by Jerry Cole
His anger built as his rant rolled on, building up force like a tidal wave behind him which he unleashed on Raganeau, turning to point accusingly in his face.
"Calculate, scheme, be afraid, love more to make a visit than a poem, seek introductions, favors, influences? No thank you! No, I thank you! And again, I thank you!"
He punctuated this with a stamp that would have sounded imposing on a stage but muffled by the classrooms tile floors sounded more like a soft slap. He let silence hang for just a moment as his expression shifted to one of longing.
"But...To sing, to laugh, to dream—" his voice, suddenly tender with introspection. "To walk in my own way and be alone, free, with a voice that means manhood! To cock my hat where I choose. At a word, a yes, a no. To fight—or write. To travel any road under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt if fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne. Never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart. Yet, with all modesty to say: My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even, but gather them in the one garden you may call your own."
As he finished, his nerves crashed over him, which the polite applause of the other actors did nothing to calm. He'd given his very best. If that tepid response was all the reaction it garnered, maybe he'd been right to avoid this...
For the next several auditions he lost his focus, staring into space, consumed with anxiety about his own performance. The sound of Clay's voice was what caught his attention again.
"I'm Clayton Allan." Clay's hands were shaking so hard the script he was holding rattled and he was white as a sheet. "And I'll, uh, I'll be trying, auditioning for, uh, for Christian."
Nicholas felt his anxiety metamorphose into sympathy almost at once. Clay looked terrified, and he was stammering as though his mouth were full of marbles.
"T-To accuse me!" he began, staring directly down at his paper, shoulders hunched. "Of no longer loving, uh, when—When I love you more!"
He was trying for some emotion, but his distress was overriding it completely. His face was slowly turning red with shame.
"Love, uh, grew within, rocked in my anxious soul which that—shit, uh, which that cruel boy took for, uh, a—shit, shit, uh..." His eyes scanned his paper desperately, and Nicholas realized he'd lost his place. His stomach twisted with guilt and pity.
He stood, skirting around to Walter's side.
"Walter, let me read with him," he begged. "He can do better than this, he's just nervous."
Walter hummed, eyeing Nicholas like he thought the man was a bit crazy.
"Very well," he agreed with obvious reluctance, "Ah, Mr. Allan, hold on just a moment."
Clay, who had been struggling on through his stammering monologue in an increasingly inaudible mumble, fell gratefully quiet.
Walter flipped through the sheets of sample monologues he brought with him with one hand, peering down his nose through his little spectacles.
"Ah hah, here we are," he said, pulling a sheet free. "Act three, scene four please. The argument right before the balcony scene. Mr. Allan, please read for Christian. Mr. Bellerose will read for Cyrano with you."
He handed the sheet to Clay, who took it with shaking hands, shoulders hanging as he realized it wasn't over, and he'd have to try and perform again.
"Hey," Nicholas put a hand on the man's shoulder, catching his eye and speaking in a gentle murmur, "don't worry about them. Just focus on me. Look only at me, all right?"
Clay nodded, his mouth a thin line of worry, but as they stepped apart he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Nick. Nicholas smiled at him reassuringly, casting only a glance at the script to remind himself of the scene.
"I know all that’s needed," he said, speaking earnestly and urgently to Clay. "Ready your memory. Here’s the chance to cover yourself with glory. No time to lose. Don’t let your surliness show. Quick, to your place, I’m going to train you."
"No," Clay replied, voice shaking. Nicholas saw him glance at the audience and stepped closer without hesitation to grab him by the chin, turning Clay's face back to look only at him.
"What?" he asked, his voice firm.
"No!" Clay repeated, his voice stronger, releasing the hunch in his shoulders. He glanced down at his paper, but looked at Nick when he spoke. "I’ll wait for Roxanne here."
Nick smiled briefly, relieved to see Clay pulling it together, then quickly replaced his expression of aghast scorn.
