Behind the Curtain

“Nope, I can’t do it,” he groaned, pacing in front of the wall-sized mirror and pulling at his face, “I just, nope, no, no, can’t. Just can’t.” He was fluffing up the back of his hair and wrinkling the cuff of his dress shirt as he fidgeted. His breathing was shallow and he had panic in his eyes.

After radioing to the third AD, I finally stepped out from beside the curtain and stated, “You’re on in two.” He stared at me like a baby deer and I sighed, “You know those lines, Landon, and your understudy already went home because he ate that bad chicken last night.” Over my headset, the AD let me know they were running a few minutes late because someone threw up on the right staircase. Why I needed to know that, I will never understand. “Okay, Landon. What’s the issue here?” I asked, realizing I actually had time to solve the problem instead of just shoving the actor on the stage.

“I never came out to my parents, Lil,” he cried, flopping down on the crummy brown sofa that had been in the dressing room forever and starting to sob.

For a moment, I was too shocked to speak. It wasn’t the fact that Landon was gay that got me, mainly because it was obvious and didn’t really need to be said aloud, but the fact that he thought his folks hadn’t noticed. I mean, maybe they hadn’t, but, well, it was obvious. With a sigh, I sat down next to him and replied, “I hear ya. But you’re not coming out to them today. I mean, unless you decide to. And that’s up to you, but this is just a play.”

“What happened when you came out?” he countered, rounding on me with his puffy eyes and dripping nose.

I nodded and replied, “Well, I wrote a play about coming out, didn’t I?” For a moment we both sat lost in our own worlds. “It wasn’t as bad as I make it seem, but it was awkward and I was nervous and it just kinda all came out,” I murmured softly. “That’s my story. Yours doesn’t have to be like that if you don’t want it to, but you really do need to just get on that stage and read the words you’ve been practicing for three months or,” I continued, talking out of my ass while I searched the realm of possible threats for one that would scare Landon, “Or I’m gonna start talking about the Scottish play.”

That got his attention and he gasped, “You wouldn’t.”

I raised my eyebrows and growled, “You wanna bet?”

Drying his tears, Landon tore from the room and a few seconds later the third AD radioed that they were all ready.

With a yawn, I stood up and crossed to a wall completely full of sticky notes in a myriad of colours and with a hundred different styles of handwriting on them. I pulled a new, purple tab off the pile and took the sharpie. In my messiest writing, I scribbled, “psychologist,” and stuck it in a tiny blank spot just below the title of the wall. Cut out of construction paper and glued haphazardly at the very top of the peeling wall were the words “Jobs for Creatives.” Someone had scrawled those words under one of the makeup tables and people had replied with the professions they’d given up to become writers or actors or stagehands or directors. After a few years, the entire underbelly of the tables was plastered with hundreds of melancholy words so we’d made it a “thing” at the theatre.

I wound my way back around and through the backstage before slipping out the propped door at the back; honestly, my job largely consisted of handing off problems to other people so I spent a good deal of my time staying out of everyone’s way. Leaning on the graffiti-filled wall of the alley, I lit a cigarette and let the smoke burn through me. After a few moments of peace and calm, the door squeaked open and my eyes flicked to it. Occasionally, the owner or another tenured staff member came to shut the doors, since they weren’t supposed to be open, and I indeed to be prepared to beg my way back in.

Instead, one of the set builders shuffled out and stared at me. He cleared his throat and asked, “Did you get a chance to look at my play yet? Elfonso Davidson.”

That was one thing that just sucked so much about being a known producer; everyone was a writer. I took another pull on the cigarette and shook my head. “No, sorry. Hoping to open up the next set of play considerations next week, though,” I explained. It was true. Not that I’d likely choose his, after a quick skim.

Rocking on the balls of his feet, he murmured, “Do you have a minute? I could maybe outline it or set the scene?”

I chuckled, looked at the smoke in my fingers, and replied, “You have until I’m done my smoke.” Sinking to the ground, I raised my eyebrows and made a sign for him to get going.

