My Life, the Theater, and Other Tragedies

by Allen Zadoff

  I think about how it feels to see my light onstage. The instruments I’ve chosen and the angles where I’ve set them up. Then the actors and costumes are added, and it becomes a dance of light, movement, and color.

  Mr. Apple is right. It’s the best feeling in the world.

  “I started theater two years ago,” I say. “Reach got me into it.”

  “You love being a techie.”

  “I used to. It’s a little rough right now. Actually, it’s very rough.”

  Mr. Apple sighs.

  “It’s sad when you fall out of love,” he says.

  “I’m not sure what happened,” I say.

  “In or out. They both twist you into a pretzel.”

  I shift on the catwalk, lying on my belly so I can look at Mr. Apple through the grating.

  “It sounds like rehearsal went well tonight,” Mr. Apple says.

  “It went better, but not well.”

  “Shakespeare has survived for nearly four hundred years. This production is unlikely to destroy him.”

  Mr. Apple puts his hands on his thighs and pushes himself to standing.

  “You can’t quit, Mr. Apple. What if something happens? Derek won’t know what to do.”

  “The show will go on.”

  “You can’t quit!” I say.

  I jump to my feet. I run across the catwalk to the ladder.

  “Be careful,” Mr. Apple shouts.

  “Please, Mr. Apple. We need you.”

  I start down, climbing fast, afraid Mr. Apple will leave before I make it to the bottom.

  “Lad. Lad.”

  I stumble on the last rung and catch myself. I make it to the theater floor and run over to Mr. Apple.

  “You can’t go!” I say.

  He looks at me, surprised.

  “What’s all this about?”

  “I care about people, and it doesn’t matter. They break up with me or we have a fight or something bad happens to them.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mr. Apple says.

  I try to stop myself, but the words keep coming.

  “Everyone leaves, Mr. Apple. You can’t leave, too.”

  “I’m sorry, lad. I’ve already left. I just came to say good-bye.”

  I bite down on my lip.

  “I think you have a lot going on right now,” Mr. Apple says.

  He uses that quiet voice that people use when they’re worried about you. Or they think you’re going crazy.

  “Do you have someone you can talk to?” he says.

  I think about Josh. Reach. Mom.

  There’s no one really. Nobody who understands.

  “Yes,” I say to Mr. Apple.

  “Good,” Mr. Apple says. “Then I must bid you adieu.”

  He looks around the theater, tips an invisible hat to the air, and says:

  “And adieu to you, dear lady.”

  He bows deeply and stays there for a long time, his head down, his arm tucked in at his waist.

  I want to look away, but I can’t.

  He slowly comes back to standing. He gestures to the theater walls.

  “I gave her all I had,” he says. “And it wasn’t enough.”

  He whistles for Carol Channing. She runs up to him but refuses to jump into his arms. She circles him twice then heads for the door on her own, prancing on tiny paws.

  “Women,” he says with a sigh.

  “No kidding,” I say.

  He tips the invisible hat to me and goes out.

  The theater doors click shut behind him.

  The ghost light flickers.

  I imagine the bulb burning, leaving me alone here in a dark theater.

  I start to feel afraid.

  I should go home now. I should call someone, like Mr. Apple said.

  But I don’t.

  I climb.

  I DO HEAR THE MORNING LARK.

  I wake to a ringing sound.

  It’s not my alarm. It’s the morning school bell.

  I’m on the catwalk in the dark theater.

  I check my phone, see the texts between me and Mom. Then I remember. I fell asleep in the theater and woke up after an hour. I sent Mom a text saying I was staying at Reach’s house and went back to sleep.

  I hear students moving through the school, laughing and messing around in the hall. It’s like a party through a wall, far away and muted.

  I look at the date. May 20. Opening night.

  I should go to my first class, but I don’t move.

  It’s daytime, but no real light makes it into the theater. There is only the ghost light standing guard against the gloom.

  I look down at the stage.

  A light goes on in my head. Not one of Derek’s lights.

  A different light.

  I imagine it glowing in a corner, a pale amber that streams across the back of the stage, spreading up the wide arc of the cyclorama.

  It is a beginning.

  In my head I paint the stage with other lights, dabbing in orange muted with brown.

  I pick a focal point and lay in a soft golden light with a hot center, diffuse around the edges. I let red seep in from the top.

  I look at the palette I’ve created in my head.

  Sunrise.

  I recognize the colors and the way they’re mixed.

  My father’s style, mixed in light rather than paint.

  I lay back on the catwalk and let the light wash over me. I cover myself with a jacket, and I close my eyes. I know it’s dark, but the light in my imagination is warm and familiar.

  I spend the entire day up on the catwalk. I don’t eat or drink anything so I don’t have to go to the bathroom. I just lie on the catwalk all day thinking about my life. I think about Dad, how everything would be okay if he were still here. I know it’s a lie. Everything wasn’t perfect when Dad was alive. But it’s hard to believe they wouldn’t be perfect now if he were here.

