Chapter 26
Sunday afternoon, after a full week of rehearsals and meetings and show-related work, I need a distraction, so I hop in my
cart and drive over to the theatre.
When I arrive, I see Arthur and Bertie sitting on a bench under a big oak tree. There’s a picnic basket on the bench between
them, and as I park and get out of the golf cart, realization settles. They’re on a date .
I quietly let myself into the theatre so I don’t disturb them. The space is empty on Sundays, and I stop in the lobby for
a moment, just to inhale it all. To remind myself that I’m here, getting paid to work in the theatre.
Booker was right—directing is a lot more responsibility than being an actor. The show is mine, and I want to do right by it. It won’t lead to more jobs or notoriety
or my name in lights, but I’ve always been a person who takes pride in my work.
No matter where that work is located.
I pull open the door of the auditorium and step inside, instantly struck by the scene in front of me. While I’d helped Booker
in the scene shop, nothing we were building took any shape—until now. In the center of the stage is a large curved staircase,
with a platform that stretches the width of the stage on either side. It has ornate pillars, entrances and exits underneath,
simply perfect for a palace—and as I look at it, I can see the way it will come to life.
I stare and beam and appreciate.
I can’t believe those seemingly unrelated pieces came together to create this.
I pull my script out of my bag and immediately start envisioning the staging for multiple scenes. Slowly, I make my way up
the stairs and start walking through it, speaking lines and writing down the movements that feel natural to me. We have another
blocking rehearsal tomorrow, and this is so inspiring.
I walk through two more scenes this way, eventually growing more and more comfortable being up here. And while the desire
and love for performing hasn’t disappeared, I do note how good it feels to be the one to decide where and when the actors
will move and stand. I make notes about inflection and motivation, all things we’ll discuss as we run through the scene.
And when I’m finished, there’s that light feeling again.
Happiness .
Huh.
I go back to the first scene I blocked, walking it one more time to get it in my head, and when I’m almost finished, I hear
the stage door open. I freeze and wait, unsure who else would be here on a Sunday, but when I see Arthur, I can’t help but
smile.
He doesn’t smile back.
“What are you doing here?” he barks.
“I’m the director, buddy,” I crack.
He grumbles something that I can’t hear. Despite all my best efforts, he is a nut I haven’t been able to crack. Not that I’m
giving up.
“I came to get some work done,” I tell him. “The set looks amazing.”
He barely looks at me as he walks across the stage to the fly lines. “Electric coming in!” I can tell he says this because
he was trained to say it when bringing in one of the lines, and not out of courtesy to me. Still, I respond with, “Thank you,”
to acknowledge that I heard him, and step out of the way.
Once the row of lights is lowered, Arthur stops the rope, clamps the brake, and steps out from the wings. He’s holding a gel and a few tools, and as he gets to work replacing the old gel, I stand there wondering if I should leave.
I don’t leave, choosing instead to make things awkward.
“So you and Bertie seem to have hit it off.”
It takes 0.3 seconds for me to realize this was the wrong thing to say.
Arthur stops moving and glares at me. “ That ”—he points his crescent wrench at me—“Is none of your business.”
My instinct is to apologize and run away, but I’ve noticed that Booker was right when he told me to dish it right back. Arthur
doesn’t respond well to the people he intimidates.
He does, however, respond well to Bertie.
And she doesn’t take his crap.
“It is, sort of,” I say. “I mean, I was there when you two met.”
If he’s surprised by my response, he doesn’t let on. “That doesn’t make it your business.”
I watch as he goes back to fiddling with the lights. “I think I know why my song made you emotional.”
“Your song was mediocre at best,” he says.
“It wasn’t, but okay.”
Even though he doesn’t respond, his puckered face communicates plenty.
“You think you can make it better?” I pause. “Professor?”
He stops moving, but only for a moment.
“I googled you,” I say, as if that simple sentence was enough to fully encompass the amount of research I’d done on Arthur.
Once I finally got back to my search, I couldn’t stop—what I found was fascinating.
“Turns out, you were kind of a big deal once upon a time,” I say.
“And look at me now!” The words drip with sarcasm, and I go still.
“You taught acting and directing at NYU,” I say, because it was one of the first things I’d discovered.
He rolls his eyes. “Are you just going to stand there and tell me things I already know?” He holds out a wrench. When I don’t
move, he says, “Hold this.”
I take the wrench and press a bit further.
“I think the song reminded you of that life,” I say. “Of the way it felt to train up the next generation of actors and directors.”
Another pause. “I also know you directed Funny Girl .” That one took a bit more digging to uncover.
He yanks the wrench out of my hands without so much as a glance in my direction. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you’re brilliant,” I say. “I read countless reviews of plays you directed. I think you’re the first person in the
history of theatre to never get a bad one.”
I think about my own miserable reviews, and I’m even more in awe. Because I know how hard it is to get a critic to like you.
Arthur didn’t seem to have that problem.
All of the critics seemed to agree on one thing: Arthur Silverman was brilliant.
“Why did you stop?” I ask.
He tightens a fixture, ignoring my question.
I hug my script to my chest, my gaze trailing to the stage floor. “This is the first show I’ve ever directed.”
“Obviously,” he says, annoyed.
The barb irritates me. “Just because I haven’t done as much as you or know as much as you doesn’t make me bad at it.”
He pauses working on the light, and his eyes flick to mine, and I realize that I have an opportunity to learn from one of
the greats. And I want him to teach me. I’ll soak it all up—whatever he’ll share. I’ll take anything. Lighting, directing,
acting, anything.
Except how to be a colossal jerk.
I’m just not sure how to get him to agree. Teaching hardly seems like a priority for him right now.
“You think I can do better? You think I need help?”
He raises his eyebrows as if to say, “You really want me to answer that?”
I lift my chin and stare straight at him. “Fine. Make me better.”
He moves down the row of lights. “And why would I do that?”
I’m not sure what I’m going for here, but I push on.
He thrusts another tool in my direction, and I hold it until he motions for me to give it back.
“Out of the goodness of your huge bleeding heart?” But my attempt at humor falls flat. I go still. “Don’t you miss it, Arthur?”
A sigh. A chink in the armor.
“Life is much simpler now,” he responds.
He keeps working on the final light fixture for several seconds without acknowledging that he heard me.
“Tell me about directing Funny Girl ,” I say. “Why did my song make you emotional?”
“You’re pushy.” He holds out his hand, demanding the tool back. “And you ask too many questions.”
My shoulders slump, and I begrudgingly hand it back.
He takes it, walks back into the wings, and calls out, “Electric going out!”
“Thank you.” I don’t shout it. I don’t even say it loud enough for him to hear me.
He’s right. I do ask too many questions.
But I still have so many more left to ask.