My Life, the Theater, and Other Tragedies

by Allen Zadoff

  The white-haired man sweeps his way across the room, coming closer to us.

  “What do you want me to do?” I say.

  “Nothing,” Reach says. “I’m finished with you. You want to throw in with the actors? You think they’ll accept you? Good luck.”

  “Wait a second—” I say.

  “You lied and you turned your back on me. Now I’m returning the favor.”

  Reach goes outside, slamming the door behind him.

  He says something to the techies, waving one long arm in the air in front of him. The techies look at me, then back at him. Back and forth like they’re watching a tennis match.

  Reach stops talking.

  Half Crack gives me a last look, then turns his back.

  Then Benno.

  I try to meet Grace’s eye, but she won’t look at me either. She turns her back like everyone else.

  One by one they all turn their backs. A silent protest through glass.

  They stay like that for what seems like forever. Then Reach gives the signal, and they walk away.

  I wait for Reach to turn back around and motion for me to follow like he always does. But that doesn’t happen. Not this time.

  The old man in the lobby sweeps his way over to me.

  “The show’s over,” he says. “It’s time to go home.”

  HELENA, ADIEU.

  I walk into the theater the next day hoping things blew over during the night. I want Reach to run over when he sees me and say, “I’m sorry, Z. Let’s let bygones be bygones.” Then he’ll give me one of his bony hugs and the techies will stream out onto the stage and all will be forgotten.

  If I had stopped to think about it, I’d know it was a ridiculous idea, but it’s like my brain refuses to believe what happened at the movie theater. Suspension of disbelief.

  I’m barely through the door when Half Crack brushes past me like I don’t exist. He doesn’t say a word, not even a hello grunt like techies do sometimes when they’re busy.

  He’s the first, but not the last.

  Nobody will talk to me. I get dirty looks and cold shoulders. Nothing else. I step into the Cave, and my eye drifts over to the Techie Wall of Fame.

  Something’s wrong.

  There’s a blank square next to Reach where my face used to be. I look around the floor just in case my photo fell down. Sometimes tape gets old and yellow and loses its adhesive quality.

  But it’s not on the floor. It’s gone. They’ve taken it down.

  That’s when I know it’s for real.

  I’ve been exiled.

  As I’m walking back to the stage, I notice the emergency door is propped open with cables snaking outside. I peek my head out, and I find Benno and Half Crack hunched over the power box with tools scattered around them.

  “What are you doing? You’re going to get yourselves killed,” I say.

  Half Crack reaches into the box.

  It’s not just any box. It’s where the power supply comes into the school building from the electric company.

  “We’re not supposed to talk to you,” Benno says.

  “You’re not talking to me. You’re just answering a question,” I say.

  “Derek wants us to wire extra dimmers into the cam locks,” Half Crack says.

  Benno nudges him. “Shut up, dude.”

  They’re talking about tapping into the main power flowing into the building. I know there’s a way to do it safely, but I’ve never done it. None of us has.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I say.

  “The boss wants more light. A fog machine, too,” Half Crack says. “And what the boss wants …”

  He bends over, staring into the power box. Half Crack bending over is not a pretty sight on the best of days, but watching him bend over while messing with three-phase power with enough juice to fry him is particularly frightening.

  “When you say boss, who are you talking about?” I say.

  “Derek is taking charge of the show,” Half Crack says.

  “He can’t do that.”

  “Who’s going to stop him?” Benno says. “Apple’s not around. We took a vote on the way home from the movies last night.”

  I run into the theater.

  Derek is pacing back and forth onstage, Ignacio following close behind taking notes on a clipboard.

  It’s true. Derek made his move.

  It’s like Throne of Blood.

  I look for Reach, but he’s not around.

  “I want us in places in twenty minutes,” Derek says to Ignacio.

  “Twenty minutes, please!” Ignacio shouts to the theater, relaying the order.

  Derek heads towards the stairs on the side of the stage. As he walks past, he pauses.

  “How are you today, Z?” he says. It seems like he’s in a great mood.

  He leans towards me, his mouth right up to my ear.

  “I told you I was going to direct,” he whispers. “It just happened sooner than I imagined.”

  He gives my shoulder a little pat, then hops off the stage and takes the director’s seat at the tech table.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Summer says.

  I turn around to find her standing there. She’s in costume, her skin pale and beautiful.

  “You’re the only one who will talk to me,” I say.

  “Privately,” Summer says.

  Her face is serious. She leads me out to the hall, through the theater department, and into the music area. She doesn’t stop until we’re safely inside a practice room with the door closed. I feel this burst of excitement, like we’re going to rewind and continue the kiss moment from last night, only this time we won’t get interrupted.

  “I hope I didn’t get you in too much trouble last night,” she says.

  “The techies are blackballing me.”

  “The actors aren’t thrilled with me either.”

  “I was hoping they’d adopt us as the new ‘it’ couple,” I say.

  Summer doesn’t laugh.