"What madness has struck you?" he asked, letting go of the other man and stepping back. "Come and learn quickly."
"No, I confess!" Clay was getting the hang of it now, and he seemed to know naturally not to read directly from his sheet, glancing at it but always returning his eyes to Nicholas. "I’m tired of, uh, of borrowing my letters, my lines and playing a role. And—And trembling all the time! It was fine at the start! But I feel she loves me! Thank you. I’m not afraid! I’ll speak openly."
He grinned as he finished the paragraph, so guileless and charming Nicholas almost couldn't help but smile. He stayed in character, scoffing derisively.
"And how!" he said, rolling his eyes.
"And who told you," Clay went on, losing his place for a moment but recovering quickly. "Who told you I can’t speak? I’m not such a fool as all that! You’ll see! Dear friend, uh, I’ve profited by your lessons, so—so I know how to speak myself! And, by God, I know perfectly well how to hold her in my embrace!"
The exchange finished, he lowered his paper, and Nicholas clapped him on the arm in congratulations as the others gave their polite applause.
"There you go," he said. "I told you that you could do it."
"Only because of you," Clay shook his head, but he was smiling. "Thanks."
"Learning to ignore the audience is one of the first and hardest things to learn about stage acting," Nick said as they went back to their seats together. "And I think you did quite well once you calmed down."
"Really?" he asked. "I kind of felt like an idiot."
"You looked fantastic," Nick reassured him.
They fell silent then as the next audition began, but Nicholas, feeling unexplainably happy for how poorly his individual audition had gone, was acutely aware of Clay's warmth next to him.
Whatever parts we get, he thought, I hope we have scenes together. I want him to look at me like that again.
It was an idle, passing thought, and he didn't think about it too hard, or else it might have bothered him, how happy he was to be the object of a man's attention.
Chapter Five
"Good job everyone, good job." Walter said as the auditions wrapped up. "The cast list will be up on the website before the end of the week, and the first rehearsals will be on Monday. Check the site to see if you'll be needed, and in the meantime study your scripts and get those lines memorized! I want all scripts off the stage as soon as possible!"
"So, made your decisions?" Nicholas asked as everyone began to filter out while Walter packed up the script sheets.
"Very nearly," Walter replied. "I have a short list now. But you know me, it won't be really decided until I post it. You weren't kidding about that young man's stage fright."
"We can work through it," Nick reassured the director. "He has good instincts. You saw how fast he got the hang of it once he stopped panicking?"
"I think that was your influence," Walter chuckled. "When you grabbed his face like that I was afraid he was going to punch you. But it did seem to help him pull himself together."
Nicholas blushed a little, embarrassed by the praise and the indiscretion of grabbing someone that way.
"You were better with him too," Walter continued, and Nick looked up in surprise. "To be honest, I was a little worried by your audition. You were overacting it more than a bit I'm afraid."
Nicholas' blush darkened, this time in humiliation.
"Was it really that bad?" he asked, running a hand over his face in embarrassment.
"You were wound tighter than a spring, my friend," Walter said seriously, stuffing the last of the
monologue sheets into his briefcase. "But you loosened up once you were paired with him. You stopped focusing on yourself so much once you were more concerned with him, and you allowed the acting to happen naturally instead of forcing it. I'm looking forward to seeing how you do on stage together once he's more comfortable. I think you will have natural chemistry. Speaking of, I think he's waiting for you."
He gestured toward the door where Clay was lingering, shifting uncomfortably and glancing occasionally in Nick's direction.
"I'll see you on Monday," Walter said, waving him off, and Nicholas said goodbye before hurrying to join Clay.
"I wanted to thank you again for helping me out there," Clay said as Nicholas approached.
"It was no problem," Nick said at once. "Walter said you did great once you relaxed. You'll get over the stage fright with a little practice."
Clay smiled, encouraged, then glanced away.
"I wanted to ask," he said, clearing his throat, "Are you busy after this? I thought we could go get dinner, if you like."
