Chapter Seven Elise
Dear Elise Chen,
On behalf of Imagination Ohio, I am thrilled to inform you that your play Blood Will Have Blood has been selected to be a part of our summer programming for the upcoming season. Congratulations!
After careful consideration and review, our selection committee found your play to be not only compelling and engaging but also a perfect fit for our theater’s vision and themes for the season. We believe that your work will captivate our audiences and bring a unique perspective to our stage.
We are excited to collaborate with you on bringing your vision to life. Our team will be in touch soon to arrange a meeting next week to determine the production timeline, rehearsal schedule, and any other details related to the staging of your original play. We are honored to have Blood Will Have Blood as part of our lineup and cannot wait to share it with our theater community.
Warm regards,
Antonio Chaudhuri
Artistic Director
Imagination Ohio
Cleveland, Ohio
It takes me more than five reads to register that this is really happening. My play. On stage. For real. This summer. Oh my god, this is the chance of a lifetime. I’m a playwright. An honest-to-god fucking playwright. Whose work will be staged. For real. This summer. Oh. My. God.
I love everything about being a theater junkie: the comradery and the thrill, the creativity and the work, the shine and the grind. Even the shitty parts of production, like technical challenges when you’re under a shit budget or having to work through hell when you’re sick because, as clichés would have it, the show must go on—I love all of it. Being part of a production is its own immersive world, its own twisted logic, its own manic obsession shared with a community of people as crazy as you are. What’s not to love?
Enter imposter syndrome, stage left.
Maybe no one else submitted a play to be considered? Or the company felt obligated because I’ve worked for them in the past? Or perhaps this was a typo? An embarrassing mistake that I should point out right now.
Stop! Negative bullshit only ever made things worse. It doesn’t matter how or why my play was chosen. Only that it was. I’ve got an email to prove it.
“Is everything OK?” my mother answers. I’m a texter so a phone call worries her. But I had to say the news out loud to make it feel real.
“Yes! I got it! The play was chosen for this summer!” I blurt it all out quickly, not having to explain how or why I’m thrilled. She knows what this means to me.
“I knew it!” she squeals. “Elise’s play was chosen! Sienna! The play! Elise’s play is going to be performed this summer!”
I hear Sienna’s woohoo and a few other people’s praises. This is a supportive Moran Bank branch my mother runs. She’s always bragging about my shows, even if her coworkers and friends wonder why I’m never on the actual stage.
“When did you find out? Just now?”
“I got an email,” I confirm. “Ma, what if…what if it was sent by mistake? I mean, that’s possible, isn’t it?”
“Elise Sophia Chen, it was not sent by mistake! You have evidence in your email, and you doubt yourself? This is not acceptable. Repeat after me: My talent is a gift I unwrap for the world.”
“Ma, I’m not ten years old.”
“I will stay on this call until you say it,” she insists.
I mumble the words she always makes me say when I’m nervous about something important to me. It isn’t the corny message that affects me. I barely make out the words because I’ve said them so often.
Like a short prayer or a trusted mantra, the ritualistic cadence of the sentence is the point. The repetition of it. The moment the words leave my lips, I feel bolstered and calm.
“Good. We celebrate tonight.”
Oh shit, I can’t. “I’ve made plans with Lily tonight, but we should do brunch this weekend. My treat.”
“Say hi to Lily for me. See you tomorrow,” she says. I’m about to say the same, since we both know I’ll be out late and might not be heading home at all, but she clears her throat to stall my goodbye.
“I’m so proud of you, Elise. This is everything you wanted, and you deserve to have your play performed.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
Lily and I are going to the Mavericks arena, having taken up Randall’s offer for a free hockey game.
Randall. Some part of me feels the tinge of regret. Sure, we understand that neither of us has the time or interest for anything serious. That was the arrangement up front because we think the same way. Some might call it crass or blunt, but I see it as a matter of respect when he takes me at my word that this isn’t serious, and it won’t be.
The fling was fun while it lasted. For an emotionally unavailable playboy, Randall is easy to be with. If popular hockey players like him are anything close to actors recognized in the streets, Randall could easily be an arrogant ass. He could be full of himself, and he’s not. Instead, he takes it all in stride. Never obsessing about the game, or the fitness routine, or the expectations, or the fame.
Unlike me, who overthinks every aspect of my professional obligations, Randall approaches his job the same way he approaches our time together: effortlessly well. He never makes a big deal about anything. The only thing big about him is…
God, I’ll miss hooking up. The chemistry is off the charts. It’s been a while since I found someone who kept me interested for the full ten dates. We’ve had, I think seven? Tonight will be the eighth. And it will also be the last.
Once the design concept and auditions begin for Blood Will Have Blood, I’ll barely have time to eat and sleep. There will be no hooking up with Randall or with anyone else.
