But then something changed. The feelings of not being alone started to grow out of the shadows, growing more intense …
… until tonight, and he felt that he could bear it no longer. There was a small voice in his mind telling him to run from the place and never return.
No, he thought calmly. No more running. Not ever again.
Above his head, the cantilevered balcony hung like a giant hammer ready to fall. He stepped into the main auditorium and listened to the darkness. The aisle swept down towards the stage where the grand drape and act curtain pulled back to reveal the set of the current play. Pushing a carpet sweeper slowly over the thick pile, Dominic noticed how truly dark the theater was. The exit light seemed dim and distant. Row upon row of seats surrounded him, like a herd of round-shouldered creatures huddled in deep shadows.
The entire theater seemed to be enclosing him like an immense vault, a dark hollow tomb. He knew there was something there with him. Acid boiled in his stomach, his throat caked with chalk.
Looking away from the empty seats back to the stage, he noticed that something had changed. Something was wrong.
The set for the currently running production was Nick’s Place—a San Francisco saloon described in Saroyan’s The Time of Your Life. But that set was gone. Somehow, it had been struck and changed overnight. An impossibility, Dominic knew, yet he stared into the darkness and could make out the configurations of a totally different set.
Walking closer, his eyes adjusting to the dim illumination of the Exit signs, Dominic picked up the details of the set—a shabby, gray-walled living room with a kitchenette to the right.
Dumpy green chain with doilies on the arms, a couch with maroon and silver stripes, end tables with glass tops and a mahogany liquor cabinet with a tiny-screened Emerson television on top.
It was a spare, simple room.
A familiar room.
For an instant, Dominic recoiled at the thought. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. But he recognized the room, down to its smallest details. As if the set designer had invaded a private memory, the set was a perfect replica of his parents’ house. The house which had been located where the theater now stood. As Dominic stared in awe and disbelief, he could see that there was nothing dreamy and out-of-focus about the set. He stood before something with hard edges and substance, something real, and not distorted by the lens of memory.
Without thinking, he stepped closer and suddenly the stage lights heated up. The fixtures on the set cast off their grayish hues and burst into full color. An odd swelling sensation filled Dominic’s chest, almost becoming a distinct pain. The pain of many years and many emotions. The thought occurred to him that someone might be playing a very cruel joke on him, and he turned to check the light booth up above and beyond the balcony. But it was dark and empty.
The sound of a door opening jarred him.
Turning back to the stage he saw a woman wearing a turquoise housedress and beige slippers enter the room from stage left.
She had a roundish face going towards plump and her eyes were flat and lackluster. There was an essential weariness about her.
Dominic felt tears growing in his eyes, a tightness in his throat, as he looked, stunned, at his mother.
“Mom! Mom, what’re you doing here? Hey, Mom!”
But she did not hear him. Mechanically, his mother began setting a simple table with paper napkins, Melmac plates, and plain utensils. Dominic ran up to the edge of the stage and yelled at her but she ignored him. It became clear that she could neither see nor hear him—as though they were dimensions apart, as though he saw everything through a one-way mirror.
What the hell was going on?
Dominic grappled with the sheer insanity of it all, trying to make sense out of the hallucinated moment, when it continued.
The door at stage center flew open and his father entered the set.
At the sight of the man, something tightened around Dominic’s heart like a fist, staggering him. His father was dead. And yet, there he was, standing in the doorway full of sweat and shine and dirt. There was a defiance in the old man’s posture, in the way he slammed the door shut behind him. He wore greasy chino pants and a plaid flannel shirt. One hand carried a beat-up lunch pail with the word “Kazan” stenciled on the side; the other the evening paper.
Dropping the lunch bucket on the kitchen table, his father moved quickly to his favorite chair and unflapped the paper. If he had acknowledged the presence of his wife, Dominic had missed it. There was a somehow surreal quality to the scene—suggesting more than was actually taking place. He sensed this moment could have been taking place at any point in their lives over perhaps a twenty-year span.
Dominic fought off the emotional waves which crashed over him, trying to concentrate on the images on the stage. He was surprised to see how plain his mother actually was—not the pretty woman of his memories—and how much smaller and less imposing his father seemed. Again the convex glass of memory had worked its distorted magic.
The door at stage left abruptly opened and a small, frightfully thin boy of perhaps nine years entered the room. The boy had large ears, bright blue eyes, and Brylcreem-slicked dark hair. Dominic felt stunned as he recognized the boy as himself.
He had never realized how frail and odd he had looked as a child; he winced as he heard the young boy speak in a high-pitched voice.
BOY
Hi, Daddy!
