Isaac
The post-performance crush was always surreal for me. The congratulatory hugs and back pats from the cast seemed to fall on someone else’s body while I looked on from a corner, still lost in and connected to Oedipus. Some actors called it being in the zone, but Martin called it the flow. A current of creativity where performance stopped being performance and became real.
The flow was my drug. I craved it as soon as I left the theater. Like a junkie, I’d sell off everything I owned to live in that place where painful emotions trapped inside me were set free. It let me be exposed and raw, yet kept me protected under costumes and shielded by sets.
Lorraine Embry, the forty-year-old school teacher who played Jocasta, pulled me in for a long hug. Tears stood out in her eyes when she pulled away.
“Every night,” she said, her hands holding my face. “How do you give so much every night?”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
We headed to the dressing rooms to change and wipe off stage makeup and, in my case, fake blood. Changing into street clothes, the guys shot the shit and talked up the show, lamenting how we had only one more performance. They waved goodbyes and headed out to greet friends and relatives who’d come to see them. As usual, I felt a fleeting curiosity if Pops was among the crowd in the lobby. As usual, I shot it dead.
Only if every ticket came with a bottle of Old Crow.
The dressing room was now empty except for me, Martin and Len Hostetler, who played the role of Creon.
“You guys want to grab a beer?” he asked. Then he laughed. “Shit, Pearce, I keep forgetting you’re only eighteen, O king, instead of thirty.”
Martin, a slender man with a shock of graying hair and wide blue eyes, beamed. “Actually, today is—”
I shot him a warning glance through the mirror, shaking my head slightly.
“—not a good time,” he finished. “Thanks, Len.”
Len saluted. “What’s the play after this, Herr Direktor? You make your decision?”
“Yes, I’ve decided it’s going to be Hamlet,” Martin said, meeting my stare in the mirror.
“Good choice,” Len said. “It begs the question, what came first—the play or the actor you had in mind for it?” He laughed and chucked me on the shoulder. “I kid, kiddo. You were brilliant. As usual.” He turned to Martin. “We gotta use this guy’s talents before Hollywood or Broadway snatches him up, am I right?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Martin said.
“Have a good one, fellas.”
The door shut and Martin and I were alone.
“The entire cast would throw you a birthday party if you’d let them,” he said, tying his shoes.
“We have a party,” I said. “A cast party. Tomorrow night after closing.”
“That’s not the same—”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Turning nineteen and still being in high school is fucking pathetic.”
Martin’s face folded into concern and I immediately wished I’d kept my damn mouth shut.
“It’s not your fault,” he said, holding my gaze in the mirror. “You got the wind knocked out of you, kid. They held you back so you could catch your breath. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”
As usual, I didn’t have a decent reply, so I changed the subject.
“Hamlet?” I said. “I thought you were leaning toward Glass Menagerie.”
Martin held up his hands. “Len’s right. I have to use the talent I have and you need to be on bigger stages. Hamlet is the ultimate role and it’s going to get you noticed professionally.”
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Guaranteed. I’ve been reaching out to a few talent agencies. A couple of bigwigs from New York, one from Los Angeles. The LA guy has already committed to seeing you this spring.”
I sat back in the chair. “Are you shitting me?”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to lose you, Isaac, but I’m kicking you out of Harmony with this one. I want Hamlet to be your grand finale.”
I stared. Martin knew the score with me and my old man. He knew I was saving up to get the fuck out of town. Our scrapyard and gas station didn’t make shit. Between minimum wage to clean up the theater as Martin’s unofficial handyman, and pulling $30 per show to perform in it, it’d be another nineteen years before I had enough. Never mind that the idea of leaving Pops to drink himself into a stupor in that shitty trailer always soured my getaway plans with guilt.
“You have to take care of yourself, Isaac,” Martin said. “You’re meant for something bigger and better than what you have now. And I know this is the part you don’t believe, but you deserve something better.”
I looked away to the mirror and wiped the last streaks of dried blood from under my eyes. “I have to audition first,” I said, my voice tight in my throat.
Martin swatted me between the shoulder blades. “Yeah, you do. Don’t blow it.”
