Andy got caught. He was guilty. He wasn’t the only one. He wasn’t the most culpable. He was the most cooperative. He got six months. Four months with good behavior. It was a plea deal. He thought he got lucky. He was wrong.
Processed. Inside. Stares. Mistrust. Nick, a cellmate.
“What for?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t be dense. What you in for?”
“Oh. Malfeasance.”
“What’s that? You touchin’ kids?”
“No … no. I was an aide. Mayor’s office. I knew some stuff. I didn’t report it.”
“You rat?”
“Nah. They asked questions.”
“Bullshit. You ratted.”
“They already knew.”
“Get away from me.”
Nick was no friend. A couple of days passed. Now everyone inside knew. Andy the rat.
They were in the mess hall. Damon sat across from Andy.
“Who’d you rat on?”
“Some of the mayor’s staff.”
“What’d they do?”
“Stealing funds. Basically. It was pretty complex.”
“We don’t like rats in here. They get hurt a lot.”
Some of the inmates moved in. Damon smirked.
“You a short timer?”
Andy found his voice.
“Yeah. Maybe four months.”
“You keep your mouth shut. You do your time. Nobody’s gonna bother you.”
“Really?”
“Crooked politicians. Nobody cares. They’re taking from us anyway.”
“Yeah. That’s how I see it.”
“Don’t get cocky. You were one of them.”
“Not really. I was staff. Low man.”
“Don’t get cocky, low man.”
Andy survived. For a while. He was then transferred. Minimum security facility. Business guys. White-collar crime. Safer. Much.
He now roomed with Terry. Wall Street broker type.
“I was set up.”
“By whom?”
“My boss. He flaked out. Had my name on everything.”
“Did they indict him?”
“Nah. He fixed it nice. It all pointed to me.”
“How long?”
“Two fucking years. Sixteen months maybe.”
“It’ll pass.”
“Easy for you to say.”
They had a recreation room. And privileges. Not much bitterness. Jack was an exception.
“Hey, Andy. They put you in here?”
“Yeah. Got me too.”
“You didn’t do shit.”
“I knew. I didn’t say anything. It’s a crime.”
“You didn’t say anything?”
“I let it go on. I was culpable.”
“You certainly opened up on the stand.”
“I had to.”
“Yeah. That’s what my wife said. She left me. Took the kids.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? About my wife? Or that you’re in here?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Well, don’t cry about it. You’ll get your chance. To be sorry, I mean.”
“Is that a threat?”
“A promissory note. It sounds better.”
“I’ll report you.”
“I bet you will. So what? Nobody cares.”
Andy thought about it. Nick and Damon. Tough guys. They didn’t care. White-collar bullshit. He left them behind. For what? For the very sort he came from. The sort he had betrayed. Minimum security. Someone could get to him.
He kept his eyes open. He looked over his shoulder. He was vulnerable in the showers. He was cozy with the guards. That made it worse. He kept Jack in his sights. Whenever he could. Nothing.
Release! Back in the world. He had done time for keeping quiet. He was shunned for speaking out. He left the city he called home. He headed west. He would start anew.
He found a job. He took a wife. He surveyed the political scene. He dared not enter. He ran a convenience store. His customers liked him. He was settled.
His store was burglarized. They caught the culprits. Local boys. Tough bunch. He refused to testify.
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Wings
35, 36, and 37 … that was it. Not bad for a Thursday evening at a theatre that could host 49 patrons maximum. The Friday through Sunday block was already sold out, so tonight’s decent turnout was more like a bonus than a harbinger of box office fatigue. Counting the house before each curtain had become an important part of his pre-show preparation the last few years. Not that he avoided the elements of his preliminary technique, but he had ceased concerning himself with those requirements a while back. Motivation and condition were, by now, so ingrained that he could enact his character in his sleep, which often was the case these days.
For forty-six years, by his own calculation, Ambrose could not find regular work in the theater. Yes, he won parts both featured and supporting here and there, now and again, but he never had a steady gig to speak of until he struck gold with “Down From Olympus” six seasons ago. The play was well received initially, picked up a word-of-mouth reputation the second year, and attained a cult status thereafter that had yet to exhaust itself. Ambrose couldn’t help but believe that he had stepped in a pile of steaming good luck with a long running show and steady employment.
The role he enacted was a dream part. While not the lead, his was the plum component of the entire production. He would enter at the end of act one, occupy the stage for most of act two, then deliver the surprise ending in the last act. He was the key to the plot and the crucial element that carried the play to conclusion. His character possessed humor, mystery, and a vitality that kept audiences riveted whenever he took the stage, a coveted role by any standard. Ambrose had missed only one performance in all these years to attend a funeral, and though his replacement left much to be desired by fellow cast members, production staff, and audience reaction alike, he vowed never to loosen his hold on his prized trust again. He was the definitive Max Sergeant and no one else could, or should, ever occupy this fantasy flesh unless in tribute to Ambrose Tyler (stage name), and that only in the event of his conclusively departing his own mortal coil.