With an excited smile, he stood at the opposite wall, catching himself as he fell into it. “Uh, well, see, it’s this horror story about this old church from my hometown. It’s kinda like a legend there that this chick, I call her Belinda, is killing guys who are unfaithful to their wives when they go to get their kids baptized. Anyway,” he started, his words bumping into one another and making what had the small potential to be a decent horror story sound silly, “I had pictured long shadows on the stage and like, actors or speakers or something out in the audience so people would be thinking, like, ‘I hear whispers.’” Nodding to himself, he smiled expectantly as I put out the dregs of my cigarette on the pavement and stood up.

“Yeah, man, that sounds really good. I’ll definitely read through it next week,” I assured him as I headed to the door. With one hand on the latch, I got a call about a missing shoe and muttered, “Ridiculous,” before slipping back inside. “You said you had the shoe, like, five minutes ago,” I whispered as I slid behind the curtain and checked the floor where Hailey had been standing, waiting in the wings before her big entrance.

A muffled, near-unintelligible sentence came through the earpiece about not knowing what happened. Sighing, I tore back into the dressing room and opened the box labelled “Hailey’s accessories” in sparkly pink pen over duct tape. As I pulled the sneakers for the second act out, I muttered, “I have replacement shoes, meet me halfway.” When I reached the marking for the halfway point, the fourth AD ran to me, grabbed the shoes with horror in his eyes, and peeled off.

I returned to the dressing room, hoping to not run into that builder again, and found the director sitting on the floor with a towel over her face. After doing a silent once-over with the other assistants to make sure they were all good for the moment, I sat down on the couch across from the woman and cleared my throat quietly. She didn’t stir so I asked softly, “Are you okay?” This wasn’t the first time I’d discovered a superior hiding away from a production, and probably wouldn’t be the last.

After a moment, she replied, “My husband is here and I just want to be alone.” I knew they were going through things at home, but we tried to leave that stuff at the door. “I want him to go back to his mother and just get out of my life,” she snapped, dropping the towel to reveal bloodshot eyes.

“Well, I can assure you that hiding out here while your show is going on isn’t gonna be the kick in the ass he needs,” I sighed, snapping the pen on my belt open and shut to give my fingers something to do. I needed another cigarette.

“My show?” she asked with a mirthless chuckle. Shaking her head, she replied, “No, it’s not my show. It’s yours. Your writing is more poignant than mine is so they always pick yours.” She stood up and stormed out of the room, dropping the towel on the floor and glaring at my reflection in the mirror for effect.

Putting my head in my hands and pressing until I saw stars, I groaned. When I looked up again, Elfonso was standing there with the envelope I’d written his play name on and put onto the pile on my desk. I blinked and silently cursed the theatre’s policy against anonymous production staff; I’d been fighting for it for two seasons already because people would come up to me at the most inappropriate times with their ideas.

“So, I’m thinking, like, brown grass and stuff, maybe that astroturf from this play but, like, dirty and painted and stuff,” he yammered, taking a seat beside me and setting the envelope in my lap. Thinking about it for a moment, he continued, “And you remember we did a show with a piece of an old car, like, a real one? Okay, I was thinking we could use that, but with like a couple of broken windows.” He was nodding to himself when I held up my hand and he sat back with a look like I’d kicked his dog.

Standing up, I reiterated, “I will read your play next week, and no sooner. If you bother me or any of the other producers again before we reach out to you, I will put this play in the trash.” He sat there, stunned. “Go it?” I asked, harsher than I’d really meant, but I needed to get the point across.

When he nodded, I left the room, leaving the envelope on the couch.

“You really know how to lift a guy up,” whispered a sultry voice from the darkness as I stepped through the curtains and into the concourse hallway. Turning, I smiled at Tory as she followed me and took my hands.

Rolling my eyes, I replied quietly, “I just can’t deal with that when my play, my play, is going on. I spent months getting this thing ready and he wants me to waste time talking about his silly horror story?” I felt like a child, but I worked hard to get where I was and I wanted to enjoy it a bit.

