The Wannabe Production
Jeremiah stared at the deep crack that ran from one end of the ceiling to the other. He remembered the first night he had moved out of his parent’s house into this one. He remembered the heat of that day, almost an entire year ago. It was a hot August evening, just after his seventeenth birthday. His father had driven him over in the old blue truck. The old man smoked. The cab of the truck bounced as it dropped into and then out of potholes. His father smoked a pipe, and Jeremiah could only smell a little of the smoke before it escaped out the half-open windows. When they arrived at the house, his father had taken the old duffle out of the back of the truck and placed it on Jeremiah’s shoulders. Jeremiah had felt a hand on his back, and his father had looked over and told him not to be a stranger.
But Jeremiah forgot that request as soon as he stepped over the threshold. And who could blame him? He felt awake. He felt alive. He felt free. His brothers had badgered him over the past five years about his interest in theater. Though his father and mother tried to be supportive, they did not understand the dream, and as he left the home of his youth, he felt shackles had fallen off his ankles and wrists. He was no longer one person pushing forward after a dream. Every day those around him, those he lived with, would be pushing on toward that dream together. Everyone shared everything, and when one of these actors stumbled into success, he would drag the rest of them with him.
Jeremiah pressed his hands into his face. He ran them over his eyes and across his chin. He opened his eyes again and looked at the crack in the ceiling. He wanted to cry. He had to, but he could not. He had stayed at the hospital until they had kicked him out, and he had cried hours as he wandered the streets and wondered where he would go. Finally, when it grew too cold and too late, he stumbled back into the house. He sneaked past the few actors and actresses still awake. He climbed up onto his bed three bunks up, and he had tried to sleep. He had tried to sleep, but the closest he could get to sleep was a dizzying recollection of the hospital room. Daniel’s voice rang in his ears. His brother wanted to kill the shooter. Ezekiel had protested. Ezekiel had stomped out. Isaiah had followed.
Jeremiah wished the memory was only of his brothers, but his brothers were only a small corner. His father was the center. His body was warm. His hands were cold. The old man’s gray face filled his mind. His eyes were closed. His jaw hung open under the breathing mask. His features were weak. They were weak like a stroke victim. Slack. Something like that. Impotent. It was the first time Jeremiah hated looking at his father. He did not want to be in that hospital room, but he did not want to be anywhere. And if he were to be either in his bed in this room or in that antiseptic room, he would choose the latter if he could. His father was not dead. Jeremiah understood this. There was still a chance the man would wake up. The doctors had stated that he only had a slim chance, but Ebenezer Fleet had a chance. And if Ebenezer Fleet had a chance, Jeremiah wanted to be in that dusky little hospital room when he awoke. And if Ebenezer did not have a chance, Jeremiah wanted as many moments in that room as possible.
But he was not in that room. He was in this room. And the hate that had grown within him for this place doubled.
That first day was a dream. That August evening was like stepping out of the real world into a fantasy production. The sun seemed to paint the entire western sky orange every night. The hot days gave way to warm nights. In those end of summer days, all the actors and actresses who lived in the house spent their evenings packed onto the small back porch passing around a bottle or a cigarette. Two or three or four would cluster into a small group, and each would allow their tongue to wander on about their hopes and dreams for the future. Each would stare up into the black sky and sigh. Each would pontificate about how the world would one day be full of peace. The big wars had gone. The war in Korea would end soon. Eventually everyone would realize that fighting and tribes and religions and color and money and class and all the things that separated one person from another did not matter. And when everyone realized that, the world would change. Everything about the world would change, and in those warm August evenings, they were the beginning of that change.
It was a beautiful time, and Jeremiah thought those were beautiful ideas. “Imagine no hate,” one of his housemates had said last August. “Imagine if we didn’t possess one another, you know. What is marriage anyway, except owning another person? What is being a capitalist but owning another’s time? What is taxation, but owning another’s money? If it can be thought, it can be done. Hell, aren’t we doing it right here?”
Jeremiah laughed. He turned to his side. He looked across the other three top bunks. All eight of his roommates were gone. All of his housemates were out, and he found that odd. Lucky, but odd. He was unsure he had ever been in this house alone. That is why he had not wanted to come back. He did not want to be with these people. He did not want to be alone either, but being with these people was worse than being alone. At least when he was alone, he could be himself. With these people. . . It was complicated. Or it was not complicated. He was not entirely sure. He did not hate them, at least not in the way you hated a person. He hated them in the way things were hated. He hated them like the bitter cold in the middle of winter. He did not wish evil on them. He did not want to cause them pain. Jeremiah just wanted them gone. He disliked them. He disliked them intensely, and he pitied them.
As the weather of fall grew cold, those warm August nights broke up like ice flows in the spring. The fairytale existence evaporated, and Jeremiah found himself alone. Those who had spoken of the creation of a new society did what every other person on the planet did: whatever kept them alive, whatever made them prosper. The stronger hand did not reach out to help the weaker. It pushed the weak aside.
“How long do you think it will take before I get my first part?” Jeremiah asked his friend Allen his first night.
“You know, Jeremiah, you’re going to be a veteran by the time this year is up. If you don’t have five parts, and I mean real parts, I’d be surprised. And twenty bit parts on top of that.”