The first three years were a revelation as to his potential for invention and endurance, and though he had pretty much pushed the boundaries of discovery and development to their limit, he could always bask in the camaraderie of his fellow cast members who were more of a family than he had ever known. He cherished their kinship and respect, for he was the oldest member of the cast by far and conferred an aura of expertise for his experience and proficiency in stagecraft. He had found more than a prized role in a hit production, he had found unity and credibility in the bosom of his cherished profession … and he had found a family.
This family, however, was changing, primarily in the last two years. Most of his important scenes were played with a delightful and talented young lady, Mildred Parsons, who enacted the role of his daughter. She was his steady partner the first three years, then gradually began to utilize her understudy to attend to more rewarding roles in upscale productions. She had an attentive agent who sent her to interviews for major venues in commercial television, minor cameos in motion pictures, and principal stage work both in the city and abroad. Mildred was young, attractive, and had a potentially significant future in the business. Ambrose knew he was beyond the point of making an impact for starring vehicles, but he also considered himself fortunate for the niche he now occupied. He was an older actor and, while most in his age category were barely competent or had quit the business altogether, or had passed on to the great proscenium in the heavens, he was considered a gifted thespian in his age range and sought after by off-Broadway producers. Any actors eligible to play his roles were marginally talented at best and were hired merely for their mature appearance. He had, through his endurance as well as through his talent, become ‘a catch’.
When speaking with audience members after a performance, Ambrose would note how they were surprised that he wasn’t better known in the big budget realms of Broadway and motion pictures. When induced to give a rundown of his previous credits he ran a list of plays no one had heard of. When asked what representation he had, he would casually admit that he did not have an agent at this time. The truth is that he had never had an agent in all his years in the business. He worked mostly by reputation and rarely auditioned any longer. For someone with the gift of endurance and a comprehensive view of where he belonged in the world, Ambrose Tyler was not proficient in the art of self-promotion, or the ambition to appear successful in his field. He wasn’t in it for glory or riches; he just knew his destiny. He never wrestled with the choice of career like most of his boyhood friends and he never doubted where he belonged. In his youth, when taking a rest from playing with his pals on any given Saturday afternoon, he would take advantage of the post lunch lull and enact scenes from whatever movie or TV show he had seen that week to delightful reaction. Performing was in his blood and he remained faithful to that revelation to this day.
“I love doing this show, but the repetition is getting to me. I feel like I’m just treading water now.” Mildred had joined Ambrose in the wings one night during the fourth year of the run. “My agent thinks I should be moving on to other things. I have a callback for a role in an indi movie and I might have to miss a few performances.”
“That’s great,” Ambrose assured her. “I’ll miss you. I can’t imagine playing our scenes with anyone else.” Mildred blushed and gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek. They had become close in the time they had worked together. Her father had left the family bosom when she was still quite young and, although Mildred had a supportive extended family, Ambrose had become for her a trusted paternal figure. They had engaged in many conversations, reminiscences, and philosophies while waiting for their cues to enter, thus they were more than confidants who shared a mutual fondness; they were partners.
“My agent thinks I should take a trip to the West Coast,” she informed him one evening while he was counting the house. “She has some interviews lined up for me.”
Ambrose stopped his tally in midstream. “Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”
“If you do, don’t look back. You are talented and have a future. I’ll be rooting for you, of course.”
A month later Mildred was on the West Coast and Ambrose had a new partner. Lily Montero was somewhat different in her approach than Mildred had been, but she brought her own cunning and faculty to the role and melded in seamlessly. Again many secrets, hopes, and ambitions were exchanged in the wings and they became close. Ambrose was delighted that his new partner worked so well with him and he once again looked forward to each performance. They soon discovered that they had a similar sense of humor and each kept the other entertained when not on stage.
Lily had ambitions beyond her acting abilities and proposed a partnership with Ambrose in forming an independent theatre company that they would co-produce together. Both Lily and Ambrose spent much of their free time writing scripts and they often shared them via e-mail. Lily wanted to move beyond the written page and stage their work in a venue to be determined. They settled on the one-act plays they would present and scouted available theatre space. Lily was particularly fond of a piece that Ambrose had written that would accentuate her proficiencies, but since he had fashioned it for an older couple, he spent many hours adapting it for her age range. This meant that he would not be able to take a part in enacting the fabrication. She assured him that a friend of hers, also a playwright, would do nicely in the part. She also wanted this friend to contribute a couple of one-acts. This would leave Ambrose with minimal input in the proposal and he courteously backed out of the agreement. Lily went ahead with this friend and had a staging of their work at a small theatre. This did not affect their relationship to any significant degree, but for Ambrose it did serve as evidence of her keen ambition regardless of past alliances. It was only a matter of time before Lily moved on to greener pastures and Ambrose was once again breaking in a new scene partner.
