Yes, I was sitting here in the relative finery purchased by my agent (on account of my apparent inability to dress appropriately), and I still felt that whoever thought being on their phone during a performance was acceptable, was, in point of fact,damn uncivilized.
Before I could help myself, I heard Ken’s voice:“Could you be any more adorably English?”
I swallowed hard and tried to keep my shoulders from seizing up. This was stupid. I tried to concentrate on Finch, on this horrible,horribleplay, but the damn light was as distracting as ever.
Despite the picture I might have presented so far, feeling lonely was not something I allowed myself to do lightly. It could so easily get out of hand, especially in public, and that was how things like Ken happened.
But somehow the very act of sitting here, surrounded by people and darkness, with one extremely empty seat beside me, was stripping away my carefully constructed buffers.
Ladies and gentlefolk, if you will direct your attention to the third to last row near the aisle. The dark boy with the flowers, yes; here, ladies and gentlefolk, we see Armand Demetrio, a semi-young, semi-successful cartoonist, alone at the theater. Mr. Demetrio will return to his flat later tonight, unaccompanied. He will work, drink, and fall into bed without having spoken to a single person, not even a fish. Armand Demetrio lives, as you can clearly see, ladies and gentlefolk, as he will die: alone and unloved. Thank you for your time.
I was letting it all get to me, or perhaps it was simply the experience of holding a bouquet of roses, the seat beside me pulsing like a black hole of could-have-beens. Feeling trapped and surrounded by strangers. Alone.
Alone andtrapped.
My throat closed up, my hands and feet became cold, and every single cell in my body informed me that I needed to leave this room right now, right now,move, Demetrio—
I moved as quietly as I could and slipped out of my row and toward the back. There, a lovely young lady in an usher’s vest accepted the roses and agreed to deliver them, along with a card I’d hastily scribbled, into the hands of that charming little ginger in tights. Her wide smile suggested she was more than happy to do so on my behalf.
I made it outside the theater and took several big gulps of air, before finding myself a shadow away from the electric lights and leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. I took a harsh drag and shut my eyes, pressing the back of my head against the rough brick wall.
“Laughing Boy?”
My whole body locked up.
There was a figure standing in even deeper shadow, but when he stepped forward, I saw the glint of salt-and-pepper curls, the craggy forehead lines of Dr. Ken Lazlo.
My heart was still pounding, my temples and the area behind my eyes throbbing, I couldn’t get enough air in or out, my chest was going toexplode—
“Whoa, whoa there, it’s okay, kiddo, shh.” Ken placed two large warm hands on my shoulders and pressed down, grounding me, somehow keeping me from running and fraying at the ends. He was smiling, a hand-rolled blunt tucked into the corner of his mouth and glowing a friendly ruby red. One shiny shoe carefully stamped out the cigarette I’d dropped.
I trembled under his hands but eventually began breathing normally. Or at least normally enough to glower at him. “W-what are you doing out here?” I asked, still swallowing in an aching throat. “This isyourshow.”
Ken stepped away, gently relinquishing his grip on me and smiling shyly—fuck him for being charming. “I ... I can’t watch my own work. It makes me want to die, you know?”
I did know.And I’m sure it doesn’t help when your work is bloody shite, you bellend.I didn’t say that and just reached over to take a hit off the joint he’d so thoughtfully brought along. Ken handed it over wordlessly and gave me another sweet, patronizing smile. Resting one hand comfortingly on my hip.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said. “I never really got to apologize about how things ended last time.”
I realized belatedly that he was slowly moving further into the shadows—into a dark, secluded corner between the theater wall and a hedge.
My body, giving little thought to the matter, was following a script even more transparent than that travesty being shown on stage. Dr. Ken Lazlo was going to use me to distract himself from the labor pains of creation, to celebrate the glory of his artwork—to make us both feel like we were part of a romantic, doomed,edgyaffair—
I laughed out loud.
Then handed him back the bifta and stepped away, back toward the light at the front of the theater. “Goodnight, Ken.”
He looked stricken, for how long I’ve no idea, since I’d turned away, shoved my hands into my pockets, and hurried out across the nighttime campus.
August 14th
That was awesome!
I couldn’t breathe, but somehow there was still way too much oxygen in my system—I was floating right off my feet.They gave me three curtain calls! Me! Three!Curtain calls!
Slumping against a cool pillar backstage and pressing my steaming face against it, I left patches of sweaty makeup all over it and didn’t give a fig.
I was agod.