Jeremiah believed Allen, because he did not see a reason why Allen would ever lie. Allen had told him some of the biggest names in the city lived in the house. Allen had said that he was in a major role for every month there was in the year. Allen had said that everyone ate together. He had said that Jeremiah would barely be able to sleep because of how exciting it was to live in the house. Allen said many things, and the only thing Allen had told him about the house that was true was the address.
The house was full of washed-up nobodies. A handful of them were over fifty. Most were in their thirties. A few were in their twenties, and Jeremiah was the only one who had yet to reach twenty. None of them were big names. Perhaps two or three got a bit part a few times a year. The rest had listless lives. Most were understudies for minor roles. Most of these understudies never had the chance to step out on the stage in front of a crowd. Most worked other menial jobs. One older actress was a server part-time. A young actor was a bellhop. Most were too busy to eat together, and the only thing Jeremiah wanted to do after he had lived there the first month was sleep. Because at least when he was asleep, he could be alone. But even then, it was difficult to sleep because of those who stayed up all hours of the night and the fear that someone would get into his belongings. His housemates did not take things in a malicious way. They simply, as they put it, borrowed things here and there.
When he had first realized what was status quo in this place, he had considered moving back into his parent’s house, but he feared what everyone would think of him. Each of his brothers was out by the age of seventeen. Some were out even sooner. His parents would not say anything. They would, perhaps, even enjoy having him back in the house, but even if his brothers never said anything to him, he knew they would talk among themselves. They would come to conclusions about his ability to be independent. They would make statements about him being a loser. They would be right. He had made a bad decision. He had thought his dreams were possible, so he had moved in with these actors and actresses. And in such a short time, he realized that he dreamed the impossible.
He did not move back in with his parents. He stayed in the house out of shame. He tried to convince himself the process took time. Sure, Allen was lying, but it was possible. The dream of becoming an actor was possible. It just took time. It took time. It took tenacity, and he had both. Eventually, Jeremiah got a job to feed himself. He still tried out for roles, but no roles came. And after nine months of trying and failing, the idea that it only took more time than most things began to crumble. Every time someone said something about acting, he would be sure to say that he was one. He would be sure to make everyone think that he was successful in his chosen profession. Sometimes, he almost believed his own words, but he did not believe them. He did not believe them, but it was odd. He never stated that he did not believe them. He did not allow himself to think about how he did not believe them, but he did not believe them.
He let the pain of unmet desire fester within him. He worked his job. He kept it secret from his family. He did not move back in with his parents, and now his father had been shot.
He supposed that is what he deserved for not visiting his parents more often. He supposed that is what he deserved for not telling the truth. He supposed that is what he deserved for chasing after something stupid.
Jeremiah felt alone. He felt like he was falling. In his mind, his father was well. In his mind, he was supposed to be an actor. In his mind, he was supposed to be comfortable. He was supposed to have friends. He was supposed to feel alive. In his mind, the inverse did not make sense. He could not be alone. He could not be in discomfort. He could not be a loser who worked sweeping stages instead of sweeping actresses off their feet. His father could not be dying. Jeremiah was sure of it. He was sure of all of it, but the logic in his mind did not twist reality to meet his wishes. All the negative was true. His father had been shot. In a day or two, the old man could be gone. His closest companion, gone. His greatest reflection of self, stripped away. His father. A vapor on the wind. And himself, utterly directionless and alone without the man.
Life gutted; that is what this was. Life flayed. Everything had slowly crumbled, and now his foundation along with it. Nothing was good. How could it be? How could anything ever be good again?
Jeremiah felt tears fill his eyes. Sadness rose like the tide, and his only wish was that he could vomit out everything inside himself.
Their father could not die, could he? God, could he? The old man had made it through everything else. Had he not made it through the First World War? Had he not made it through the depression? Had he not pulled his family and his business through this second global upheaval? Surely, he would not die, would he? Jeremiah wished he was certain. The only thing he was certain of was that he wanted to be certain. He was only seventeen. Fathers did not die when their children were so young. Fathers died when their children grew old and had their own children. Fathers did not die when their children still needed them, did they? Did they?
Jeremiah wished he did not know the answer to that question. Jeremiah wished he could push that answer out of his mind, but he could not. It grew inside him like a big ugly mole at the center of a face. Perhaps, as Jeremiah thought, he could not live without his father, but that did not mean fathers did not die. Everything had its time. Everything had its season. But Jeremiah did not determine those times or seasons. And if it was Ebenezer’s time to go, Jeremiah could do nothing to help that, though Jeremiah did not know how he would go on without.
His brothers? His brothers would know how to move forward, but they would leave him behind. Each one of them was many years into manhood. Each one of them had created a life for himself. Daniel had built a business. Isaiah pursued academics. Ezekiel, though he had taken it upon himself to be their parents’ caretaker, would certainly get married soon. Everyone was moving forward. Everyone was looking ahead, and none of them would notice if he fell behind. And he would fall behind. He would fall behind because being a man was more than being older. It was more than muscles and suits and facial hair. It was beyond a stern look or a frothy beer or a work-dirtied face. It was beyond all the outward appearance that he saw, and though Jeremiah sensed what it was, he did not know what it was. He knew it when he saw it, but he could not define it. He could not fully understand it. If his father left now, there would be no one left to guide him through that final passage into who he was supposed to be.
