999

by Al Sarrantonio

  The teenaged boy looked at his father with terror in his eyes. He appeared helpless, but he forced himself to speak.

  BOY

  What do you want from me? What have I ever done to hurt you?

  FATHER

  (in mocking effeminate voice)

  What have I ever done to hurt you!

  I’ll tell you what you done … you ain’t acted like a man! And that hurts more’n anything. But that’s gonna stop. As of today you’re gonna be a man.

  His father grinned at his little joke, then raised his hand towards the boy, just to watch him shy away.

  BOY

  What do you mean?

  FATHER

  You’re goin’ to work.

  BOY

  But I already have a job. …

  FATHER

  Hal You call that paper route a job? I’m talkin’ about a real job. Make some real money! It’s about time you started helpin’ your mother and me.

  BOY

  But what about school?

  His father laughed, then stared at him defiantly.

  FATHER

  What about it? You’re old enough to quit… so now you’ll quit! I hadda leave school in the fifth grade! You think you’re any better’n me?

  BOY

  But, Dad, I don’t want to quit school. I can’t quit now.

  FATHER

  Don’t tell me what you “can’t” or what you “want” ‘cause that don’t mean shit to me! I’m tellin’ you what you gotta do ‘cause I’m your father! That school’s just fillin’ your head with a bunch of crazy shit anyway. …

  BOY

  Dad, I can’t believe this. …

  FATHER

  Shut up and listen to me or I’ll bust you again!

  Dominic had been watching the scene with a morbid fascination and a growing anger. Things seemed so much clearer now—how things worked in his family. He could not allow his younger self to succumb to the ravings of a beaten, humiliated man.

  Without thinking further, he stood up and called out to the younger version of himself: “Hey! You tell him to keep his hands off you! And that if he tries anything again … you’re going to stop him!”

  As before, neither his father nor his mother seemed to have heard Dominic’s voice. But the adolescent boy reacted immediately. He turned to the edge of the stage and peered into the darkness.

  BOY

  What did you say? Is it you again?

  “Yes,” said Dominic, his voice almost catching in his throat. “It’s me … now tell him what I told you. Tell him what you’re thinking. What you’re really thinking.”

  Dominic watched the boy nod and turn back towards his father. There was a sensation of great tension in the air, like an electrical storm gathering on a humid day.

  BOY

  You can’t hit me like that anymore.

  The boy stood there, seeming to radiate a new strength.

  FATHER

  What?

  BOY

  You can’t hit me—Just because you feel like doing it. I haven’t done anything wrong and I’m tired of you making me feel like I have.

  FATHER

  I’ll bust you any goddamned time I—

  BOY

  No! No you won’t! I won’t let you!

  His father smiled and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his arms hanging loose as though ready for a fight.

  FATHER

  Well, what’s this? A little manliness after all this time, huh? How about that?

  BOY

  I’m not quitting school. And you can’t make me do it. There’re things I want to do with my life that I can’t do if I quit school.

  There’re things I want to do … things that you could never do.

  His father looked at him silently, a confused expression on his face.

  FATHER

  What the hell’s that spozed to mean?

  BOY

  You have to understand something, Dad. I’m not going to be made responsible for anybody’s life … except my own. Especially not yours. I can’t live your life, but I have to live mine.

  FATHER

  (looking confused, off balance)

  Listen, you little shit …

  BOY

  No, Dad, I think it’s time you listened. Maybe for the first time in your life.

  The boy turned and walked to the door stage center, opening it.

  BOY

  I’m going out for a while.

  He exited the stage, leaving his father standing mute and stripped of his power.

  Dominic fell back in the theater seat as the stage quickly darkened and the figures and props dissolved into the shadows.

  In an instant the set was gone. He felt rigid and tense and there was a soft roaring in his ears like the sound of a seashell. He felt as though he had just awakened from a dream. But he knew it had been no dream.

  A memory?

  Perhaps. But as he sat there in the darkness, he had the feeling he had no memories. That the scene he had just witnessed was a solitary moment, a free-floating, always existing piece of the timestream. A moment out of time.

  What is happening to me? The thought ate through him like a furious acid, leaving him with a vague sense of panic. Standing up, he knew that he must leave the place. Dominic walked up the aisle to the lobby, refusing to look back at the dark stage.

  The light in the lobby comforted him and he felt better immediately. Already, the fears and crazy thoughts were fading away. It’s all right now. Better get on home. As he moved towards the exit, he heard a sound and stopped. A door slipping its latch.