Her name was Caroline and they got on well enough, but there were a few things that bothered Ambrose; not to distraction, but nonetheless it violated his timeworn comfort zone. For one, Caroline was not exactly a studied actress. Her experience had been in improvised comedy and Ambrose felt that she lacked the necessary stagecraft to carry out a completely satisfying performance. She would space out on certain vital cues that compromised the plot and also had a propensity for cutting off another’s lines. When in the third act she delivered the setup for the surprise ending, she would be facing away from the audience, thus watering down the desired effect. Her lack of classical training was evident and Ambrose chose a moment when they occupied the wings together to mention it to her.
This, however, proved somewhat difficult since Caroline barely acknowledged him while awaiting their entrance. She was mostly involved with her ipod, with her head down and her distraction quite apparent. It was usually left to Ambrose to nudge her when their cue to enter was delivered onstage. When he did manage to bring it up, she regarded him skeptically, as if to say, “Who are you to instruct me?” He mentioned this to the stage manager, his only recourse, and henceforth Caroline performed the required adjustments satisfactorily. Her regard toward him was aloof and cool after this, but since she never exhibited any warmth or desire to engage him before, Ambrose felt not the loss.
There was a time when the part was played adequately by a round robin of young actresses, most of whom were pleasant enough to work with and Ambrose was secure in his role of guide and adviser, both spiritual and theatrical. He relished being the old pro who could be turned to in times of confusion and self-doubt, and this gave him the sense of achievement lacking in his casual approach to international renown. He had found his niche and intended to venture forth only when mounting his own material. He was, of course, just as lackadaisical in this endeavor as in his nonchalant quest for fame. If the illusive mistress found him he was more than willing, but to organize and conduct the search himself was too daunting a task for someone so easily pleased with his circumstances. Yes, he knew he was a good actor, even great at times, but his effort to shine in a larger and more celebrated venue was without the required drive and persistence. When he was younger this bothered him to some degree, but he had since relaxed into himself due to a combination of age and a more secure knowledge of his wants and needs. Big fish, little pond, why not?
His personal life was just as secure and satisfying as his professional one. He felt privileged that as a widower with two grown children he had found a second love of his life and they had been together for some years now. He had loved two women profoundly and had managed a cherished life with both of them. Was this not a success greater than any other?
Ambrose liked women, not just as one attracted to the fair sex, but as companions and associates. This aspect surprised him to some extent since his relationship with his own mother was rather contentious. Although meaning well, he was sure, she had a rather distorted approach toward motivating him toward excellence. Her arsenal consisted of ridicule and shame and she seldom resorted to praise. He knew this was all beyond her rather limited grasp of inspiring confidence in her young; she was broken and she passed on the shards of her shattered worth as best she could. Something in his make-up had alerted him to this while still very young and he was able to dismiss the criticism and deflect her slights summarily. How he was capable of discerning this liability in her at so tender an age was a mystery to him, but he was somehow able to disbelieve the propaganda and form his own sense of self which, though subject to exaggerated highs and lows through his formative years, proved to be a steady barometer in his adulthood. And he had maintained an abiding love and respect for all women throughout his life. How he had overcome such perverse odds was a source of perplexity and of pride for him and he was grateful, no matter how baffling the process, that he had preserved his own sense of certainty about his connection with the world. He was, indeed, himself, and he blessed the road he had traveled no matter how arduous or enigmatic it appeared to be at times. It was his path and he owned it.
While his compass was steadfast and his demeanor amenable, the circumstances surrounding his craft were in a constant state of flux during these last two years and it seemed as though the role of his daughter was played by a different actress every week. Mavis was serviceable in the role and liked to expound on her somewhat complex relationships with men while Mindy applied a judicious approach to her character and to politics, which she favored as a topic of discussion. Liz needed constant affirmation from him regarding her performance, which Ambrose considered frivolous since she was more than serviceable in her part. Their conversations inevitably ended with Ambrose delivering a pep talk. All this occurring in the wings prior to his entrance in the play.
One day, in the seventh year of the run, Ambrose was informed by the stage manager that his daughter would be played by yet another actress. Ambrose detected a subtle smile forming at the corners of his mouth and wondered if he was being set up for some bit of mischief. He was correct in this assessment because the actress turned out to be none other than Mildred Parsons, his first and favorite partner. She had returned from Hollywood and was slotted into her former role. They hugged upon discovery and danced around like little children. It wasn’t long before they found themselves in their familiar spot in the wings
“How did it go out there?”
“I was getting work right away,” Mildred informed him. “I did some background work and had a few lines on a couple of soaps. I thought I had made a mark and was on my way. Then it all stopped just as suddenly as it began.”