The offer surprised Nick, but he grinned, pleased.
"Sure!" he replied. "I'm free. What do you feel like getting? I'm in the mood for pizza, to be honest."
Nick didn't question why Clay wanted to get dinner together. After all, they had lunch together dozens of times before. Nor did he question why he felt so unexpectedly delighted at the thought that Clay wanted to spend more time with him. They were friends, after all. It was only normal to be happy around your friends.
Nicholas led Clay to a nearby place with good pizza, and they split a chicken bacon ranch and some wings while discussing the play.
"I don't get it though," Clay said. "If the guy has that much going for him—all that skill and so much talent—why is he so set on being alone? A damn nose really doesn't seem like enough to scare off every girl in the world."
"That's the thing," Nick explained, "his vanity won't let him even try to approach a woman. He wouldn't be able to bear being mocked, and it's not like he can duel a woman to restore his honor, so he won't even try. Cyrano's nose is a symbol for the insecurities he feels. He can't see past them to his virtues, so why would he imagine a beautiful woman would be able to?"
"The thing that bothers me is that he never gets over it." Clay finished reading the copy of the play Nicholas had given him only the night before, and it sat on the table between them now, the red tinted light of the restaurant dyeing its cover a deeper scarlet. "Even up until he dies. He won't get a real job because he doesn't want to, I don't know, compromise his artistic integrity or whatever, he keeps pissing off powerful people instead of minding his own business, and he never confesses to Roxanne. He died just as vain and insecure as he started. What kind of character arc is that? At least Christian learns something before the end when he realizes it isn't worth being with someone who doesn't love him for who he is."
"Christian's arc is more conventional," Nicholas agreed, "but Cyrano's is more subtle. You get the sense that a lot of his early speeches are just bluster to cover his insecurity. He'll attack anyone who insults him, and he won't dare attempt anything he isn't certain he'll succeed at. But in the end, he isn't hiding the truth from Roxanne for the sake of his vanity, but for Christian's memory. The values he was blustering about have become something he can earnestly live by now that he's resigned himself to never being with Roxanne. Like a celibate monk he's devoted himself to his own sense of moral purity."
"He's resigned himself to being miserable and alone," Clay argued, waving a hot wing for emphasis. "He decided to martyr himself without ever taking Christian or Roxanne’s feelings into account. Cyrano was selfish, right to the end."
"I think it was an admirable selfishness, still," Nick chuckled as Clay gestured with the hot wing. "Isn't there something admirable in being true to yourself up to the very end? Even if your true self maybe isn't the hero others would want?"
"I don't think he was being true to himself, though." Clay took a bite of the wing he was pointing with, brow scrunched in thought. He looked for a moment like a philosophical caveman, and Nick couldn't help but snicker. "I think he let his vanity or insecurity or whatever rule him until the end. Cyrano was afraid, and he let it stop him from doing the things he wanted to do. Loving Roxanne, becoming a great poet. He let himself die alone and penniless because he was too scared to try."
"What would you do?" Nicholas asked. "If you could help someone, even though it's to your own detriment? Would you help a man woo the woman you loved if you thought she would never have you?"
"I like to think I'd ask how she feels first," Clay replied. "Instead of making decisions about her feelings without even talking to her. Maybe she likes big noses! Who knows? Certainly not Cyrano. And after I'd seen the way Roxanne rejected Christian as soon as he didn't have Cyrano's poetry it should have been obvious that looks weren't what she was after. Half the problems in the play could have been solved by anyone giving half an ounce of care to Roxanne's feelings."
"You're probably right," Nicholas agreed, smiling at the other man in admiration. "So you're the kind of guy to put his partner's feelings first?"
"Of course," Clay said with a firm nod. "You can't expect to build a relationship with someone if you don't treat them with at least that much consideration. And not by, like, sacrificing yourself without even asking them what they want like Cyrano. You have to genuinely talk to them about how they feel and keep that shit in mind."