I made a noncommittal sound and slid out from under his hand on my shoulder to pull on my boots.
“Heading home?” he asked. “Or a hot date with one of your women?”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to work.”
“No chance,” he said. “You have the night off.”
“I can’t afford to take the night off.”
“You think I’m going to dock your pay? On your birthday?”
Martin hauled his bulky, scratched up leather bag onto the dressing table. He dug around and came up with a thick red envelope. “Happy Birthday, kid.”
I stared for a moment, then took it from his hand. It was gift-card heavy. Probably for the clothing store in Braxton. My heart sank in my chest under the weight of everything Martin had given me tonight. Not just the card.
Hamlet, the role of a lifetime.
The talent agents.
A real shot at getting out of here.
The gratitude overwhelmed me, filling me up, and mangling what poor words I struggled to utter.
“You didn’t have to do this. Any of it. But… I’m grateful.” I cleared my throat and stuffed the envelope in the back pocket of my jeans. “I mean, really. Thank you.”
“It’s from both Brenda and me,” Martin said. His smile tightened. “How’s your old man going to be tonight?”
“He’s probably got the surprise party all ready to go.”
Martin crossed his arms and pressed his gaze.
“You know how he’ll be, Marty.” I shrugged on my leather jacket. “Passed out or on a rampage, itching for a fight.”
“You watch yourself. And remember, our door is always open—”
“Yeah, okay. Tell Brenda I said thanks.”
He let his arms drop with a tiny sigh. “You bet.”
Martin’s concerned gaze followed me like a warm wind at my back to the cab of my old blue Dodge. An icebox. My breath steaming as I turned the engine over and let it idle to warm up. I turned Martin’s offer over too, tried to get it to warm up in my mind.
The Fords lived in a large, brick house on Front Street. Huge maple trees out front, a wrought-iron fence along the sidewalk. The house was built in 1862 and had been redone and renovated. The inside was filled with eclectic sculptures and paintings they’d collected over the years from artist friends, and from their own extensive travels.
I’d been over there a hundred times, and on a few occasions, when Pops got really violent, I stayed in their spare room. On those nights, I thought plenty about living with Martin and Brenda permanently. I knew they’d have me. I was nineteen and I could live where I wanted. Pop couldn’t say no. And yet…
Lying in the soft bed in the Fords’ guest room, with the heater working perfectly, surrounded by comfort and sturdy brick walls instead of cheap siding, I hadn’t been able to sleep. I’d imagined my dad alone in that shitty trailer, and remembered when I was a kid, before Mom died, and how he’d play ball with me. Or let me pretend to shave in the bathroom mirror with him in the morning.
Pops was a broken down drunk, but he was my family.
In my truck’s front seat, I fished out the red envelope from the back pocket of my jeans. The card was fancy—probably from that expensive stationary store up in the mall in Braxton. Gold drama masks, tragedy and comedy, adorned the front. Inside was a fifty dollar bill, a gift card to The Outpost clothing store—also in Braxton—and a handwritten message in Martin’s neat scrawl.
The money is for what you want. The card is for what you need.
Happy Birthday,
Martin and Brenda
My vision blurred. “Fuck, Marty.”
Pops might be blood, whispered a thought. But Martin and Brenda are family.
I got my shit together, revved the engine a few more times and rubbed the last condensation off the window. From my parking spot across the street from the theater, I could see a few people still congregated, talking to cast members.
And then I saw her.
Willow. The new girl. Standing with Angie McKenzie and her crew on the steps. Her hair spilled out from under her pink hat and over her white coat. In her gloved hands was a rolled-up Oedipus program.
“She saw it,” I heard myself say.
Like a dope, I touched the window. Safe and hidden in the dark confines of the cab, I stared as Willow glanced up at the glowing marquee. The light illuminated her stunning face, a perfect oval of smooth skin and large eyes. Then her friends tugged her arm, and they headed down the street in the opposite direction.
I didn’t know this girl for shit, but I added Willow Holloway seeing me perform tonight to the birthday presents from Marty already in my pocket.
And for the first time in my life, I felt rich.