Was Isaiah correct? Was cold, deadpan Isaiah correct when he said their father would not make it? Ezekiel had assured Jeremiah that their father would not die. Was he correct? Jeremiah wished Ezekiel was correct, but he did not want to hold on to false hope. If Ezekiel was correct, then Daniel would have agreed with him, but Daniel had not expressed agreement. Daniel had only become angry. Daniel had only expressed a desire to hunt the shooter down and kill him.
Jeremiah felt the sadness come rushing in even more. He let the tears break over his eyelids. They streamed down his face and tickled his chin. Everything became as disordered as it was in the hospital room. He saw red. He saw black. Both colors slipped together. His throat tightened. He tried to breath but only sobbed. Snot poured from his nose over his lips and onto his chin. Jeremiah let out another sob, and he flopped from his side onto his stomach and put his face deep into his thin pillow. Everything. Everything was wrong. It was not supposed to be this way, and he knew it. His father was alive, but the doctor had not talked in a positive manner about the case. In a month, in two weeks, in a few days, or an hour, his father could be gone. And, damnit, it was not supposed to be this way. Fathers were not supposed to die. Fathers were not supposed to leave their children. How was he supposed to go on in this life? How was he supposed to know how to live? How was he supposed to live at all? He was not doing a great job of it already. And, sure, he could fumble this way and that until he cut out some rude manner in which to live, but even when he had done that, he would feel just as lost as he did now.
If he continued as he was, he would eventually turn into one of those fifty-year-old actors who lived in the house and still held on to the dream of making it big. If he continued as he was, he would remain a stagehand cleaning up after those who were capable of making it. And if he decided he wanted to start over, how would he do that? Would he go to his mother? Would he ask her? Would she be able to tell him how he was supposed to live this life? Would she be able to convey to him everything that it was to be a man? Would she be able to help him be complete and confident? He did not think so.
Jeremiah hated the thoughts in his mind. He hated the sadness in his gut. He hated the choking sorrow in his throat, and he did everything he could to forget. He did everything he could to pretend that his father was not where his father was. He lied to himself. He told himself that his father was at the store. He told himself that he would go there tomorrow. He would visit, and Jeremiah would be reminded of the times long ago when his father would take him on supply runs in the big blue truck. And Jeremiah would remember those times. He would remember the bouncing cab. He would remember the windows half-open in the heat. His father would be smoking a pipe. The old man would be asking him question after question trying to figure out what he was up to. And the wind and the smoke would blow in Jeremiah’s face. And he would watch the countryside and the cattle go rolling by. And that memory would make him happy.
But Jeremiah could not lie to himself. Jeremiah could not hold onto that bright world of memory. The tears still well up in his eyes. They still streamed down his face. They covered his pillow. The sadness choked him as it came. His father was old. His father was gray. His father was not in that bright place of memory. He was in a hospital room, and he would die. Wouldn’t he? Jeremiah thought so. It was only a matter of time. It was only a matter of time, and his father would be dead, and he would be alone.
The house swallowed him. The floor beneath his feet was a mile away. The ceiling seemed only an inch above him, and it seemed to be pressing down farther every second. He tried to comfort himself by pulling his thin blanket more tightly over himself, but it was cold in the room, just as it was always cold in the whole house. A door banged shut below, and Jeremiah heard the first chatter of conversation from the few housemates who were back. Soon, everyone would be back for the night, and he would be trapped not only in the house but also within his own head. The twenty other people who lived in the house acted like they were friends, but even those who were friendly with each other did not trust each other. And he did not trust any of them either. The most any of these wannabe actors came to trusting one another was when they stumbled into one another’s beds for an evening of fun or when they slipped into some drug-induced bliss.
Was this the path of an actor? Was this a part of the journey? Everyone lived together. Everyone ate together. Everyone slept together. And Jeremiah wondered whether it was worth it. When one of them made it big, he would not do a damn thing to help the others up. He would change his number. He would get security guards, and he would press charges on any one of these losers who tried to confront him in public.
“A family, Allen, really?” he thought. Even more tears poured onto Jeremiah’s pillow. “All for one, one for all?” The tears streamed harder. “Yeah, right.” He choked on another sob. Every actor who lived in this house was a scavenging hyena, and Allen might have been the worst one.
Jeremiah heard thudding feet move up the steps. He heard heavy breathing and two muffled voices from out in the hall. He heard another thud, a curse from out in the hall, and a door hinge wailing open.
Jeremiah quickly wiped the last tears from his eyes and then looked over to the door. A smile greeted him. Allen. He was a few years older than Jeremiah, and he was shorter than Jeremiah, which was typical of most actors who lived in the house. And like all of Jeremiah’s other housemates, he had a smile on his face. A big, shit-eating grin. And dead eyes. Like a fish. Like a dead fish you would pick up at the market.
“Jeremiah,” Allen greeted him. “Lying down? Taking a nap?” he asked.