"Maybe that's why none of my relationships have worked out," Nicholas said with a laugh.
Clay looked away, smiling bashfully.
"Well, I mean," he muttered, "it hasn't exactly worked out for me either. I wasn't exactly Mr. Popular back home."
"I don't believe that for a second," Nicholas said, sitting back from the table with a flat expression. "With a face like yours?"
"Faces ain't everything," Clay told him, dropping his napkin on his empty plate. "Girls that grow up in a backwater farming town don't want to date boys who are content to spend their whole lives there. Especially not boys who can't speak two words at 'em without turning beet red and tripping over themselves. I mean, I'm not completely inexperienced. I did date a few girls. But nothing that really went anywhere."
"You aren't a virgin, are you?" Nicholas asked with a mischievous grin. Clay turned bright red.
"How can you just ask things like that?" he sputtered, hiding his face with his hand. "No, of course not. I fooled around in high school like all the guys. You had to, you know?"
"Yeah, being a virgin in high school was intolerable," Nick agreed. "I bet it's probably worse in a small town, right?"
"Probably," Clay sighed, trying to overcome his fluster. "But in my junior year I had a kind of aggressive girlfriend. Thought my stammering was cute and the way I froze up meant she could just do what she wanted. She took care of the problem."
"That sounds kind of awful, actually," Nicholas frowned, suddenly worried for his friend. "I mean, if you weren't ready for it, didn't want it—"
"What are you talking about?" Clay laughed it off suddenly, the sound a little forced. "We're guys, we always want it. Anyway, if I had to tell you about my first time, you have to tell me about yours."
Nicholas nodded, accepting the change in subject.
"It was in middle school," he replied.
"No way," Clay's eyes widened.
"With a teacher," Nick continued, stone-faced.
"Seriously?"
"Mhm. Miss Applebottom with the watermelon tits. She asked me to stay after school, and then bent me over the desk and took her ruler and…"
"You're full of shit!" Clay laughed and flicked ranch sauce at him and Nicholas broke character to laugh with him.
"All right, all right," he gave in, laughing. "It was a girl at a party my first year of college. I was very drunk, and it was terrible and we never spoke again."
"Now that sounds more like the truth," Clay shook his head.
"To be honest it's always kind of
terrible," Nick sighed. "I don't know why I keep doing it. I mean, if you want a girlfriend you've gotta have sex with her, right?"
"Maybe you're just doing it with the wrong people?" Clay suggested. "Or maybe you're just really bad at it."
"Fuck you, I'm amazing in bed," Nicholas said defensively and Clay laughed.
Looking around, Nicholas realized the restaurant was almost empty except for them. He checked his watch and winced a little as he realized how late it was.
"We should get out of here," he said. "We're going to have a fun time finding a bus home this late."
"I don't need one," Clay said, standing and stretching. "I live in Kensington, remember? It's only in the next neighborhood. We're only like a mile or so away. I can walk."
"Lucky," Nicholas grumbled. Clay laughed.
"Come on," he said, "I'll walk you to the bus stop."
They left the restaurant, the night outside bitter cold and dark, thick clouds hiding the moon and stars entirely. Under that heavy blanket Nicholas felt strangely secretive, like he was being hidden from the sight of God. No one could see them or judge their actions here. They walked quietly for a while, listening to thunder rolling in the distance.
"Thanks for coming out with me," Clay said after a moment.
"Thanks for asking me," Nicholas countered. "I don't actually have many friends besides Walter. It's good to have someone to hang out with again. You're easy to talk with too. I like that."
"I do what I can," Clay snorted. "But really. I was starting to regret moving to the city. There's no one here I know or can rely on. I'm not used to it, being surrounded by strangers. You really saved me, reaching out to me like that. Without you I might have given up and gone home. Even if it were just because you wanted me for the play, I appreciate it."