  My phone buzzes every hour or so. I glance at it time and again, hoping it might be Summer calling, or Reach, or even Josh calling me back. But it never is.

  It’s Mom. Nervous texting. Her specialty.

  I respond to her: sho-day. bzy. c u 2nite.

  Okay, sweetie pie. I will see you at the show, she texts.

  The messages stop.

  And I start thinking again.

  For the next couple hours, people wander in and out of the theater. There are final set and light checks. Props and wardrobe people come and go.

  Bells chime at the end of each period, but I don’t pay attention. I’m waiting for the day to end, even though I have no idea what I’ll do then.

  “Knock, knock,” Grace says.

  I turn to find Grace’s head peeking over the edge of the catwalk. “I didn’t hear you climbing.”

  “I’m sneaky like that,” she says. “Can I come up?”

  “I guess.”

  She climbs onto the catwalk. She’s a natural in the air, not like Reach, who hates it up here.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she says. “I kept thinking about what happened, and then I got cramps and had to use the toilet, like, fourteen times.”

  “Spare me the details.”

  “I’m just saying I was upset. I hate that I turned my back on you.”

  “Reach can be very persuasive.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Reach. It’s about you. I was angry at you.”

  “Because I blew everyone off?”

  “Because you blew me off.”

  I look at her, confused.

  “What am I missing?” I say.

  “You blew me off for that stupid actress.”

  “What does that have to do with us?”

  “You’re crazy about her!” Grace says, and she grunts and buries her face in her hands.

  “Grace?”

  “I’m so stupid,” she says.

  “You’re in love with Derek, aren’t you?” I say.

  “I thought I was. But I started having different thoughts.�
�

  “What kinds of thoughts?”

  “Like maybe Derek is an old story.”

  “What’s the new story?”

  “You and me,” she says.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “It’s just that you were so nice to me, and then we were in the beamer, and we had so much fun—”

  “It was fun for me, too,” I say.

  “And I thought, if it was fun once, maybe it would be fun again. Or fun for a long time.”

  I think about Grace grinding through the gears in the beamer. The super serious look on her face. It makes me smile to think of it.

  Grace says, “It’s not like I’m in love with you or anything. I just thought maybe … maybe we had a chance of becoming something.”

  “You were so preoccupied with Derek. I never thought about us that way.”

  “I was preoccupied,” she says. “But things change. You have to move on.”

  “I know,” I say. But how do you do that?

  Grace sits cross-legged on the catwalk across from me.

  “What about you and me?” she says.

  “Bad timing,” I say.

  “Bummer,” she says.

  We watch the people come and go down below us.

  “You know that actress—she gave me the just friends speech.”

  “I hate that speech,” Grace says.

  “No kidding.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “How did it feel with Derek?”

  “Like liquid hell.”

  “It’s like that. Only the liquid is boiling.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace says.

  “How long does it last?”

  “No way to know. You just have to ride it out. Try not to go crazy.”

  “I already went crazy.”

  “How crazy?”

  “I almost cried in front of Mr. Apple.”

  “That’s not so crazy.”

  “I slept in the theater last night.”

  “Did you wear a mask and play the organ?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Resist the impulse. That would be crazy.”

  The school bell rings, and the hall fills with voices.

  “Why are you here in the middle of the day?” I say.

  “They let us out of class a little early so we could get ready for the show.”

  A bunch of cast members gather in the front of the theater.

  “I should get my act together,” Grace says.

  “I’m going to stay up here.”

  “If you need anything—” I hold up my phone. “I’m adding you to my favorites list,” I say.

  “You’re already on mine,” she says.

  She winks and heads down the ladder, joining the cast and crew assembling onstage.

  The theater doors burst open. Derek enters with a flourish.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says. “It’s showtime!”

  THAT NIGHT WE PLAY OUR PLAY.

  “Stand by to fade house,” Ignacio says on the headset.

  “Standing by,” Benno says.

  “Let me have your attention, everyone. Derek would like to say a few words.”

  There’s a scraping sound as Ignacio turns his headset over to Derek.

  “Tech folk, I’d like to thank you in advance for a superb job. It’s a great honor to be helming this, my first show.”

  Helming? He didn’t direct this show. He just stepped in at the last rehearsal.

  Derek says, “I’d like to dedicate this performance to the memory of Mr. Apple, our beloved mentor.”

  The sound of mics being clicked on and off. Techie applause.

  My stomach churns. Mr. Apple isn’t dead. Derek is creating this story to make himself look like a hero.

  “Break a leg,” Derek says.

  More mics clicking.

  Ignacio comes back on the line. “Let’s do it. House to zero.”

  “House to zero,” Benno repeats.

  The lights fade to black, and I flip on a penlight and close my fist around it. I hold my glowing hand up to my face.

  The buzz in the audience dies down. Nine hundred people sit in silence, waiting for the show to begin. Then the stage lights come up, the instruments creaking around me as the metal comes to temperature.

  Tom, the super tall actor playing Theseus, steps out.