Jeremiah sat up. He felt like he had been dragged behind a vehicle for half a mile. “Yeah, taking a nap,” Jeremiah answered. “Does anyone get a good night’s sleep around here?” His voice did not betray how he felt inside in the slightest.
Allen laughed. “I’ve learned to sleep through anything. I never feel tired.”
Jeremiah laughed. “You’ll have to teach me your secret.”
Allen smiled at him. One hand reached into his pocket. He pulled out a glass bottle and tossed it up to Jeremiah. The brown liquid inside sloshed back and forth. Jeremiah looked at it. He laughed himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed.
“Keep it. I’ve got plenty more of that,” Allen continued.
Jeremiah dropped to the ground between the two beds. “I’ll try it tonight.” Jeremiah said the words with a smile on his face, though all he could feel was sadness from his skin all the way down to his brain stem.
He followed Allen down the uneven steps. The man talked, but Jeremiah barely tried to respond. Allen did not care what he said. Even if Jeremiah responded with a question, Allen would go on talking as if he had not said anything at all. Before moving into the house, Jeremiah had called Allen a friend, but Allen was not his friend. They talked about acting, but that was all Allen talked about. Every conversation was acting or girls. The depth of the man did not go beyond these two subjects. And with his father dying, he was not sure acting mattered a damn anymore. All acting consisted of was emoting and reading lines another person wrote. He memorized words. He spoke those words, and what the hell was so special about that? What did it matter, really, if tonight could be his father’s last night?
They entered onto the main level. Jeremiah felt the fake smile on his face, and he looked out at those who had come home for the night. All looked happy. All had big smiles on their faces. Some had red faces from the start of their afternoon drinking. A few, a very few, sat silently nursing bottles of booze covetously. All had glazed eyes, empty eyes. That is what Jeremiah thought. They had nothing behind their eyes. They were empty. They were shells. Shells of people, and as he looked at that now, he wondered how they had lost their insides.
Maybe it was pain. He felt pain. They felt pain. And pain was not pretty. The world did not like pain. Pain was ugly, and people covered up pain. Now, he felt pain. He had something to hide, so he hid it, and he became empty just like them.
“Jeremiah,” someone shouted from across the room, a girl Allen’s age. Her name was Patricia. Her eyes were bright, bright and mixed with the same emptiness as everyone else. She had seen them as they entered the room, and now she rushed over with a bottle in one hand and her other hand reaching down to pick up her long skirt so she would not trip over it.
When she came near him, she brought him into a big embrace. “Jeremiah!” She drew back. Her eyes continued to twinkle, and the emptiness behind them seemed to slip away. The sadness dissolved in her eyes, and they were filled only with that happy twinkle. “You rushed out so quickly,” she continued. Though she had pulled back to see him, her arms still circled his waist.
He smiled at her, but it was all the same as before for him. He looked at her, and she was thin, paper thin like his father had seemed in the hospital. Beautiful. She was definitely beautiful, but that beauty was only shapes. As he looked at her face, he wished that he could be surrounded by her beauty. He wished he could forget the hospital, and flirt and plunge into the euphoria of infatuation.
“I. . .” Jeremiah did not know what to say. “My mother needed something,” he said and faked annoyance as he did. He groaned. The groan was just another lie. “You know mothers,” he continued.
She nodded. She continued beaming at him. Her cheeks seemed more flushed. Her hands were hot against his clothes. He could feel her heartbeat thumping at the bottom of her chest. Her face softened. He could not explain that. He could not understand that look fully. He had only brothers, no sisters, and he had little knowledge of the ways of women.
“What are you doing tonight?” she asked. “I was thinking of going out. I was thinking of really treating myself, dressing up.” She giggled. Her face flushed, and her eyes darted toward the rest of the room as if she had suddenly become embarrassed. And then she brought the bottle up to her mouth and took a long drink.
Jeremiah continued to fake a smile back at her. “Well, I. . .” He then frowned at her. “I would really love to. I could do that all night, but I’ve got a part. And I’ve got play practice tonight,” he continued his lies. He did not have a part. He was an understudy of an understudy.
She frowned, a deep frown with wide, puppy-dog eyes.
“Can I take a rain check?” he asked.
She sighed. The frown continued for a moment and then slipped away. She looked into his eyes. Jeremiah watched the twinkle fade. He watched the emptiness return, and a big, ironic smile, complete with wrinkles around the eyes, filled her face.
“A part,” she barked out. Her hand slipped from his side. “Another night then. Good luck with practice.”
Jeremiah watched the girl walk away. Before she turned, he saw the disappointment on her face flicker. Suddenly, suddenly, he saw the disappointment disappear. Just as she turned, a smile filled her face, and after she turned, he watched her look around the room as if lost. Finally, she made her way over to another man, and he watched as she repeated the same flirtatious behavior she had shown with him.
Jeremiah heard a groan from behind him. “Awww, man,” Allen said in a whiny voice. “Aw, man,” Allen whined out again. “You missed it, man. You know how long I have been trying to get her to do that to me?”
Jeremiah grunted, and he wished that he were anywhere else but with these people. Jeremiah turned to Allen. He shrugged, and Allen’s jaw dropped to the floor. “You’re not chasing that?” His voice was filled with incredulity.