  “Mr. Kazan!” said a familiar voice. “What’re you still doing here?”

  Turning, Dominic saw Bob Yeager, the Barclay’s stage manager, standing in the doorway of his office.

  “Oh, hi, Bob. I was … I was just going over a few things. Just getting ready to leave.”

  Yeager rubbed his beard, grinned. “Just getting over those first-night jitters, huh? I can understand that, yes sir.”

  Dominic smiled uneasily. “Yeah, the first night’s always the worst …”

  “Hey, you did a great job, Mr. Kazan. Just fine.”

  “I did?”

  Yeager nodded, smiled.

  “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it,” said Dominic. “Well, I guess I’d better be heading home. Good night.”

  When he arrived at his town house, he found that he couldn’t sleep. He had the nagging sensation that something was wrong, that something in his life was out of whack, out of sync, but he couldn’t pin it down. After making a cup of instant coffee, he wandered into his den, where a typewriter and a pile of manuscript pages awaited him on a large messy desk.

  Sitting down, he decided to go back to that play he had been trying to write. Every actor thinks he can be a playwright, right? Some ideas started flowing as Dominic began to type, and it was very late before he went to bed.

  The next evening’s performance had gone better than opening night, but it was still rough. Dominic was playing the part of Alan in Wilson’s Lemon Sky, and although the director was pleased with his characterization, Dominic was not. He had learned long ago that you cannot merely please your audience; you must also please yourself.

  He remained in the dressing room, dawdling and taking his time, waiting for everyone else to leave. The rest of the cast planned to meet at their favorite bistro for drinks and food, and he had declined politely. There would be time for such things later. Tonight, Dominic felt compelled to go back into the theater itself, back into the empty darkness where careers were made or destroyed. He was not really certain why he felt the need to stay behind. But he had feelings, or rather, memories. Or perhaps they were dreams … or memories of dreams. Or …

  He was not certain what they were, but he felt convinced that the answers lay in the dark shadows of the auditorium.

  Finally, everyone had cleared out and he left the dressing room for the theater itself. As he entered through t
he lobby doors, he saw no one, not even Sam. There were no lights other than the green, glowing letters of the exit lights, and as he moved down the aisle, he had the sensation of entering an abandoned cathedral. The darkness seemed to crowd about him like a thick fog, and he began to feel strangely light-headed. As he drew himself deeper into the vast sea of empty seats, he could see the dim outlines of the set beyond the open act curtain—a modern suburban home in El Cajon, California.

  Then slowly, the stage lights crackled as they gathered heat and bathed the stage in light and life. The shapes which took form and color were again the props of a tortured childhood.

  The shabby living room, the kitchenette, worn carpets and dingy curtains.

  The door at stage center opened and his mother entered, wearing a simple, tailored suit. Her hair was silvering and had been puffed by a beauty shop. She appeared elegant in a simply stated manner. He had never remembered his mother looking like that. She looked about the room as though expecting someone to be home.

  MOTHER

  Dominic, where are you? Dominic?

  Oh, there you are. Dominic, come up here! Come to me. …

  She appeared perplexed as she closed the door, calling his name again. Then turning towards the footlights, she looked beyond them to where he stood transfixed.

  The recognition startled him, but he felt himself responding as though wrapped in the web of a dream. There was an unreality about the moment, a sensation which prompted him to question nothing, to merely react.

  And he did.

  Climbing up and onto the stage as the heat of the lights warmed him, he felt as though he was passing through a barrier.

  It was that magic which every actor feels when the curtain rises and he steps forth, but it was also very different this time. …

  DOMINIC

  Where’s Dad? He wasn’t there, was he?

  MOTHER

  (looking away)

  No, Dominic … I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is. He never came home from work.

  But, Dominic, it was wonderfull So beautiful a play, I never seen! And you were wonderful! I am so proud of you, my son!

  She paused to straighten a doily on the arm of the sofa, then turned back to him.

  Dominic smiled and walked over to her and hugged her. It was the first time he could remember doing such a thing in a long, long time. Overt affection in his home had been a rarity, something shunned and almost feared.

  DOMINIC

  Thanks, Mom.

  MOTHER

  I always knew you were a good boy. I always knew you would make me proud someday.

  DOMINIC

  Did you?

  Then why didn’t you ever tell me when I was a kid? Back when I really needed it.