Even tonight is a final indulgence. I’ll need every minute till that first meeting next week to prepare my vision for the play. I should also jump on some calls. There are people I’m considering for certain parts of Blood Will Have Blood who I’ll invite to audition.
Summer stock companies like Imagination Ohio will probably hire their in-house stage managers and support for sets, props, lighting, and costumes. But this is a play I’ve been living and breathing for a while. I know the talent in the area and have a sense of who I’d like to see on that stage.
Speaking of whom, I text Lily: Want to grab happy hour before the game tonight? I’ve got news. I’ll pick you up at 5:30.
Lily: Can’t wait!
When I arrive at Chrome Cuts, Lily is fixing her hair, which she recently cut in a stylish pixie and dyed bubblegum pink. She rents a chair in a bustling salon, which gives her the freedom to set her own hours and manage her clientele independently.
She releases an appreciative whistle upon my approach. Since this is my last date with Randall, I wanted to look nice for once. With a nod to the burgeoning spring season, I’ve worn a red dress with cherry blossom flowers. The bodice is fitted at my waist and gently flares out into a flowing skirt. The deep V-neck does its best to feature my slight cleavage. The fabric gathers into an asymmetrical hemline, the front hem brushing just above the right knee. The back of the dress is the real showstopper, dipping daringly and framed by delicate crisscrossing straps. With ankle boots and layered pendant necklaces, there’s just enough edge to keep from looking too delicate.
“Girl, you are out to slay! Randall isn’t going to know what hit him,” Lily says.
“It isn’t too much?”
“Are you kidding me? The weather is finally perfect for your outfit. Should we hit Pint House by North Market?” She’s referring to a bar near Columbus’s public market. “I looked at the map and the parking lot is walkable to the arena.”
“Yeah, um, that’s great,” I say, the news at the tip of my tongue. My hesitation might as well be the newsflash. Lily’s eyes bug out.
“They chose your play!” she yells, not waiting for me to make the announcement. We hug and jump up and down like kids. “I knew it! I knew they’d love it. This is freaking huge!”
When we come down from the ecstatic high, we’re both a bit teary. “It’s happening,” she whispers reverently. “I’m so proud of you, Elise.”
“Thank you,” I manage while wiping my eyes. It’s really hitting me now, the sense that I’m on the cusp of something I’ve been waiting for my whole life. A real shot to see my work performed for an audience.
I’ve coveted this dream from the first moment I read a Beckett play and sobbed without knowing why I was sobbing. Waiting for Godot isn’t sentimental or even emotional. It was just so real in this profoundly weird way. And to be clear, I am not above emotional outbursts during performances. The third time I watched Les Misérables, I cried like it was the first time.
My point is, to be part of that world as a writer, even a little, is amazing.
“I can’t decide if I should laugh or scream or puke,” I admit.
“You’ll do a little bit of all three at some point,” Lily says pragmatically. “And I’ll be there for all of it. Right by your side.”
“I love you. Thank you. I wouldn’t have had the courage if you didn’t support me all these years.”
“Your talent is a fucking gift you unwrap for the world, bitch!” she exclaims, very familiar with my mother’s favorite motto. She adds her special Lily flair, of course.
Pint House’s parking lot, it turns out, is not only walkable to the arena—it’s twenty bucks cheaper than any of the parking garages we passed as we strolled from the bar to the game. After picking up our tickets from will call, Lily and I take in the scene of our first hockey game.
The air is electric, the view colorful, and a buzz of excitement fills the expansive lobby area. We explore the wide oval walkway, which follows the shape of the ice rink itself. Although we’re somewhat out of place amidst the sea of jerseys, everyone is festive and friendly.
Navigating through the crowd, we find our seats in a section that requires us to descend a steep flight of stairs. As we approach the ice, it becomes glaringly obvious that I’m badly dressed. Just looking at that glacial stretch under bright lights makes me shiver. I’ve got a spring coat when what I need is a winter parka.
“This is exciting! We’re so close to the ice!” Lily exclaims. We are three rows from the barrier separating the spectators from the rink’s edge.
“Are there going to be people standing in front of us the whole time?” Lily stage-whispers. We can’t see beyond the folks with posters pressed on the plexiglass.
“The practice skate is about to start,” a woman beside me offers. “All the kids and fans like to get as close to the players as they can.”
“That’s cool. Is this the—” Bang, bang, bang. It’s as if thunder entered the arena at the same time that players begin skating.
Lily and I screech in surprise at the staccato onslaught of loud pounding. The rock music and continuous thudding are so jarring, my heart rate spikes. Unreasonably, it makes me think of bullets hitting the boards in front of us.
“Oh shit, we’re too close!” Lily yelps, jumping to her feet in a state of panic. “We’re gonna get hit! I don’t care how much you like Randall, I did not sign up for this.”