“Those credits didn’t get you more work? I don’t get it.”
“Neither did I. My agent explained that any new actor gets some screen time, especially if they’re from New York. They are usually cast for background, so it’s a low risk move. They’re not particularly interested in unproven talent for featured roles.”
This was a part of the business that Ambrose wasn’t familiar with. He wanted to know more. “So what do you have to do to get noticed out there?”
“It’s really tough. There’s not much for you to do. If you don’t hear from your agent, you have to fill your time finding a way to make a living.” She checked the small offstage prop table to ensure that all was prepared before entrance. “After a while I didn’t hear from my agent at all. Oh, where’s my writing tablet?”
“That’s been changed to a laptop and you don’t carry it on until the second act now.” Ambrose advised.
Mildred considered this information carefully. “So … we’ve gone high tech while I’ve been away. Any other changes I should know about?”
“All the rest is pretty much the same. How are you on the lines and cues?”
“I won’t have a problem. Still, I would have liked to have worked with the laptop a bit before now. I used to jot down notes as my character. Now I’ll have to fiddle with the computer. I could have used some rehearsal time.”
“I can cover for you if the business gets clumsy,” Ambrose offered. “I can ad lib the pauses until you get used to handling that thing.”
“How did the others handle it?”
“They didn’t. They didn’t see the character as taking notes. They just carried it on and ignored it for the most part.”
Mildred thought this through for a moment. “It’s so much a part of my character interpretation to take notes. I’ll just have to deal with it.” She paused and cocked her ear toward the stage. “Did they change the dialogue? I don’t remember those lines.”
“The lines are the same,” Ambrose assured her. “That’s Marty. He’s been doing the show for a couple of weeks now.” Ambrose listened to another few words from the stage. “He’s floundering.” Another second or two and Ambrose was convinced. “Yeah, he’s up on his lines. We’d better enter now.”
Ambrose and Mildred then made their first act entrance and the expression of relief on Marty’s face was palpable. The scene continued to its conclusion without a hitch.
“I don’t know, I just spaced out. Thanks for picking up on it,” Marty gushed after Ambrose introduced him to Mildred between acts. “I expected Ambrose to realize it, but you handled it like a trooper. You seemed so relaxed and confident, especially for your first time.”
Ambrose enlightened him. “Mildred originated the role for the first three years or so. She knows the play inside and out.”
“Ah,” Marty expelled in a moment of elucidation. “I should have known. Ambrose has spoken of you often. Am I lucky or what? I mean, I was really lost out there, and in front of a full house. How scary is that?”
“Not quite a full house,” Ambrose corrected. “46 seats filled. A nice turnout, but not capacity.”
Marty and Mildred exchanged glances and both simultaneously broke into laughter. Ambrose was notorious for his predilection for head counts and was often the subject of a good-natured jest.
“Oh well, I guess I overreacted then,” Marty wryly confessed. “I should save my panic for the real thing.” As a result of this genial repartee the three of them decided to have a bite together after the show. Ambrose watched as the two younger thespians joked and laughed together, noting that Marty appeared to have agleam in his eye for the vivacious Mildred. Being aware of Mildred’s long time engagement to a young stockbroker, he was concerned that Marty not misinterpret her affable manner for anything other than a general cordiality. Ambrose knew of the susceptibility of a young man to the charms of a poised young woman only too well and was concerned about what course Marty’s expectations might take. Should he have a word with him? Was it any of his business?
Mildred relieved him of this quandary by mentioning her guy in a natural fashion, weaving him into the conversation seamlessly and thus nipping potential ardor in the bud. She must have picked up on the signs, Ambrose supposed. She’s got it all; assurance, brains, talent, and tact. He became aware that the pride he was feeling was not at all different than that of a father for his daughter; life imitating art as it were.
Whatever the circumstances of each performance, or the cast intrigues that inevitably popped up from time to time, Ambrose was rewarded at the end of the day by returning home to the woman he loved. He was grateful for the peace and security that only age and wisdom can provide. He cared not for the boisterous celebration that the younger set found necessary to pursue. He had left the manic indulgence in drink and hoopla behind him in some distant, somewhat blurry past, wondering what satisfaction these activities may ever have provided at the time. Before a show he would read in his dressing room and upon returning home he would enjoy a late meal with his beloved, discuss the days activities, possibly play a game of scrabble, and delight in the company of the one he most cherished. ‘Much ado’ had been dispensed with in favor of a life of assurance, affection, and contemplation.
Then came a time when all that would shatter his coveted complacency occurred in a blizzard of alternatives. He had entered one of his plays in a prestigious contest, at a high profile venue, that could only enhance his reputation as a playwright. That one of the leads was tailored for his participation was a beguiling enticement. It would mean, of course, that he would have to leave “Down From Olympus”, at least for a time, but he would only have to consider that prospect if his play was accepted. The supposition became reality when he received a letter of acceptance and congratulations from the producers. Now he had to choose.