Jeremiah shook his head. “She is cheap, Allen,” he muttered. “Buy her dinner, a few drinks, and you’ve got yourself entertainment until dawn if you really want to chase that.”
“Why does it matter if she’s cheap?” Allen asked. “Take what pleasure you can get. Who cares if someone has had her before or if anyone has her after?”
“That’s how you end up with a baby, Allen,” Jeremiah continued.
Allen laughed. “You’re an actor, Jeremiah. Act. Use a false name when you don’t know her and get the hell out of Dodge if you do.”
Jeremiah glanced down at his watch. “I’ve got to go,” he said. It was a lie, but Allen did not know that. If it actually mattered whether Jeremiah was at play practice, he had another fifteen minutes at least.
Allen shrugged, a big, careless shrug. “You’ve got a bit part. They won’t even notice if you are late. They probably wouldn’t even care. You’ve got what? Two lines?”
Jeremiah wished Allen would go away. God, he wished he would go away. Allen had been a good enough companion when Jeremiah was did not live with him, but now, when Jeremiah was mired in sadness, Allen was vinegar flowing into his eyes. Jeremiah knew it was going to be hard to drag himself away from the house. Allen was sure to start another conversation. He would drag him into a group of his housemates, and his housemates would thrust some unknown drug into his hand. Someone would say something about “expanding his mind.” And if it were any other day before that day, he would have indulged. And it would have been a thrill. Sometimes it was numb pleasure, sometimes the trip would be like being transported to an alien world entirely, and he would speak to creatures from that reality. But he only had a tangential desire to escape this reality at this time. It would be good to forget his pain, but disappearing into a trip for a few hours felt like sacrilege. His father was dying, and damned if he didn’t stand vigil until the man was awake and running his shop or long buried in the ground. Goodbye all blessings until he had paid enough to keep his father alive.
Today, Allen began to put his arm around Jeremiah’s shoulders to keep him from going, but a yell erupted from the other side of the room before he could. The room filled with shouts. Allen jumped toward the person who yelled, and Jeremiah—as he heard a cry of “Call 911!”—slipped out of the house without even looking to see what the emergency was. It was not his father that was dying in that room. His father was dying in some other room. Jeremiah had his own pain. Jeremiah had his own fret-filled existence of standing on the edge of the future and not knowing what would happen if he fell into it. He did not have the time, the energy, the capacity, to deal with another’s pain.
***
As Jeremiah stared out at the stage, he tried to let himself forget the world. The stage-lights always mesmerized him. They were stark against the dark room. They always focused Jeremiah’s mind. When Jeremiah stared out at the lit-up stage, he always felt like he was peering into something beautiful, a deep, flawless lake, its blue depths. Outside of the light was a dreary world with pain and mundanity. Inside the light, anything could happen. Othello succumbed to jealousy under the stage lights. Faustus sold his soul to the devil under the stage lights. Willy Loman slipped slowly into insanity. Witches stood trial in Salem. Anything was possible. And Jeremiah loved that impossibility, and Jeremiah wanted to take part in that impossibility.
“Hello, monster.” The male lead crouched down as he said the words. He was a thirty-year-old man, a rising star in the local art scene, and everyone, from the director to most expendable usher, was sure that he would become a nationwide sensation in the next sixteen months.
The actress playing the monster crouched near the ground. Jeremiah only knew it was an actress because he was in the production. If he was not in the production, he would have had no idea the monster was a woman. She wore prosthetics and a mask that made her look like a monster with a toad’s body, a pig’s snout, a jackal’s muzzle, and the menacing teeth of a feline.
The monster snarled like a cat.
“Does it talk?” the lead asked.
The other actor on the stage playing the servant shook his head. “Nah, Mester, but he fights, and we found this. Ah, this.” The servant plunged his hand into his pocket. A glittering gold disk came out. The servant handed it to his master. And when the monster saw the gold glitter, the snarling stopped and was replaced by cooing.
“Ah, monster.” The lead held the gold disk toward it. “Monster, you like this? You think this is good?” The lead held the disk closer to the monster’s face. The face was softened. The monster rested on its back haunches and its mouth lolled open in a manner that reminded Jeremiah of a relaxed dog.
The lead shifted the disk to one side. The monster’s mouth shut, and its head followed the disk as if it was waiting to be fed.
“Hello, monster,” the lead said again.
And the monster stopped looking at the disk and looked up to the man. “Hello, man,” it said in a stretched, croaking voice.
“You speak?” the lead asked. Surprise tinted his words.
“Many things speak.” These words of the monster came out in a smile. “Do many things have anything useful to say?” the monster continued.
The lead laughed. He threw back his head and guffawed. Then, when he had composed himself, he looked down at the monster. He studied the thing for long moments before he spoke again.
“What are you?” the lead asked. It sounded like he was addressing a slave.
“I am”—the monster coughed and took a rattling breath in—“I am desire, Adam. Desire.” The thing cleared its throat. “Is there anything you desire, Adam?”
Adam, the lead, laughed, a startled laugh. “You are asking me what I want?” he asked.