The woman beside me chuckles warmly. “There are a lot of pucks during practice but only one during the game. Everyone on the ice is a pro. You won’t get hit.”
I pull my friend back to her seat. “Thanks. It’s our first game, so we’ve got a lot to learn,” I admit.
“You’re shivering,” the friendly woman observes with mild disapproval.
I am. My back is especially nippy due to my ill-informed wardrobe decisions. “I’m fine,” I manage, despite clattering teeth.
“You can borrow the jersey I bought for my son.” She lifts a giftshop bag and hands me a massive blanket of a shirt with the Mavericks logo in front and the name Jefferson on the back.
“Oh, but it’s brand-new. I don’t want to ruin it.”
“You will not ruin it. Having you shiver the whole game is going to distract me.” She pats my arm pleasantly. “Put it on and give it back at the end of the game.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
I put on the jersey and immediately feel like I’m not only warm, I fit in. “Thank you. I’ll return it when the game ends. Can I do something for you? Buy you a drink? Beer or coffee?”
“My husband’s grabbing us some dinner. He’ll be here when the game starts. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Thank you so much. I’m Elise, and this is my friend Lily.”
“I’m Kendra. You’ll meet my husband Winston soon. So good to meet you. Let me know if you have questions, although you don’t need to be an expert to love hockey.”
Winston, when he arrives with nachos, hotdogs, and beer, is equally friendly. His sage advice is to “sit back and enjoy the best show on earth.”
That’s what Lily and I are determined to do. Through the opening national anthem and boisterous cheers, we take it all in. Rock music bursts while five players from each team head to the center of the ice. I don’t watch them, though, because I’m focused on the goaltender. I would have liked to wave at Randall when he skated from the bench to the net, but he never glanced our way.
At least I can decipher him from the others. It’s nearly impossible to tell one enormous man from the other because the movement and noise and sheer display of athleticism are overwhelming. In and out of the bench they go, miraculously not falling on their faces. How is all of this bustle happening around the tiniest rubber object? Most of the time, I don’t even know where the puck is.
The tension in the arena builds as three players from the visiting team surge across the ice, a relentless force barreling toward Randall. The crowd’s excitement builds along with nervous murmurs. His teammates scramble to catch up. The puck flies toward Randall who reacts with lightning reflexes, making a spectacular save with his large glove. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar, applause echoing off the rafters. But the puck must have trickled in front of Randall because he dives down, scrambling. Everyone is swarming over his crouched form. I have a horrible twist in my gut, knowing his face is so close to skate blades.
An opposing player shoves his stick into Randall’s chest and, like it’s in slow motion, the puck trickles from under his goalie pads and settles at the back of the net. The arena releases a unified groan and my stomach dips. An especially obnoxious fan of the visiting team heckles in the row behind us. Jerk.
Randall rises to his feet and skates around his net while the other players reposition in the middle of the ice for what I am told is called a face-off. He looks to be shaking off the goal. Bending and stretching in front of his net, he readies himself for the next onslaught. For the rest of the period, he staves off all the other shots that head his way. I cannot believe anyone would choose to be on the receiving end of smashing sticks and flying objects.
This sport is obviously dangerous and possibly homicidal yet also, if I’m being honest, awe-inspiring. Huge men grunting and hitting and speeding is a show of masculinity to the extreme. I don’t understand any aspect of the game’s strategies, yet there’s no denying the entertainment value.
A loud buzzer cuts into the air and all the players leave the ice.
“That’s the end of the first period. What’d you think?” Kendra asks.
“It’s so…” I try to find the best description. Fast? Scary? Hazardous? Nuts?
“Sexy!” Lily jumps in.
Kendra agrees and her husband shrugs. “As long as she watches the games by my side, I’m not complaining,” he says. They’ve been season ticket holders for years.
We’re chatting, so I don’t immediately realize there’s a man at the end of the row trying to get my attention. He’s waving his hands and pointing at me.
When we make eye contact, he holds up a jersey similar to what I’m wearing. The difference, however, is that the name at the back is HAUGHLAND. It’s Randall’s jersey.
The man, wearing a jacket with the team’s logo, asks the person at the end of the row to pass it to me. What in the world? Just as it lands on my lap, my phone pings.
Randall: Not gonna be able to do my job if you’ve got another man’s jersey on, Elise. Put this on before the next period. Say it.
I smile and blush and type. Yes, sir.
Removing my jersey on loan and folding it carefully, I ignore all the eyes watching me. When I replace it with Randall’s jersey, there’s a flutter in my stomach.
“Let me take a picture of you,” Lily says, taking my phone. “So you can send it to him.”
Presenting my back so she can get the name, I look over my shoulder and make a playful flying-kiss pose. Two minutes after sending it, three dots dance in a bubble.
They disappear. They return.
Finally, Randall: [thumbs up emoji]