  He pulled away from her, looked at her intently.

  His mother turned away, stared into the sink.

  MOTHER

  You wouldn’t understand, Dominic. You don’t know how many times I wanted to say something, but…

  DOMINIC

  But it was him, wasn’t it? Christ, Mom, were you that much afraid of him that you could Just stand by and watch him destroy your only son?

  MOTHER

  Don’t talk like that, Dominic. I prayed for you, Dominic … I prayed into the night that you would be stronger than me, that you would stand up to him. I did what I could, Dominic. …

  DOMINIC

  I think I needed more than prayers, Mom … but that’s okay. I understand. I’m sorry I jumped on you like that.

  Then came the sound of a key fumbling in a lock. The click of the doorknob sounded loud and ominous. The door swung open slowly to reveal his father, obviously drunk, leaning against the threshold. Joseph Kazan shambled onto the set, seemingly unaware of anyone else’s presence. He collapsed in his usual chair and stared out into empty space.

  DOMINIC

  Where have you been?

  His father looked at him with a hardness, unaffected by the glaze in his eyes.

  FATHER

  What the fuck you care?

  DOMINIC

  You’re my father. I care. Sons are supposed to care about their fathers … or haven’t you heard?

  FATHER

  (coughing)

  Don’t get wise with me! I can still get out of this chair and whomp you one!

  DOMINIC

  (smiling sadly)

  Is that the only form of communication you know?—“Whomping” people?

  FATHER

  (laughing)

  Ah, it’s not even worth it! You and your fancy words … What do you know about bein’ a man?

  DOMINIC

  Dad, I wanted you to be there tonight. You knew I wanted you there … didn’t you?

  His father looked at him and the hardness in his eyes seemed to soften a bit. Looking away, Joseph Kazan spoke in a low voice.

  FATHER

  Yeah … yeah, I knew.

  DOMINIC

  So why weren’t you there? Did it really feel better to crawl into one of those sewers you call a bar and get filthy drunk? Did you think that getting juiced would make it all go away? What do—

  FATHER

  Shut up! Shut up before I whomp ya!

  His father had put his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the offending words.

  DOMINIC

  No, I don’t think so. I don’t think you’ll be “whomping” anybody. Ever again.

  FATHER

  That’s brave words from a wimp like you.

  DOMINIC

  Don’t talk to me about “brave.” Why didn’t you come to the play tonight? My play! Your son’s play!

  FATHER

  What’re you talkin’ about?

  DOMINIC

  What were you afraid of, Dad? That maybe some of your buddies might see you? Might catch you going to see a bunch of “faggots"?

  FATHER

  Hah! See, you even admit it yourself!

  Dominic’s mother moved in between the two men.

  MOTHER

  Oh God, look at you two! So much anger … so much hate. Please, stop it…!

  DOMINIC

  Hate? No, Mom, that’s not right. A lack of love, maybe … but not really hate. There’s a difference.

  FATHER

  (looking at his son)

  What the hell do you know?

  DOMINIC

  I think that’s the heart of the problem around here—not enough love in this house. There isn’t any love here. No warmth … no love.

  FATHER

  Shit, I’ll tell y’about love! I worked for yer Mom for thirty-five years. Worked hard! Did she ever have to go out’n take a job like other guys’ wives? Shit, no!

  His father was trembling as he spoke, his florid face puffy and shining with sweat.

  DOMINIC

  There’s more to love than that, Dad. Like the love between you and me … When I was a kid, did you ever just sit down and play with me? Did you ever tell me stories, or try to make me laugh? How about going fishing together, or flying a kite? Did we ever do anything like that?

  FATHER

  A man has to work!

  DOMINIC

  Did you really love your work that much?

  FATHER

  What do y’mean?

  DOMINIC

  Did you love your work more than me?

  FATHER

  (confused, angry)

  Don’t talk no bullshit to me!

  DOMINIC

  It’s not bullshit, Dad. Listen, when I was little—no brothers or sisters—I spent a lot of time alone. Sometimes I needed someone to guide me, to teach me.

  FATHER

  I never ran out and never came home at night … ask your mother! I was always there, every night!

  DOMINIC

  (smiling sadly)

  Oh, yeah, you were there physically. But never emotionally, can’t you see that? I can remember seeing other kids out doing things with their fathers, and I can remember really hating’ them—because they h
ad something I never did. That kind of stuff hurt me a lot more than your belt ever did.