Author's Note: A realization two years in the making: I haven't really been happy with anything since chapter 1, because nothing since chapter one has been about anything. Sorta hurt no one ever pointed this out, but live and learn. Still not about anything (it's one of my writing flaws) but this story is going to live in the back of my mind until the resolution. Thanks to Sarah, whose timing brought this story back into the foremost part of my mind.
Chapter 8
There are some things in life that just are. You can't change them, move them or stop them. All you can do is try and ignore them, or live around them, or hold in your stomach as you squeeze past day after day until you grow up and move on. One of these things was the continuous R&B which seeped through each and every wall, emanating from the apartment across the hall from where August was living while his third play was being readied for opening night. He had bought ear plugs and slept behind the A/C unit.
In the book industry, and maybe it's the same for everything else, but in the book industry it's the rule of three. The first book gets you a contract, and the contract gets you a chance for two more books. The first book gets your name on a shelf, somewhere. The second book hopefully starts to get some attention, and with the third book you've either got fans or empty electrical sockets in the middle of a heat wave. If you've got fans you've probably earned an extended contract. If you've got nothing, then it's time to start all over.
This was his third play, and the chips were on the table.
His first play, One More Day had been a simple introduction. Sharp contrast in characters and motivations, and a straight line narrative making use of the Three Unities made it hard for any small theatre to say no, since it was hard for any director to misunderstand. It was also easy for any audience member to leave pleased with the diversion. Though a ground breaking philosophical interlude it was not, humorous engaging look at the lost art of marriage it was. The theatre was small but respected, and he had his in.
His second play, Never Mind the Screaming had been a little more complicated, a little darker, and opened in a little bit bigger theatre. The subtle peek into the fragile lie of being a 'grown up,' had met with serial applause. He never read reviews, but he knew there were a lot of them. A second theatre group had started pre-production, and he was starting to remember faces.
This was his third play, the first one he'd written and the chips were all on the table. Everything he had was out there, right down to his bus fare home.
There are some things in life that just are. You can't do anything about them, all you can do is find a way to live with them or to live around them. One of these things was the chandelier in his Grandmother's house. It hung low, in the middle of the entrance way, and many an unwary visitor had soon required ice. One summer, when he was 17 and had just grown several inches faster than his hair, he had knocked into it daily. But then he learned, and ducked to the side, a habit he couldn't break even when the house had passed to his aunt and the chandelier was moved to a more reasonable location above the dining room table.
This was his third play, and he hadn't gone to any rehearsals, but he spent every day hovering outside the back door.
After a week the cast had stopped inviting him in, knowing he wouldn't go. The stage manager would bring him coffee at each break, and the director would greet him as he came and left, but that was all the interaction he would allow himself.
All his chips were on the table, waiting for that one spin to cease and settle.
"Vente Mocha Frappuccino for your thoughts?"
"Does it have whipped cream?"
"Of course." One gloved hand swung the drink slowly, pivoting about some point buried deep under a sheath of cardboard.
"Then you may have all the thoughts I possess."
"Did I ever tell you how unsexy a man is who can be bought this cheaply?"
He raised an eyebrow over the twisted blades of white. "Should I hold out for a Ferrari?"
"No, it wouldn't be you. Might want to hold out for a subway pass though, if you plan on living here."
They shared a smile. The kind of smile which had little to do with anything that happened to be happening, but the kind that said 'hey, we've smiled together many times in the past, and will smile together again just the same.' "I thought you were coming out tomorrow?"
"You've been here for two months. Forgive me for being curious as to what you've been doing with yourself."
"This and that. New York is a big town." There had been very few times when he had been unhappy to see Chris. He wasn't unhappy now, but there was a glint in her eye which indicated he might soon be wishing she hadn't come upon him.
"So this stoop is pretty comfy. Come here often? Are there pigeons, or are the naked girls hiding around the corner until I leave?"
Ah. There it was.
"How did you know I was here, perchance?"
"Bill called me. He thought you could use some moral support."
"Did he now." Directors thought too much.
"That and he said the lead actress almost tripped over you yesterday. And while he'd put her on stage even if she was on crutches, he'd prefer it if she was fully mobile."
"That's generous of him."
"Not really. I didn't say this, but I hear he and his leading lady have a little something going on after hours."
There are some things in life that just are. No matter how far or fast you run, or how desperately you try and hide, you can't escape them. One of these things was the complicated relationship he had had with Grace Manning. He had found he couldn't escape it, couldn't abandon it, would have to accept it and embrace it or waste his life having lost everything else in his desperation for avoidance.
Chris knew what his silence meant. "So, twenty-four hours until opening night. Want to celebrate?"
He had tried for resolution by writing it all out. But the fault had always been in the secrecy. All those moments were so wrong, so precious, so monumental because they happened behind closed doors and under the watchful eyes of their respective worlds. What they needed was the judgment that would spring from exposure. What he needed was to take a step back, and watch himself, watch her, watch the two of them together from the distance of the third row.
"I don't think I'd refuse something a bit stronger."
"Then you're in luck. I brought along a few bottles of the most gorgeous red I just found. I meant it for the cast party, but I think breaking out a bottle for tonight wouldn't be inappropriate."
"I think I should mention that I haven't actually eaten since breakfast. And I'd rather not be hung over tomorrow. Call it vanity." One bottle, with Chris, had the frequent tendency to become somewhat more than one bottle.
This was not a trait that Chris was unaware of. "We'll stop for a spread on the way. What's that cheese you used to get?" One cheeky smile and then she had hopped down and was leading the way.
The back door of the theatre, where August had spent so many weeks, was exactly where Chris found him for the second time. Applause could still be heard when she opened the door, fading out as it closed itself.
"They seemed to love it."
He was slumped ungracefully against the wall.
"I loved it."
His eyes were aimed for the ground.
"I passed a certain reviewer on the way out, he looked not-disgusted."
It was hard to imagine that his attention could be so focused thusly.
"I think the production was fabulous- even the lighting was evocatively revealing."
God knows she didn't find it at all extraordinary, though there must be an artist out there somewhere who would snatch the square of grimy concrete and declare it a monument to the modern decay of urban life, or a tribute to hopeless abandon or blueberry pie or some rubbish.
"You didn't like my joke? Ok. Are you going to come to the cast party? I'm not saying you shouldn't… think… But a lot of people want to talk to you. You should enjoy the afterglow, it was a good play you wrote."
He looked up too late to catch her eye. He hadn't tried very hard.
He should go to the cast party. It would look odd if he didn't, and not entirely prudent regarding his burgeoning career. There was an hour, but an hour wasn't time enough to think and resolve and become ready to face people he did not know. Air fled his lungs as he stood, mind on the spare bottle of red that was stashed in the dressing room.
The dressing rooms were far in the back, so he was in and out before any cast member had returned. He was grateful and relieved, though as the personable author of a play that had just had a very warm receival, it wasn't likely that he would be considered unwelcome. Nonetheless, he retreated to his lonely stoop, where neither the man nor the bottle stopped to breathe before their first touch.
With half consumed he paused, watching the shimmering on liquid of yellow light from the streetlamp. It was amazing that something so lovely could be the result of things so mundane: a dirty light bulb on a dented pole, a bottle of alcohol desperately manhandled by a pathetic excuse for a human being.
He watched the liquid move in tandem with his own failures at stillness. In the ripples lay his breath, his heartbeat, the natural sway of his arm as he became more relaxed.
He felt the weight of the bottle, the chill of the evening, the concrete begin to gently sway beneath his feet.
He thought of wine he'd held long ago, in another city after another play.