  A viola begins playing in the next room. High-pitched scales.

  “That was a joke,” I say.

  “The thing about the actors—I need them to like me. Especially now.”

  “They do like you,” I say.

  “Maybe they do,” she says. “But they don’t like you, Ziggy. I’m sorry to be so blunt, but they think you’re trying to ruin the show. You caused the blackout and that’s why Miranda took a nose dive—”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I know it is. But think how it looks. I get the lead because Miranda’s injured, and then I’m hanging out with the guy who did it?”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you did it or not. It’s all perception.”

  “Why didn’t you say any of this before?”

  “I didn’t think of it before.”

  “So where did you get this new perspective?” I say.

  “People.”

  She looks down when she says it, which tells me that it’s not people.

  It’s person.

  With accent.

  “It doesn’t matter where I got it,” she says. “What matters is the show. I need them on my side. We have to pull it together fast. Derek needs us.”

  I was right. Person.

  The viola plays, the scales getting higher and higher with each repetition.

  “What I mean is, we can’t hang out anymore. Not that we’d have time anyway with the production. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  “I understand.”

  Her shoulders relax.

  “I’m so relieved,” she says.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I say.

  She touches my arm, but it’s not the same as last night. Last night felt like a beginning touch. This is an ending touch.

  “We can still be friends, right?” she says.

  The viola stops.

  Friends.

  Reach was right. I was kidding myself thinking
Summer and I might be together. She never cared about me. She was scared about the show, and she needed help. A shoulder to lean on.

  A friend.

  Just like Reach said. That’s all I was to her.

  A funny, zitty friend.

  I stare at Summer’s neck. It looks like there’s a red spot there, probably a zit or a makeup rash, but maybe something else. Maybe a mark.

  Maybe Derek’s mark.

  “You look upset,” she says.

  “I’m not upset.”

  I’m staring at her neck. I can’t help myself.

  “Yes, you are. I see it on your face,” she says.

  “Stop looking at my face,” I say. “I’m not like you, Summer. I don’t want people looking at me, applauding for me, whatever. I don’t even want them to see me. I like to be away from everyone.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Don’t get angry.”

  “I want to be away from you, too,” I say.

  The viola starts up again in the next room, a mournful screech that pierces through the wall.

  “I have to go,” I say, and I run out of the room.

  LOVERS AND MADMEN HAVE SUCH SEETHING BRAINS.

  When I get to the catwalk, I pop the boomerang and pull my gels out of the spotlight. I check the light plot for Derek’s original color choices, the simple ones, the ones I hate. I search the gel sheets until I find them. I take the box cutter from my belt and flick it open.

  Now is the time to concentrate. That’s the techie first commandment. When you’re on a ladder, when a saw is in operation, when you’re dealing with electricity, when a blade comes out—Rule One is, everything else goes away and you focus only on the task at hand.

  I look at the blade in my fist. I try to follow the rule, focusing on only the knife and the job I’m about to do. I want to feel the healthy fear that makes your senses sharp and keeps you out of trouble.

  I try, but I can’t feel anything.

  I cut the gel, watching the blade slice through the red poly. I slide the circle of color into the frame and lock it in place with a brad.

  “May I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen,” Derek says from the tech table below. “I’d like to run Summer’s scenes from the top.”

  I slam the breach closed and jam my finger.

  I expect to yelp in pain and jump back, but I don’t.

  Instead I think about last night. I imagine Summer getting into Derek’s beamer, their long ride back to New Jersey. The things they talked about. The things they did.

  I grab the gel and throw it to the catwalk. I scrunch up the gel sheet, ruining it forever. Ten dollars down the drain. Maybe fifteen. Derek’s donation, his father’s money, crushed in my hand.

  I grab my phone and call Josh. My finger does it automatically.

  “Hey, what’s up?” The familiar message starts. I let the message roll through its stupid joke, and then I start to talk.

  “Josh, it’s Adam.” I sniffle, junk filling my nose.

  Don’t cry, I tell myself. Josh hates it when you cry.

  “Sorry to call again,” I say into the phone, “but I really, really need to talk to you.” I suck air too hard, covering the phone with my hand so Josh won’t hear it.

  “I have to talk to you about what’s going on here. I’m confused, Josh. So if you could call me back, I would appreciate it. Okay?”

  I hear myself begging, and it makes me sick inside.

  I hang up. I look down at the catwalk. The box cutter is there by my feet.

  I wonder what it would feel like to cut myself with it. Not stab myself, just cut along my arm. Would it be crisp like cutting into an apple? Smooth like cutting gel? Or would it be something else, something soft and strange like I’ve never felt before?

  I want to cut myself.

  But I don’t do it.

  I want to hurt someone.

  But I don’t.

  I want to cry.

  I don’t cry. I never cry.

  “Summer darling, are you ready?” Derek asks in the house below.

  I close the knife, slip it back into its holster.

  I take my place behind the spot.

  I flip on the power, feel the machine hum to life in my hands.