  TOM

  Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour

  Draws on apace; four happy days bring in

  Another moon …

  Four days.

  It was only four days ago that I saw Summer for the first time dancing in the hallway.

  My whole life changed. Then it fell apart. And it only took four days.

  I want to quit the show. Right now in the middle of everything. Climb down the ladder and walk out the door. Leave the theater forever like Mr. Apple.

  The techies hate me. The actors hate me. My best friend won’t talk to me.

  Summer is gone forever.

  And once again, Derek is a star.

  Why stay on crew? There’s nothing left for me here.

  Summer steps out onstage. She’s in full costume and makeup, her face shining and beautiful.

  “Stand by for spot,” Ignacio says over my headset.

  The spot.

  I still have my light.

  The thought alone gives me hope.

  “Stand by for fog,” Ignacio says.

  Fog?

  We didn’t do fog at dress rehearsal.

  I think about Benno and Half Crack messing with the cam locks behind the theater. Did they install the extra dimmers?

  SUMMER

  How happy some o’er other some can be!

  “Spot, go,” Ignacio says. “Fog, go.”

  There’s a hissing sound as fog is released onto the stage.

  I pre-focus the spot, aim towards Summer, and flip on the fan.

  I push the button to spark the light.

  There’s a buzzing sound, followed by a loud pop—

  At first I think it’s my lamp that’s blown, but then I see that the stage lights are out, too.

  The entire theater is black.

  “What the hell is going on?” I hear Reach say in my headset.

  “Benno, did you hit the blackout switch?” I say.

  “I don’t know what happened,” Benno says.

  I imagine him panicking in the booth. I count the five long seconds it will take for him to figure out what happened, reset the cue, and get the lights up.

  My count hits five, and nothing changes.

  By seven, I know we’re in trouble.

  At ten, I hear Ignacio’s voice, frazzled and desperate, over the headset.

  “Bring the lights back up,” he says.

  “The computer isn’t responding,” Benno says.

  Reach cuts in: “Try shutting down the power. That will reset the system.”

  “Everything’s dead,” Benno says. He’s so upset he’s slurring his words.

  I scan the theater, checking for the familiar red glow of the backstage work lights. Those are the tiny lamps that provide just enough light for the actors to find their way offstage.

  There’s no red glow; that means the power is blown for the entire theater.

  It’s been fifteen seconds, and the audience is shifting in their seats. People are whispering.

  “Reach, flip the breakers,” I say.

  “On it,” he says. There’s no argument from him now, no personal issues. The techies are in emergency mode. That’s what it means to be a pro. You put your crap aside.

  “Everybody keep it together!” Ignacio says.

  That’s when the bad feeling starts in my chest.

  I think of the theater filled to capacity, nine hundred people in the pitch-black, with me alone above them.

  But I am not alone. My father is next to me.

  He doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach for me. But I can sense him there, next to me on the catwalk.

  The audie
nce murmurs below. Voices whispering in the dark.

  It’s early morning, and I’m awakened by strange voices murmuring in the other room.

  I’m in New Hampshire, the cottage where we spent our summers.

  I’m annoyed because they woke me up. Even more annoyed because I can’t get back to sleep. I open the door and walk into the living room, ready to yell at my parents for talking loudly so early in the morning.

  I see the uniforms first.

  My mother sits alone on the couch. Two police officers stand in front of her.

  My father is not there.

  Back in the theater, my breath quickens, my heart beating rapidly in my chest.

  “There’s no power coming into the theater,” Reach says in the headset.

  I reach for my father next to me on the catwalk, but he stands a few steps away, just out of arms reach.

  “Dad,” I say.

  He doesn’t respond. He stands there, an outline barely visible in the darkness.

  The dark.

  My father loved light. He loved talking about it, thinking about it, painting it. He loved looking at light.

  And he died in the dark.

  I remember now. This thing that haunts me in my dreams then disappears when I’m awake.

  The reason the police were in the house talking to Mom. I remember now.

  “Your dad’s car was found in the woods outside of Concord,” they said. “Single car accident. He drove off the road on the way home.”

  It’s not like I ever forget it.

  I just don’t want to think about it. So I put it out of my mind.

  “His car was spotted from the road by a passing cruiser. He went down a gulley then traveled several feet into the woods before hitting a tree,” one officer said.

  “You could barely see it from the road,” the other one said.

  “It’s easy to do on that stretch. No guardrails. A narrow road with gravel on either side.”

  “That’s why we couldn’t find him until morning.”

  The crash was bad, but he did not die instantly. They didn’t tell Mom that. I read it later in the coroner’s report. Time of death estimated between four and seven a.m. Which means Dad spent the night stuck in the car, trapped and bleeding.

  I think about him alone in the middle of the night, in pain, waiting for dawn to come. I wonder if he saw the sunrise.

  I’ll never know.

  I only know that since that morning two years ago, I hate the dark.

  “I think we blew the transformer,” Ignacio says. “There’s no power in the building.”