Look what me and Beezie are go in’ to do … I
The boy advanced to his father’s chair, carrying a sheaf of papers.
The greeting was met with silence. His father’s face remained hidden behind the newspaper.
MOTHER
Joseph, the boy is talkin’ to you.
FATHER
Eh! What does he want?
The paper dropped to the working man’s lap, and the father stared at his son with a slack, almost hostile expression.
BOY
Daddy, look! Beezie and me are goin’ to direct a
play! And we’re goin’ to charge ten cents apiece for
all the kids to come and see it.
(hands some papers to his father)
Here’s some drawings I made. … See, this is Snow
White’s house, and—
FATHER
Play? Snow White … ? That’s a fairy tale, ain’t it?
BOY
Yeah, it’s like the Walt Disney movie, and—
The father laughed roughly.
FATHER
A fairy tale is for a buncha fairies!
(he sweeps out his hand, scattering the drawings across the floor)
That’s nothin’ for a boy to be up to! Plays are for fairies … you want to be a fairy, boy?
BOY
But, Daddy, it’s a good show, and—
FATHER
Listen, pick up this crap and get it outta here. And don’t let me hear no more about it. You oughta be out playin’ ball … not foolin’ with this pansy crap!
Dominic stood in the aisle, his mind reeling from the impact of the scene. How he remembered that night! His father had so thoroughly crushed him that evening that he had given up the play with his friend. He had let a little piece of himself die that night.
A sudden anger surged through him as he forced his mind back to the rest of the memory, and he remembered what happened when he’d started picking up his drawings.
Up on the stage, his younger self was bending down, reaching out for the scattered papers.
Stepping closer to the stage, Dominic cried out, “Watch it! Don’t let him get to them first … he’s going to tear them up!”
The skinny, dark-haired boy paused, looked out into the darkness of the audience, as though listening. His mother and father had clearly heard nothing, and for a moment seemed to be arrested in time.
BOY
(looking down towards Dominic)
What did you say?
“Dad’s going to tear up your drawings … if you let
him,” said Dominic. “So pick them up now, fast. Then tell him what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling.”
BOY
Who are you?
Dominic swallowed hard, forced himself to speak in a clear, calm voice. “You know who I am. …”
BOY
(smiling)
Yeah, I guess I do. …
The boy turned back to the stage and quickly grabbed all his drawings as his father reached down a large hand and tried to snatch them away.
BOY
Nol You leave them alone! You leave me alonel
FATHER
(a bit shocked by the boy’s words)
What’re ya gonna do? Grow up and be a fruitcake?
Whatsamatter with baseball? Too tough on ya?
The boy held the papers to his chest, paused to look out into the darkness at Dominic, then back to his father. The boy was breathing hard, obviously scared, but there was a new strength in the way he stood, staring at his father. He was almost sobbing, but he forced the words to come out clearly.
BOY
Yeah, I like baseball just fine. But I like this stuff, too. And … and, I don’t care if you don’t like it. ‘Cause I dot And that’s what’s important!
The boy ran from the room, carrying his drawings. His father stared after him for a moment, then returned to his newspaper, trying to act unaffected by the small exchange. His mother stood by the table with a beaten, joyless expression on her face.
The stage lights dimmed quickly, fading everything into darkness. Dominic blinked his eyes as the figures of his parents became phantoms in the shadows, growing faint, insubstantial.
Another blink of his eyes and they were gone. Slowly the set began to metamorphose back into the barroom of Nick’s Place.
Dominic’s heart cried out silently, but it was too late. The vision, or whatever it had been, had vanished.
He took an aisle seat, let out a long breath. Rubbing his eyes, he felt the fine patina of sweat on his face. His heartbeats were loud and heavy. What the hell had been going on?
He had been awake, yet he felt as though he had just snapped out of a trance. He felt crazy, but he knew that he was not dreaming, not unless his whole life had been a nightmare.
It had seemed so real. How obvious the dynamics of his family seemed to him now. He wondered why he had never seen what things were really like when he was a kid. But then, maybe he did know back then. …
Children picked up things on a different level than adults.
They hadn’t spent much time building up defense mechanisms and rationalizations for all the shitty things that happen in the world. Kids take everything straight, no chaser. It’s later on we all start bullshitting ourselves.
Dominic stood up and looked about the auditorium as an eerie sensation washed over him. It was as though he was the only person left in the whole world. He felt so totally alone. And he knew that it was time to get away from this place. Try to forget all the pain—isn’t that what life is all about?—not wallow in it.