His reluctance to abandon his current employment lay not only in his success as a performer in the show, but he would also be forsaking the theatrical family he had acquired through the years. He was loath to relinquish his role to another, of course, and he was somewhat resistant to traversing new ground without the guaranteed acclaim that had become his customary due. Ambrose was uncomfortable with his immediate future in flux and devoted most of his free time sorting out his options. He utilized a mental debit and credit list to achieve a balanced decision, going back and forth until none of it made much sense. He would then approach the problem with a fresh perspective and ultimately end up with the same unresolved dilemma. On the one hand he had certain success and steady employment in his current milieu; on the other was an opportunity to broaden his options and realize his potential, promising a lifelong dream come true. Of course his play could tank and he would be left disenchanted and looking for work again. He would need energy reserves he hadn’t tapped into for a long time to bring about a quality production under his direction, including casting, set, and prop considerations. Did he need the headache?
He considered his position in the “Down From Olympus” family of actors, stage managers, and assistants. How many assistants had left the show for greener pastures during the run? This was the seventh year with a fifth stage manager in charge. Most of the original cast had left, and although he enjoyed a comfortable relationship with all the dramatis personae, he had belonged to other theatrical families in the past and knew how short was the grieving period after their dissolution.
An unexpected event proved to be the deciding factor in the decision-making process. Mildred Parsons announced her plans to wed her betrothed in a few short weeks and, after hugs and congratulations, she assured Ambrose that they would never lose touch. They parted amid tears and promises after a cast party in her honor. Ambrose was considering asking Mildred to appear in his play if he were to decide on making the leap toward foreign waters, but in lieu of her upcoming nuptials he figured he might as well frame his proposal in an e-mail. He waited until the last minute to accept the invitation to stage his play, still running back and forth in his mind the benefits and downsides of the venture. When a couple of his female cast members were overheard discussing their invitations to Mildred’s wedding, Ambrose was at a loss. He checked his mailbox daily, but no request for his attendance at the festivities arrived. Each evening he would overhear the young women discussing what they would wear to the affair. He thought back to all the alliances he had enjoyed throughout his career and could only recall a handful of names; people he lived with on tour, amorous involvements, sworn comrades-in-arms in the battlefield of dramatization; all of them vague memories now.
Ambrose was in his dressing room after the show, musing on his past associations, when Marty came in and asked him if he would hear a monologue from ‘Hamlet’ that he was preparing for an audition.
“It’s an amateur theatre group, but they have a good reputation and I always wanted to play Hamlet,” he explained. “If you could give me some feedback I would appreciate it.”
Ambrose regarded him closely. “Wait … you want to give up a paid gig to join an amateur group?”
Marty’s eyes lit up and his enthusiasm was unmistakable. “Sure. This is Hamlet!”
“Sure, I’ll listen. Shoot.”
Marty cleared his throat, took a moment for reflection, than began. “To be or not to be. That is the question.”
Ambrose, suddenly energized, listened patiently, gave him mostly positive feedback, and left his dressing room as if he were on a mission, shouting back, “To be or not to be, that is the question … and the answer.”
He tendered a leave-of-absence for “Up From Olympus” and immediately informed the new producers that he was onboard with a full production of his play. He then returned home and embraced his beloved, knowing that whatever the future might hold, he would always return to her at the end of the day. Life was still good.
For forty-six years, by his own calculation, Ambrose could not find regular work in the theater. Yes, he won parts both featured and supporting here and there, now and again, but he never had a steady gig to speak of until he struck gold with “Down From Olympus” six seasons ago. The play was well received initially, picked up a word-of-mouth reputation the second year, and attained a cult status thereafter that had yet to exhaust itself. Ambrose couldn’t help but believe that he had stepped in a pile of steaming good luck with a long running show and steady employment.
The role he enacted was a dream part. While not the lead, his was the plum component of the entire production. He would enter at the end of act one, occupy the stage for most of act two, then deliver the surprise ending in the last act. He was the key to the plot and the crucial element that carried the play to conclusion. His character possessed humor, mystery, and a vitality that kept audiences riveted whenever he took the stage, a coveted role by any standard. Ambrose had missed only one performance in all these years to attend a funeral, and though his replacement left much to be desired by fellow cast members, production staff, and audience reaction alike, he vowed never to loosen his hold on his prized trust again. He was the definitive Max Sergeant and no one else could, or should, ever occupy this fantasy flesh unless in tribute to Ambrose Tyler (stage name), and that only in the event of his conclusively departing his own mortal coil.