The thing nodded.
He laughed again, as if someone had made a joke.
“All you need to do is tell me,” the thing continued.
Adam continued to laugh. He stifled one. He began to speak. “What I want. . .” He was overtaken by laughter. “What I want?” He shook his head at the thing.
“Tell me,” the thing said.
“I want power. Influence. I want to look at any person, tell them to do something, and they’ll do it.”
The thing laughed. It was a wet laugh, a rough laugh, a throaty laugh. The laugh went on for several seconds. Then the monster looked at Adam and spoke again. “Granted,” it croaked.
Adam laughed again, as if it were all part of a joke.
“You think I jest,” the monster croaked out. “Command your man. Command him to do anything he would not do. Command him and see.”
With a smile still on his face, Adam looked to his servant. “Antonio, see that cliff there?” Adam chuckled as he said the words. “Antonio, jump off that cliff.”
And, as Adam watched first in jest and then in horror, Antonio walked toward the cliff and leapt off.
“And cut!” the director yelled. The little man strode out to the center of the stage and talked in hushed tones to the actress who played the monster and the actor who played the lead.
“Jeremiah,” an actress sitting near him hissed over. “Hey, hey,” she continued.
Jeremiah looked over to her. She was not a pretty girl, not in a traditional sense. Her face was gaunt. Her eyes were too big, and she had the body of a child. At least it seemed like she had the body of a child to Jeremiah. But she had an odd sensuality about her, and this sensuality emanated from her.
“Barb,” Jeremiah answered. The name sounded like a verbal prod.
“Did you hear about Alec?” Barb’s head jerked toward the lead.
Jeremiah shook his head.
Barb smiled a mischievous smile. She shifted toward Jeremiah and leaned toward him until her arm brushed his. Her head hovered near his own, and she rasped her response into his ear. “I hear they’re going to drop him from the production,” she continued.
Jeremiah shook his head again. He was half-confused. He was half-disbelieving. “Why?” he answered. “Why the hell would they do that?” he asked.
She scooted toward him. Her head bent closer to his, but she continued to stare out at the stage. “He got involved with one of the producer’s wives,” she hissed.
Jeremiah’s eyes opened wide, but it was only an act. He could not care less about what happened to Alec. If he was thrown out of the production this instant, Jeremiah would barely blink. Not many things mattered in his little bubble of dying and pain. And as he stared out uncaring at those on the stage, it passed through his mind that maybe he should just scoot closer to Barbara. Maybe he should let himself be caught in her oddly intoxicating personality.
“And why should I care if he gets thrown out of the production?” Jeremiah asked. He did not scoot any closer to her.
“Don’t you see, Jer?” she answered. She put a hand on his arm. “If they throw him out of the production, the spot is open. And they’ll be looking for another person to take the lead.”
“Okay,” Jeremiah answered in a drawl. “So, they are going to have to find a new lead. They aren’t going to choose me. You know as well as I do that this works off seniority and not skill.”
Barb cackled and squeezed his arm. “Anything could happen, Jeremiah.” He looked over at her, and she winked at him.
They looked back at the stage together. The director still muttered to the lead. The lead muttered back. He was clearly agitated. The director threw up a hand toward the auditorium seats. The lead swore. He shook his head. He turned his back to Barb and Jeremiah and faced the audience. He cursed again. It was not an angry curse, not really. It was more of disbelief, of suddenly becoming aware of something, of being told bad news that is completely unexpected.
Jeremiah heard a sigh from the lead. Barb nudged Jeremiah, and he turned to her. “What did I tell you?” she mouthed to him.
The lead sighed again, and he began to walk. He reached the edge of the stage. He did not lower himself from the stage. He just seemed to drop off. Then, without a word, he walked down the center of the aisle, he opened the door to the last beaming sunbeams of the day, and his silhouette disappeared into the light.
There was silence for a moment, and then the director swore, a loud, irate profanity.
“Okay, okay,” the director muttered to himself. “Well, what will we do now?” He paused and glanced across the room. “You!” his voice commanded.
Jeremiah jerked up and looked at the director. He blinked in surprise when he noticed the director was pointing at him.
“Get over here, son,” the director replied impatiently.
Jeremiah jumped up to his feet. He looked around the room. Why was the director calling him of all people? His part would not be coming up for another fifteen minutes, and both the person playing that part and the understudy were here. Why was he being called now? Why would he be called at all?
“Yes sir,” Jeremiah said as he approached the director.
The director looked him up and down without saying a word at first. “You’ll do. You’ll do for now,” the director muttered to himself. And then the director reached over to his stool. He grabbed the script. He shoved it into Jeremiah’s belly and gestured for the boy to take it.
“Name,” the director almost barked out.
Jeremiah snatched the script from the director’s hand. “Fleet, Jeremia—”
“Fleet! Page three, scene one,” the director commanded.
“Yes, sir,” Jeremiah answered as he fumbled the script open for the right page and found the correct line. As he did, he glanced up and saw Barb. She only smiled and winked at him.
“Read the lines,” the director commanded.
Jeremiah looked down and found the correct line again.
“Read,” the director’s voice was filled with annoyance or anger.