He walked back to the lobby, slipped through a side door, and then down a long corridor to his office. After turning out the lights, he locked up, headed for the employees’ exit. Just as he reached the fire door, he heard footsteps in the shadows behind him. He whirled quickly and saw a small, hunched-over black man carrying a broom.
“Evenin’, Mr. Kazan …” said the voice. “Oh, hi, Sam,” said Dominic. “Take it easy now. Good night.”
He pushed out the door to the parking lot, leaving the old janitor/night watchman alone in the building.
The next day when Dominic Kazan awoke, he felt somehow changed, but there was nothing he could think of which would explain the feeling. He had no memory of the previous night’s experience, other than a nagging question in his mind. It was a crazy idea he must have been dreaming about, but there was something he wanted to know.
That afternoon, before going down to the Barclay, Dominic stopped at the City Office Building to speak to some people in the records division of the Department of Urban Planning. They were as cooperative as bureaucrats can be, and after more than two hours of hassling around, Dominic chanced upon a few intriguing facts.
In the theater that evening after the performance, Dominic went about his duties. As stage manager, he had to make certain that all the props were back in place for the next show, that the set was restored to precurtain readiness; and that all the light and sound cues were in the proper order in the technician’s booth. He went through his tasks slowly, waiting for the rest of the Barclay personnel to depart the large building. Entering the main auditorium, Dominic walked down the aisle and sat in the first row of the orchestra seats. A silence pervaded the place as he closed his eyes, letting his thoughts run free. His discovery at the Department of Urban Planning kept replaying in his mind—the proscenium stage of the Barclay occupied the very same space that was once filled by his parents’ house in the middle of the old neighborhood block.
Dominic opened his eyes slowly, focusing on the stage. As though on cue, the lights heated up, gradually filling the set with hard illumination. But this time, he did feel fear as much as anticipation. He felt like he was about to embark upon a long-awaited trip.
Dominic looked up to see his familiar living room warming under the stage lights. …
The door opened and his father entered the room. He wore his usual work clothes, carried an evening paper and his lunch pail. Normally a quick-moving, broad-shouldered man who seemed to radiate force and raw power, Joseph Kazan appeared stooped and oddly defeated.
FATHER
Louisa! Louisa, where are you?
There was no immediate reply and he shrugged as he moved to his favorite chair. He began to open his folded newspaper, then threw it to the floor in disgust. A door opened at stage left and Dominic’s mother appeared carrying a dish towel.
MOTHER
Joseph? What are you doing home so early?
Joseph looked at her with anger in his eyes, his lips curled back slightly. Suddenly the anger drained away from him. Looking away from his wife, he spoke with great effort.
FATHER
We got laid off again today … Got mad at my foreman. I left after he told us all not to come in tomorrow morning.
There was a pained expression in his mother’s face.
MOTHER
Why do they always do this right before
Christmas? It’s not fair.
FATHER
I’ll have to find somethin’ quick. We got bills to keep up. Nobody’s hirin’ now, though … the bastards!
His mother moved to his father’s chair, put a hand on his shoulder.
MOTHER
Well, we’ve gotten by before … we’ll do it again.
Joseph shook his head, slapped his leg absently.
FATHER
Some husband I been! A man’s spozed to take care of things! Take care of his family better’n this!
The door at stage center opened and an adolescent version of Dominic entered the room. He was carrying a stack of books under his arm, his parka under the other.
BOY
Hi, Mom … hey, Dad, what’re you doing home early?
FATHER
(ignoring the question)
Where you been?
BOY
We had a rehearsal after school. Just got finished.
(to his mother)
Can I have an apple or something, Mom?
FATHER
Rehearsal-what? Another one of them plays?
BOY
C’mon, Dad, you know I’m doing a play for the one-act contest at school. I wrote it myself, remember?
His father shook his head slowly, wiped his mouth with obvious irritation, then looked at his mother.
FATHER
I’m worryin’ about takin’ care of this family, he’s out writin’ stuff for faggots!
His mother touched her husband’s shoulder again.
MOTHER
Joseph, pleas
e don’t take it out on him. …
BOY
Yeah, Dad. We’ve been through this stuff before, haven’t we?
Dominic’s father did not speak as he exploded from his chair and backhanded the teenager across the face with one quick, furious motion. The force of the blow slammed the boy’s head against the wall and he staggered away, dazed and glassy-eyed.
FATHER
More! You want morel You smart-assed kid! You don’t speak to your father like that … not never!
His mother moved to help her wounded son.
MOTHER
You didn’t have to hit him like that.
FATHER
You stay away from him, goddammit! I oughta give it to him twice as hard! He don’t respect his father. At his age he oughta be out workin’ like a man. He oughta be helpin’ his family!
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