The first three years were a revelation as to his potential for invention and endurance, and though he had pretty much pushed the boundaries of discovery and development to their limit, he could always bask in the camaraderie of his fellow cast members who were more of a family than he had ever known. He cherished their kinship and respect, for he was the oldest member of the cast by far and conferred an aura of expertise for his experience and proficiency in stagecraft. He had found more than a prized role in a hit production, he had found unity and credibility in the bosom of his cherished profession … and he had found a family.
This family, however, was changing, primarily in the last two years. Most of his important scenes were played with a delightful and talented young lady, Mildred Parsons, who enacted the role of his daughter. She was his steady partner the first three years, then gradually began to utilize her understudy to attend to more rewarding roles in upscale productions. She had an attentive agent who sent her to interviews for major venues in commercial television, minor cameos in motion pictures, and principal stage work both in the city and abroad. Mildred was young, attractive, and had a potentially significant future in the business. Ambrose knew he was beyond the point of making an impact for starring vehicles, but he also considered himself fortunate for the niche he now occupied. He was an older actor and, while most in his age category were barely competent or had quit the business altogether, or had passed on to the great proscenium in the heavens, he was considered a gifted thespian in his age range and sought after by off-Broadway producers. Any actors eligible to play his roles were marginally talented at best and were hired merely for their mature appearance. He had, through his endurance as well as through his talent, become ‘a catch’.
When speaking with audience members after a performance, Ambrose would note how they were surprised that he wasn’t better known in the big budget realms of Broadway and motion pictures. When induced to give a rundown of his previous credits he ran a list of plays no one had heard of. When asked what representation he had, he would casually admit that he did not have an agent at this time. The truth is that he had never had an agent in all his years in the business. He worked mostly by reputation and rarely auditioned any longer. For someone with the gift of endurance and a comprehensive view of where he belonged in the world, Ambrose Tyler was not proficient in the art of self-promotion, or the ambition to appear successful in his field. He wasn’t in it for glory or riches; he just knew his destiny. He never wrestled with the choice of career like most of his boyhood friends and he never doubted where he belonged. In his youth, when taking a rest from playing with his pals on any given Saturday afternoon, he would take advantage of the post lunch lull and enact scenes from whatever movie or TV show he had seen that week to delightful reaction. Performing was in his blood and he remained faithful to that revelation to this day.
“I love doing this show, but the repetition is getting to me. I feel like I’m just treading water now.” Mildred had joined Ambrose in the wings one night during the fourth year of the run. “My agent thinks I should be moving on to other things. I have a callback for a role in an indi movie and I might have to miss a few performances.”
“That’s great,” Ambrose assured her. “I’ll miss you. I can’t imagine playing our scenes with anyone else.” Mildred blushed and gave him a spontaneous kiss on the cheek. They had become close in the time they had worked together. Her father had left the family bosom when she was still quite young and, although Mildred had a supportive extended family, Ambrose had become for her a trusted paternal figure. They had engaged in many conversations, reminiscences, and philosophies while waiting for their cues to enter, thus they were more than confidants who shared a mutual fondness; they were partners.
“My agent thinks I should take a trip to the West Coast,” she informed him one evening while he was counting the house. “She has some interviews lined up for me.”
Ambrose stopped his tally in midstream. “Are you going to do it?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking about it.”
“If you do, don’t look back. You are talented and have a future. I’ll be rooting for you, of course.”
A month later Mildred was on the West Coast and Ambrose had a new partner. Lily Montero was somewhat different in her approach than Mildred had been, but she brought her own cunning and faculty to the role and melded in seamlessly. Again many secrets, hopes, and ambitions were exchanged in the wings and they became close. Ambrose was delighted that his new partner worked so well with him and he once again looked forward to each performance. They soon discovered that they had a similar sense of humor and each kept the other entertained when not on stage.
Lily had ambitions beyond her acting abilities and proposed a partnership with Ambrose in forming an independent theatre company that they would co-produce together. Both Lily and Ambrose spent much of their free time writing scripts and they often shared them via e-mail. Lily wanted to move beyond the written page and stage their work in a venue to be determined. They settled on the one-act plays they would present and scouted available theatre space. Lily was particularly fond of a piece that Ambrose had written that would accentuate her proficiencies, but since he had fashioned it for an older couple, he spent many hours adapting it for her age range. This meant that he would not be able to take a part in enacting the fabrication. She assured him that a friend of hers, also a playwright, would do nicely in the part. She also wanted this friend to contribute a couple of one-acts. This would leave Ambrose with minimal input in the proposal and he courteously backed out of the agreement. Lily went ahead with this friend and had a staging of their work at a small theatre. This did not affect their relationship to any significant degree, but for Ambrose it did serve as evidence of her keen ambition regardless of past alliances. It was only a matter of time before Lily moved on to greener pastures and Ambrose was once again breaking in a new scene partner.