“I know you want all the plays you guys put on to have meaning and something to say, but sometimes you can just have fun with it,” she murmured, pulling me into her arms and standing there quietly.

“I just, I know, but I worked so hard to get here so I could have a voice and-” I whined, stopping myself when I realized how I sounded.

Pulling back so she could look in my eyes, Tory replied, “Your largesse can extend to this guy. You have it in you.”

I nodded and muttered, “Yeah, next week.” Pecking my girlfriend on the cheek, I slipped back towards the stage where she couldn’t follow me.

By the time I got back out the back door and into the alley, the natural light had completely faded and I was left in the eerie blue glow of the neon sign above the door. It was for a strip club down the way and buzzed constantly. Lighting a cigarette, I let the buzz fog my mind for a few seconds before exhaling a puff of chemicals up into the unnaturally light night sky. When I was out here I felt so alone. This kind of easy-to-be-in alone. Where I didn’t feel like I had to explain myself to anyone, even Tory. She just didn’t get it, this whole play thing; she was an attorney who never really learned to be creative. The stress and the pressure to do something meaningful and to hold everyone to that standard was just so, so intoxicating. I needed to do well so I could push others to do well so culture would do well. Ugh, I sounded like my mother. My mother, the esteemed actress, who I could never live up to. Who reminded me all the time that I wasn’t who she’d wanted me to be.

Groaning, I ground out the last bit of my smoke and whispered into my microphone, “If anyone sees Elfonso, please send him to the dressing room.” 

Writer, Baker

            If I hadn’t become a writer, I probably would have been a baker. That first fluffy, fresh slice of bread after a long day of mixing and kneading and proofing and punching and proofing and forming and baking and waiting is the best there is.

There’s something very meditative about measuring out yeast and sugar into a bowl before boiling water and carefully tempering it with tap water to get the right temperature. Pouring a little steaming liquid into the measuring cup and adding just enough for the thermometer to hit one-ten. Dumping out the extra to reach the quantity needed. Drizzling the water into the yeast and giving it a little stir.

Then, the first bit of waiting of the day; the yeast starts to react to the water and bubbles. It’s a short time. Just enough to down your first cup of coffee.

Honey and oil in equal measurements take very different levels of force to extract. Never start with the oil. Remember that. Salt and more water follow before gently stirring the bubbling, fermenting, sweet, and salty mixture. Cake batter wouldn’t look so good. As the oats, whole wheat flour, and rye flour pile into the bowl, stir well. The next part is where the experts separate themselves from the novice; regular flour is lumped in at the discretion of the baker.

Terms like sticky and bouncy and consistency are tossed about by the knowledgeable while the amateur might find themselves in hot water here. While considering the amount, you must make the decision on when to knead the bread. Turn it out onto a surface and punch and stretch and roll and pull for an unknown amount of time. No one really knows. It’s always a guess. Guess when you’re ready for the next step. Do it before it’s too late.

More oil goes into a larger bowl because the dough barely fit in the first one. Make sure the dough is smooth before it goes in. Cover it with the tea towel that hangs on the end of the rack and is never used before setting it into the sun or a warm place to rise.

Then, wait. No one can tell you how long or what doubled means, exactly. For me, it’s just enough time to water the garden.

Take the cover off the bowl and punch the dough like it’s the kid who bullied you in middle school. Hit all the air out of it. Feel the life leaving it. Roll it back into a ball, carefully and gently as a newborn baby. Replace the oil and repeat the comforting and covering and placing in a warm place to rise.

Then, wait. Again. This time, your dough will try to escape the bowl. Let it.

When it is time, turn the ball out on the counter again and cut it into pieces. Three of four for bread. More for buns. Oil bread pans or line a cookie tray with parchment paper and place dough. Return to the sun with the towel and warm your oven while you…

…wait.

Bake for a while.

Remove from pans and brush with melted butter. Don’t skip this step.

Like I said, if I wasn’t a writer, I probably would have been a baker.