Jeremiah waited a moment longer. He looked at the director’s angry face. He looked down. He read.
“I am more inclined to believe the things that I can see.” Jeremiah’s voice quavered as he spoke. “If I can measure it, I can understand it. And if I can understand it, I can control it. One plus one,” Jeremiah swallowed as he lost his place for a moment and had to find it again, “equals two.” He stumbled over the words. “Little pieces make up the whole, and those little pieces. . .” he paused as if waiting for a response. The director nodded for him to continue. “. . .those little pieces bring us to understanding. Those of the gestalt inclination are mistaken. The whole is not greater than the sum of its parts.
“Aren’t we all lying to ourselves, Hor—”
The director shook his head vigorously and Jeremiah paused. The director looked him over. He continued to shake his head.
“You’re the right height, Fleet,” the director said. “Right height. Right complexion. You should fit the part.” The director continued to shake his head. “I am tired of dealing with amateurs,” he muttered. He brought one hand up to his face to cover his eyes. His head continued to shake. “Just read,” he said and did not uncover his eyes.
Jeremiah looked down at the page and then up at the director. “I need someone else to read the lines for Horatio.”
The director laughed. He brought up his other hand and gestured to those backstage. “Someone up here, doesn’t matter who it is.”
Though a few began to move, the first to jump up was Barb. She quickly snatched a script from off the floor and practically galloped to the center of the stage.
“What of man?” She dropped her voice an octave, but she could not hide her voice’s feminine quality.
“What do you think happens with man, Horatio?” Jeremiah answered, but he read without inflection. His voice was flat, uncaring. Reading lines had distracted him from the events of the day, but that emotion had once again overtaken him.
“Isn’t there something different? Don’t we, uhm, see something different?” Barb answered.
Jeremiah shook his head. A dark cloud of pain crossed his face. He saw his father on the bed once more. He saw how frail the man had become. He heard his brothers talking again. Was his father dying? Was his father dying? Was his father leaving them, leaving him? How would he go on without the man? How would he forge his own path? He had learned so much from his father, but would it be enough? Would he not fall flat on his face?
“Is ecstasy meaning?” Jeremiah continued to read. “What of joy? Or pleasure? Is pain or suffering?” His voice almost broke at the last syllable. Barb did not respond. Jeremiah looked down at the page. “Oh, Horatio, we’re dying fast.”
Jeremiah inhaled. A deep, sad sigh. He looked off the stage where the audience should have been sitting. He scanned the seats as if he were looking at each invisible individual.
Then the director laughed. He clapped his hands together, and Jeremiah looked over. The director had a big smile on his face.
Jeremiah swallowed. He looked down at the page again.
“Master,” Jeremiah read along as Barb spoke, “it is time to go.”
Jeremiah nodded. He swallowed again. “Get my coat then,” he answered, “and let’s go forth.” He looked back to the audience. “Wherever that is.”
Jeremiah heard his brothers speaking once more. He heard arguing, no distinct words, only sounds, angry sounds. Jeremiah almost felt the sticky tears on his face. He saw his father’s face again. He saw his closed eyes. He heard the hushing breathing machine. His father’s skin was gray? Green? Something like that. Sickly. His father looked sickly. Dying. Was he dying? Was he dying?
Was Isaiah correct?
The director cackled out a final laugh, and Jeremiah felt a hand slap his back.
***
Jeremiah stumbled out of the theater. He felt drunk, an acid drunkenness, but his inebriation held no happiness. It was a bitter veil before his eyes. His head was fuzzy. His eyes blurred. His stomach churned. A line of tension ran from his mouth and down through his esophagus and into his gut. He looked up. He looked across the street. A man passed. A car zoomed by. He looked at the streetlights, but it was all white that faded to black. Even the shapes seemed to have gone out of the world.
He could not get the image of that hospital room out of his head, and Jeremiah felt like he was falling. He had missed a step. He was tumbling forward. And there was no bottom below him. He had erred, and that error could not be corrected. His universe was a rug pulled out from under his feet, and he was falling. But it was something more than that. One moment, everything was normal. He would exhale. All the world was ordered right, he would inhale, and he was acutely aware of his father on that bed in that hospital room. Gone. Almost gone. As good as gone. And what Jeremiah would have given to make sure that man on that bed survived that gunshot wound.
Jeremiah turned left, not because it mattered, not because he had a plan, but because he had to go somewhere. So, he turned left. He passed shops already closed. He passed bars just beginning to open. He passed vagrants and drug addicts and hookers, and he did not stop. And the rushing waves of disbelief washed over him. His head pounded against those rocks. “No, no, no,” he told himself. “If only. . . If only.” His mind cycled over those two words again and again. He walked forward, but he did not go anywhere. No. Not really. He moved through space, but his mind still circled around that man in that hospital bed, around the disbelief and a sudden pull of loss at the center of his chest.
And finally, a mere few hours from dawn, he stopped. He stopped. He looked around at that yellow streetlamp world. He staggered to a bench. He sat himself down. The disbelief crashed in. The pain pulled out. “How could this be? Why me? Why me?” He was seventeen. Fathers did not die when you were seventeen. But he was gone, as gone as gone. There was no way he was going to survive a gunshot wound. But maybe. He was a strong man, the strongest, a leather man. But even the strongest man could not stand up under a bullet. Even the strongest man was not bulletproof.