Her name was Caroline and they got on well enough, but there were a few things that bothered Ambrose; not to distraction, but nonetheless it violated his timeworn comfort zone. For one, Caroline was not exactly a studied actress. Her experience had been in improvised comedy and Ambrose felt that she lacked the necessary stagecraft to carry out a completely satisfying performance. She would space out on certain vital cues that compromised the plot and also had a propensity for cutting off another’s lines. When in the third act she delivered the setup for the surprise ending, she would be facing away from the audience, thus watering down the desired effect. Her lack of classical training was evident and Ambrose chose a moment when they occupied the wings together to mention it to her.
This, however, proved somewhat difficult since Caroline barely acknowledged him while awaiting their entrance. She was mostly involved with her ipod, with her head down and her distraction quite apparent. It was usually left to Ambrose to nudge her when their cue to enter was delivered onstage. When he did manage to bring it up, she regarded him skeptically, as if to say, “Who are you to instruct me?” He mentioned this to the stage manager, his only recourse, and henceforth Caroline performed the required adjustments satisfactorily. Her regard toward him was aloof and cool after this, but since she never exhibited any warmth or desire to engage him before, Ambrose felt not the loss.
There was a time when the part was played adequately by a round robin of young actresses, most of whom were pleasant enough to work with and Ambrose was secure in his role of guide and adviser, both spiritual and theatrical. He relished being the old pro who could be turned to in times of confusion and self-doubt, and this gave him the sense of achievement lacking in his casual approach to international renown. He had found his niche and intended to venture forth only when mounting his own material. He was, of course, just as lackadaisical in this endeavor as in his nonchalant quest for fame. If the illusive mistress found him he was more than willing, but to organize and conduct the search himself was too daunting a task for someone so easily pleased with his circumstances. Yes, he knew he was a good actor, even great at times, but his effort to shine in a larger and more celebrated venue was without the required drive and persistence. When he was younger this bothered him to some degree, but he had since relaxed into himself due to a combination of age and a more secure knowledge of his wants and needs. Big fish, little pond, why not?
His personal life was just as secure and satisfying as his professional one. He felt privileged that as a widower with two grown children he had found a second love of his life and they had been together for some years now. He had loved two women profoundly and had managed a cherished life with both of them. Was this not a success greater than any other?
Ambrose liked women, not just as one attracted to the fair sex, but as companions and associates. This aspect surprised him to some extent since his relationship with his own mother was rather contentious. Although meaning well, he was sure, she had a rather distorted approach toward motivating him toward excellence. Her arsenal consisted of ridicule and shame and she seldom resorted to praise. He knew this was all beyond her rather limited grasp of inspiring confidence in her young; she was broken and she passed on the shards of her shattered worth as best she could. Something in his make-up had alerted him to this while still very young and he was able to dismiss the criticism and deflect her slights summarily. How he was capable of discerning this liability in her at so tender an age was a mystery to him, but he was somehow able to disbelieve the propaganda and form his own sense of self which, though subject to exaggerated highs and lows through his formative years, proved to be a steady barometer in his adulthood. And he had maintained an abiding love and respect for all women throughout his life. How he had overcome such perverse odds was a source of perplexity and of pride for him and he was grateful, no matter how baffling the process, that he had preserved his own sense of certainty about his connection with the world. He was, indeed, himself, and he blessed the road he had traveled no matter how arduous or enigmatic it appeared to be at times. It was his path and he owned it.
While his compass was steadfast and his demeanor amenable, the circumstances surrounding his craft were in a constant state of flux during these last two years and it seemed as though the role of his daughter was played by a different actress every week. Mavis was serviceable in the role and liked to expound on her somewhat complex relationships with men while Mindy applied a judicious approach to her character and to politics, which she favored as a topic of discussion. Liz needed constant affirmation from him regarding her performance, which Ambrose considered frivolous since she was more than serviceable in her part. Their conversations inevitably ended with Ambrose delivering a pep talk. All this occurring in the wings prior to his entrance in the play.
One day, in the seventh year of the run, Ambrose was informed by the stage manager that his daughter would be played by yet another actress. Ambrose detected a subtle smile forming at the corners of his mouth and wondered if he was being set up for some bit of mischief. He was correct in this assessment because the actress turned out to be none other than Mildred Parsons, his first and favorite partner. She had returned from Hollywood and was slotted into her former role. They hugged upon discovery and danced around like little children. It wasn’t long before they found themselves in their familiar spot in the wings
“How did it go out there?”
“I was getting work right away,” Mildred informed him. “I did some background work and had a few lines on a couple of soaps. I thought I had made a mark and was on my way. Then it all stopped just as suddenly as it began.”
“Those credits didn’t get you more work? I don’t get it.”
“Neither did I. My agent explained that any new actor gets some screen time, especially if they’re from New York. They are usually cast for background, so it’s a low risk move. They’re not particularly interested in unproven talent for featured roles.”