  Summer steps onstage.

  “O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!” she says, panting and beautiful, as if she’s been running through the woods forever, chasing after love.

  IN CHOICE HE IS SO OFT BEGUILED.

  First we run Summer’s scenes to give her extra practice, and then we take a break and set up to run the entire play from beginning to end. It’s the Final Dress—full props, lights, costumes. In a perfect world, the show would be amazing at this point, 90 percent there with the last 10 percent set to appear on opening night.

  Bad news.

  We’re not at 90 percent. Not by a long shot.

  Good news.

  We’re better.

  There’s a lot more energy. Summer is more comfortable onstage, and she knows her lines. You can feel the actors pulling for her, banding together to try and make it work.

  The trip to the city changed something.

  Nobody falls, no one quits. There are no blackouts, freak-outs, or anything else dramatic. The only drama is Shakespeare. Just like it’s supposed to be.

  I work the spot like a pro. Warnings come over the headset, and I get ready. My cue is called, and I execute. I set for the next one and wait.

  I stay focused.

  I keep the light on the actors.

  That’s my job, right?

  To put light on people and make them look good. Just like Reach said.

  The rehearsal ends, and Derek steps forward.

  “I told you last night that a day could sink or save a realm …,” he says.

  The actors are quiet, waiting.

  “I believe this realm has been saved.”

  Relief floods the room.

  The actors applaud each other, and then they applaud Derek. He applauds them back.

  It’s so perfect, it’s sickening.

  After things settle down, Derek starts to give notes like a director does.

  I see what’s happening. He’s taking credit for the improvement, and all because of a stupid field trip.

  I stop listening.

  Later Derek calls the techies into the Cave for their own notes session, but I skip it.

  I stay up on the catwalk.

  I turn off the spot, leave the fan running through its cool-down cycle. I stow the tools, make sure the instruments are ready for the show tomorrow. I run my final checklist, and then I sit down.

  The techie meeting breaks up, and they drift off.

  The fan blows.

  Nobody talks to me.

  A few minutes later, Ignacio comes out, pulling the ghost light downstage center.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you there,” he says.

  At first I think he’s talking to me, but then Mr. Apple says, “I heard there was a rehearsal.”

  Ignacio stares at the floor.

  “Um … yeah,” he says.

  “How did it go?” Mr. Apple says.

  “You know …”

  “I don’t know. Tell me,” Mr. Apple says.

  “It was a lot better,” Ignacio says like he’s expecting to get his head bitten off.

  “Excellent,” Mr. Apple says. “You can head out. And Ignacio—you didn’t see me here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ignacio shuffles offstage.

  Mr. Apple sits in the special place where he watches the show during performances, two seats that have been removed from the very back corner of the audience and replaced with a small bench.

  He sighs. “My, my, my,” he says.

  He stares at the empty stage like he sees something there. He even laughs to himself a few times. I’m afraid the actors were right. He had a nervous breakdown, and now he’s pacing and talking to himself like a heavyset Hamlet.

  After a while he says: “Are you up there
, Mr. Ziegler?”

  “I’m up here,” I say. “How did you know?”

  “You’re always up there.”

  “Not always. But often,” I say.

  Mr. Apple chuckles.

  “You’re probably wondering if I’m going crazy,” he says.

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “You know that expression—he saw his life flash before his eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m watching my career flash before my eyes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s a short flash.”

  Mr. Apple takes Carol Channing from his lap and puts her on the ground so she can walk around.

  “The associate principal is out for blood. He’s been trying to get rid of me for years, and now he’s got evidence aplenty. I may have lost both my teaching and directing careers. When God cleans house, he doesn’t fool around.”

  “What will you do?”

  Mr. Apple shrugs.

  “Maybe I’ll become a techie,” he says with a laugh.

  “I’ll show you the ropes,” I say.

  “You’re a good lad,” he says. “I wish I could join you up there, but I haven’t been on a catwalk in more than a decade.”

  I try to imagine Mr. Apple climbing a ladder, but I can’t. It would defy the laws of physics.

  “It’s not easy being big,” Mr. Apple says. “Sylvester wants me to get lap-band, but I’ve got an unnatural fondness for my stomach. Why would I give a portion of it to science?”

  He waves his hand in the air like he’s blowing away smoke.

  “Maybe I just love food too much. I love a lot of things too much,” he says.

  “But not the theater,” I say.

  “The theater most of all.”

  “You said you hated it.”

  “Hate, love. You’re too young to know how closely related they are.”

  “I know a lot more than you think,” I say to Mr. Apple.

  “Fair enough,” Mr. Apple says. “Do you know I’ve spent my entire life in the theater? It started when I was ten years old. I did a play in camp, a musical called Pippin. Seldom performed now, but quite famous in its day. It was my first production, and it was extraordinary. Not the show itself. That was decent, nothing more. But the theater. Being onstage. That was extraordinary. I was ten years old, but I knew right away. Theater was the greatest drug in the world.”