to find love. That’s what Derek called it.”

  “Where can we find love?”

  “In the city.”

  “That’s crazy,” I say.

  “No kidding. Love is expensive in the city. Have you read the back of The Village Voice?”

  “Seriously. What’s the plan?”

  “There’s a Shakespeare film festival in the Village. Derek wants us to get inspired, and the actors are backing him. Either we go along with the plan or …”

  “Or what?”

  “Or nothing. There’s not really an option.”

  I think about the train ride to Manhattan, and I start to get afraid. I can barely remember the last time I was there. I only know it was with Dad.

  “I haven’t been to the city in a long time,” I say.

  Reach studies my face.

  “We’ll go together,” he says. “Just stay close to me. And for God’s sake, stop worrying so much.”

  I WILL GO WITH THEE.

  Reach and I take the train to Penn Station along with the techies, then we catch the subway down to the Village. When we get to Film Forum, the actors are standing around outside.

  “Twenty-eight times,” Johanna says.

  “Thirty-two times,” Jazmin says. “Including six performances of Wicked, but that totally counts.”

  “No way. We said productions, not performances,” Johanna says.

  “What are you guys talking about?” Half Crack says.

  Johanna looks at him like he just pooped on her shoe.

  “We’re comparing how many Broadway shows we’ve been to,” Jazmin says. “How many productions.”

  “I’ve been to fourteen,” Hubbard says.

  “Why so few?” Johanna says.

  “My dad doesn’t like me to come to the city. He thinks I’ll get molested,” Hubbard says.

  “By who? The Disney characters? The city is totally safe now,” Reach says.

  “What are you guys even doing here?” Jazmin says. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for you.”

  “You’re saying it’s our fault Apple freaked?” Benno says.

  “You drove him to it,” Wesley says.

  “If you guys could act, we’d still be at the theater right now,” Reach says, looking at Johanna.

  “Don’t talk to her,” Wesley says.

  “I’ll talk to whoever I want to talk to,” Reach says.

  “He’s right. Don’t talk to me,” Johanna says.

  I feel Reach tense up next to me.

  The actors push forward in a group, coming right up against the line of techies. It feels like we’re going to have a West Side Story–style gang war.

  Derek walks up wearing a sport coat and button-down shirt. Summer is with him, also dressed up. It almost looks like they came together.

  It’s every man for himself, Derek said to me.

  Is it possible he’s already made his move?

  “Good evening, theater folk,” Derek says.

  He looks from the actors to the techies, a sea of angry faces.

  “What happening here?” he says.

  “The techies are talking crap about us,” Johanna says.

  “Not crap. Truth,” Benno says.

  “We’re just blowing off steam,” I say. “Everyone’s upset.”

  “It’s easy to assign blame at a time like this,” Derek says. “But let’s use that energy to make the show better.”

  “How is a field trip going to make the show better?” Reach says.

  “A day may sink or save a realm,” Derek says.

  “Is that Tennyson?” Jazmin says.

  “Right you are,” Derek says.

  “What does it mean?” Wesley says.

  “It means be patient. I’m working behind the scenes. Give me a day, and we shall see.”

  He moves off towards the ticket window, the actors following.

  “You think he can save the show?” I say.

  “I’m not one to root for Saggy D,” Reach says, “but in this case, I’m hoping he’s not full of it.”

  He takes a clutch of singles out of his pocket.

  “Let’s see some cash, gentlemen. These tickets aren’t going to buy themselves.”

  The techies go inside. I look towards the ticket window, where I see Derek pull Summer off to the side and whisper to her. She takes out her phone like she’s getting a call, and he excuses himself and walks away.

  Right away my phone buzzes. It’s a text from Summer: Hlp! Mdn n dstrss.

  I go into the theater. Summer is standing near the water fountain. I hold up my phone.

  “What’s mdn n dstrss?” I say.

  “Maiden in distress.”

  “You’re texting Shakespeare?”

  “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Seriously cool. But what’s the distress?”

  “I’m trying to repel the British invasion.”

  She glances towards Derek.

  “You didn’t come together?” I say.

  “Are you kidding? He saw me walking from the subway and attached himself to me.”

  A couple of techies are looking our way, so I lean down and take a drink, pretending I’m not talking to her.

  “I’ve got an idea, Ziggy. Everyone is going to see As You Like It, and I don’t like it. What if we try plan B?”

  “What’s plan B?”

  She shifts her eyes towards theater two. Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood.

  “It’s the Scottish play, Japanese-style. Way more interesting,” she says.

  “You want to blow everyone off?” I say.

  Reach is walking towards the techies with tickets in his hand.

  “We’re not blowing them off. We’ll be right next door,” Summer says.

  I look from Derek to Reach, thinking about all the potential trouble I could get i
nto.

  Summer leans over and drinks from the fountain. Cleavage appears in the V of her shirt collar. The cold water hits her lips.

  I feel braver than I did a moment ago.

  “Let’s go to the Kurosawa,” I say.

  Summer gives me a satisfied nod.

  “Now we need a distraction,” she says.

  “I could fall over and start foaming at the mouth.”

  “Techies do that all the time,” she says with a wink. “I have a better idea.”

  She disappears into the crowd in the lobby, then pops out of the far hallway like she just came out of the women’s room.

  “Oh my God. I think I saw Kristin Chenoweth in the bathroom!” she says.

  “Kristen Chenoweth? Are you kidding?” Johanna says.

  “It’s a total star sighting,” Summer says.

  “Miranda loves her. I wish she were here,” Johanna says.

  “We’re here,” Jazmin says.

  She rushes towards the bathroom, the actors following behind.

  “Don’t stalk her,” Peter says, rushing along behind them.

  “What’s going on?” Half Crack says.

  “Some famous actress,” I say.

  “Is she hot?”

  “Evidently,” I say.

  That’s all it takes to send the techies stampeding towards the bathroom, too.

  It comes down to Derek, Summer, and me, looking at each other in the lobby.

  “You don’t want to see her?” Summer asks him.

  “I’ve seen my share of stars,” Derek says. “Dad has dinner parties. You know how it is.”

  “I think she was with Kate Winslet,” Summer says. “Aren’t they doing The Cherry Orchard together?”

  Derek’s mouth drops open.

  “Maybe I’ll take a quick peek,” he says, and heads towards the bathrooms.

  Summer grabs my arm.

  “Come on!” she says, pulling me into theater two.

  I glance behind us at the lobby, now empty of students.

  Almost empty.

  Grace is standing by the refreshment stand, watching us go.

  I DO QUAKE WITH FEAR.

  “It’s like we’re on a secret mission,” Summer says after we duck into the theater.

  “I wish our secret mission had popcorn,” I say.

  “Me, too, but we can’t go out there again.”

  She scans the theater.

  “Where do you like to sit?” she says.

  “Anywhere.”