The Play's the Thing...

Gregory Fay stood in the wings, listening as the audience filed in. Had he concentrated, he would have heard the individual conversations among them, but his mind was, understandably, elsewhere.

He felt the stage manager’s hand on his shoulder, as he knew he would, as he always did. 5 minutes to places. Not that Gregory particularly needed reminding. Every night he was at his place, a good 10 minutes before it was called. It wasn’t that he needed to be, or that he wanted to be, he just was. The tap on his shoulder was more than just a call. It was an agreement. A ‘thank you’ and a ‘you’re welcome’ back.

Gregory tried to free up his mind during these few minutes before the show. Tried to be a “ready conduit for the character” as his acting coach had said (All those years ago). But it was impossible not to think about all the little things, however briefly. The costume change after act 2. The relatively new blocking for the third scene. The line that was cut, placed back in, and then re-cut. It was pointless to deny them. They pushed to the front of his mind, he gave them a fraction of his attention, and then he ushered them back to his sub-conscious, or wherever they went. Fully aware that they were likely to spring up again, and fully aware that the one thought he set aside would be replaced by two others.

But all of that started to clear, as the countdown approached THE moment. That split second right before a show. When the lights have gone down, the audience has fallen silent, and the players begin to make their first entrances in the dark. That precise moment when the first step is about to be taken, when the entire show flits through Gregory’s mind. Every line, movement, scene, and act briefly passes by his consciousness, filling him with the energy to perform. It never landed on any specific moment within the play, but was all encompassing just the same. That split second of a fleeting moment was what Gregory lived for.

He ran the curtain idly through his fingers. ‘How many times had he performed on this stage?’ he almost asked himself. He wouldn’t have been able to count the times and satisfactorily answer himself, and decided to divert his thought process to something more play-oriented. He took a deep breath, still not quite listening to the audience, but very aware of their presence. He had listened in on their small chat once, when he was just starting out, and was struck by how almost none of the conversations were to do with the play at all. He had amused himself to think that all of these people were unaware that a play was even about to take place. They had shuffled into this large, cold, dimly lit room talking about their jobs, family, friends, anything. And when the lights went down they would be caught off-guard

“What’s happening?” One would whisper, almost in fear.

“I don’t know,” another would reply, “Shhh, something’s going on.”

The play would start and they would all be delighted at their good fortune to have stumbled into the right place at the right time.

Gregory smiled at this remembrance, and pushed it back far in his mind as the lights went down. This was it. He lifted his foot off the floor and there it was. The flash of the play through his mind, filling him with adrenaline.

But then something else happened. Something that wasn’t a part of the carefully orchestrated clockwork behind the stage that we so accustomed to.

Riding just behind that flash of excitement followed another flash. A split second of a vision, and yet not a vision. Almost another reality. A separate reality.

The theatre was now rundown; rats could be seen scurrying in the almost impenetrable darkness. As Gregory’s foot traveled through the air, he could hear and feel the wood beneath his still planted foot creak and groan under his now full weight. And he could feel the changes in himself. He was older now. Much older. And tired. Had he looked down in that split second, he knew he would have seen the wrinkled skin on the back of his hand do little to cover up the coursing veins and now brittle bones that comprised his knuckles. But he had not looked down in that moment, he had looked out. And of all of these disquieting images that passed before him, the one that terrified him most was that of the audience. Seat after seat, row after row, all empty. He, his theatre, and his performances, were all abandoned a long time ago. He was alone.

And then it was gone. He stumbled as his foot made contact once more with the floor, but the vision, the other reality was gone. He tried to push it out of his mind, as he had with all the other thoughts. He had a show to perform. But he could not. The show must go on, but Gregory Fay had been shaken.

Throughout the play, Gregory could feel in himself a sense of desperation. He felt himself fighting against that vision. Fighting to keep himself in the moment. But many times, he found himself looking out into the house to reassure himself that they were all still there. And on several occasions he wasn’t sure that they were.

It was during the curtain call; when Gregory ran out, center stage, to thunderous applause when the reality imposed itself once more. And it wasn’t the audience thundering any longer. Wood, smoke, and fire roared up around him. And as the theatre crumbled down upon him he remembered the last the 30 years of his life. The struggling to get a new gig. The lonely nights, the alcohol, and the depression. The seeing in the newspaper the story of his old stomping ground scheduled for demolition. Sneaking past the crew. Walking to the stage in the dark (the path etched into his memory).
The revelation was short lived. The captain went down with his ship, the king with his reign, and Gregory Fay died with his theatre.