And finally, this pain, like a star, collapsed in on itself, and it pulled him inward, and it produced heat. And he was squeezed. God had taken him in hand and was squeezing him. And Jeremiah was helpless. And he was angry at being helpless. And the more he thought about his helplessness, the angrier he became, until he could do nothing but stand, grit his teeth, and bring two white-knuckled fists up to pound his temples.
He was furious. How could this happen? Why could this happen? How could God allow it? How could any person ever rob him of his father? A bullet had pierced the man. A bullet had placed him on that hospital bed. A bullet had torn through his body, but that bullet had come from a gun. And that gun had a trigger. And that trigger had been pulled by a man. And that man. . . Damnit! Daniel was right. That man needed to die.
***
It was still dark when Jeremiah pounded the doors to Daniel’s offices. Though they were still locked and little light came from them, Jeremiah was sure his brother was already up and working. If Daniel could somehow feel superior by working more than everyone else, well, he would work more than everyone else.
It took fifteen minutes of pounding at the door for Jeremiah to see his second oldest brother come shuffling down the hall and stooped with exhaustion. Daniel squinted toward the door in annoyance. Clear confusion was on his face, but when his face filled with recognition, his features became grave. If their father were to have died in the night, they would have enlisted Jeremiah as messenger boy, and Daniel must have thought he was delivering the ultimate bad news.
“What’s happened?” Daniel asked after he opened the door. His voice held more concern than usual.
Jeremiah felt fire flicker up into his chest. He gritted his teeth, furrowed his brow, and nodded to his brother. “May I come in?” Jeremiah asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Daniel held the door open, and Jeremiah stepped in. Daniel allowed the door to snap shut behind him. “What’s happened to Dad?” Daniel asked.
Jeremiah shook his head. “I haven’t been back to the hospital,” Jeremiah answered blankly.
“Okay. . .” The word that came from Daniel was slow. It was slow, annoyed. “Why are you here?” he asked.
Jeremiah looked down the long hall. “I’m. . .” He brought his right hand up to his waist. It was still a clenched fist, and he wanted to pound that fist through the window behind him. “I want to kill him,” Jeremiah growled out. “I want to hunt the man down. I want to. . .” Jeremiah’s fists tightened. His teeth clenched down. His ears burned. The base of his skull was a bundle of rage. Hot breath poured out of his mouth. He looked over to Daniel through a reddening haze, but Daniel did not respond. Daniel only stared at him.
“You want to kill him, Daniel. I want to help,” Jeremiah continued after the long silence.
Daniel chuckled. His chuckle ended without notice, and he looked Jeremiah in the eyes. “No.” The answer was terse, definitive.
“But you said you wanted to—”
“Jeremiah,” Daniel cut him off. “I was angry. Hell, I still am angry. And that anger got the better of me.”
“But I—”
Daniel shook his head. “I want revenge as much as you, but Mother would only end up with another funeral.” Daniel stepped toward the door. He put his hand on it and pushed it open.
Jeremiah stood dumbly for a moment. He did not know what to do. He was sure Daniel felt the same as himself. He had heard his brother’s words in the hospital room, and he was sure he wanted the same thing. And now he did not? Why? Why would he not? How had his mind turned from angry revenge to passivity so quickly?
“Jeremiah,” Daniel said.
Jeremiah looked at his older brother who was standing at the door, who was holding the door open, who was waiting for him to leave.
“I have work, Jeremiah,” he said. “And I have to get back to it.”
“We have to do something, Daniel,” Jeremiah answered. “You said it yourself. I heard you say it.”
Daniel shook his head again. “If Dad dies, we’ll bury him. That is what we’ll do.”
“Oh, come on!” Jeremiah’s voice broke into a yell. “You don’t believe that. I know you don’t believe that. I heard you myself.” Jeremiah’s voice broke, and he took a deep breath to keep himself from breaking into tears. “We have to—” He took another breath to steady his wavering voice. “We have to do something, damnit.”
“Jeremiah,” Daniel’s voice rose now, almost to match his own. “If you will not take yourself out, I will not hesitate to call the police.”
The anger that was in Jeremiah grew white hot at the comment. He wanted to pounce on Daniel, but he did not. He knew he could not. Daniel would do whatever he could to punish Jeremiah if that happened. He would press charges, try to have him thrown in jail. Jeremiah did not pounce. No. Jeremiah bit his lip. Jeremiah burned with anger. He stood a moment longer in weak defiance, and finally, he walked out the door and glared at Daniel the entire way. After he had crossed the threshold, the door slammed behind him. Jeremiah looked through the window and saw that Daniel was already walking down the hall and back to his office. Jeremiah swore to himself and then at Daniel.
And Jeremiah knew he was the one who was right, not Daniel. He knew the law did not have the power to reach out and find the person who shot his father, and even if it did, it would not. He knew he had to do something. He and his brothers, they needed to get revenge, enact justice, whatever it was. And he knew they would be able to do it together. But himself alone? He did not know what to do.