This was a part of the business that Ambrose wasn’t familiar with. He wanted to know more. “So what do you have to do to get noticed out there?”
“It’s really tough. There’s not much for you to do. If you don’t hear from your agent, you have to fill your time finding a way to make a living.” She checked the small offstage prop table to ensure that all was prepared before entrance. “After a while I didn’t hear from my agent at all. Oh, where’s my writing tablet?”
“That’s been changed to a laptop and you don’t carry it on until the second act now.” Ambrose advised.
Mildred considered this information carefully. “So … we’ve gone high tech while I’ve been away. Any other changes I should know about?”
“All the rest is pretty much the same. How are you on the lines and cues?”
“I won’t have a problem. Still, I would have liked to have worked with the laptop a bit before now. I used to jot down notes as my character. Now I’ll have to fiddle with the computer. I could have used some rehearsal time.”
“I can cover for you if the business gets clumsy,” Ambrose offered. “I can ad lib the pauses until you get used to handling that thing.”
“How did the others handle it?”
“They didn’t. They didn’t see the character as taking notes. They just carried it on and ignored it for the most part.”
Mildred thought this through for a moment. “It’s so much a part of my character interpretation to take notes. I’ll just have to deal with it.” She paused and cocked her ear toward the stage. “Did they change the dialogue? I don’t remember those lines.”
“The lines are the same,” Ambrose assured her. “That’s Marty. He’s been doing the show for a couple of weeks now.” Ambrose listened to another few words from the stage. “He’s floundering.” Another second or two and Ambrose was convinced. “Yeah, he’s up on his lines. We’d better enter now.”
Ambrose and Mildred then made their first act entrance and the expression of relief on Marty’s face was palpable. The scene continued to its conclusion without a hitch.
“I don’t know, I just spaced out. Thanks for picking up on it,” Marty gushed after Ambrose introduced him to Mildred between acts. “I expected Ambrose to realize it, but you handled it like a trooper. You seemed so relaxed and confident, especially for your first time.”
Ambrose enlightened him. “Mildred originated the role for the first three years or so. She knows the play inside and out.”
“Ah,” Marty expelled in a moment of elucidation. “I should have known. Ambrose has spoken of you often. Am I lucky or what? I mean, I was really lost out there, and in front of a full house. How scary is that?”
“Not quite a full house,” Ambrose corrected. “46 seats filled. A nice turnout, but not capacity.”
Marty and Mildred exchanged glances and both simultaneously broke into laughter. Ambrose was notorious for his predilection for head counts and was often the subject of a good-natured jest.
“Oh well, I guess I overreacted then,” Marty wryly confessed. “I should save my panic for the real thing.” As a result of this genial repartee the three of them decided to have a bite together after the show. Ambrose watched as the two younger thespians joked and laughed together, noting that Marty appeared to have agleam in his eye for the vivacious Mildred. Being aware of Mildred’s long time engagement to a young stockbroker, he was concerned that Marty not misinterpret her affable manner for anything other than a general cordiality. Ambrose knew of the susceptibility of a young man to the charms of a poised young woman only too well and was concerned about what course Marty’s expectations might take. Should he have a word with him? Was it any of his business?
Mildred relieved him of this quandary by mentioning her guy in a natural fashion, weaving him into the conversation seamlessly and thus nipping potential ardor in the bud. She must have picked up on the signs, Ambrose supposed. She’s got it all; assurance, brains, talent, and tact. He became aware that the pride he was feeling was not at all different than that of a father for his daughter; life imitating art as it were.
Whatever the circumstances of each performance, or the cast intrigues that inevitably popped up from time to time, Ambrose was rewarded at the end of the day by returning home to the woman he loved. He was grateful for the peace and security that only age and wisdom can provide. He cared not for the boisterous celebration that the younger set found necessary to pursue. He had left the manic indulgence in drink and hoopla behind him in some distant, somewhat blurry past, wondering what satisfaction these activities may ever have provided at the time. Before a show he would read in his dressing room and upon returning home he would enjoy a late meal with his beloved, discuss the days activities, possibly play a game of scrabble, and delight in the company of the one he most cherished. ‘Much ado’ had been dispensed with in favor of a life of assurance, affection, and contemplation.
Then came a time when all that would shatter his coveted complacency occurred in a blizzard of alternatives. He had entered one of his plays in a prestigious contest, at a high profile venue, that could only enhance his reputation as a playwright. That one of the leads was tailored for his participation was a beguiling enticement. It would mean, of course, that he would have to leave “Down From Olympus”, at least for a time, but he would only have to consider that prospect if his play was accepted. The supposition became reality when he received a letter of acceptance and congratulations from the producers. Now he had to choose.
His reluctance to abandon his current employment lay not only in his success as a performer in the show, but he would also be forsaking the theatrical family he had acquired through the years. He was loath to relinquish his role to another, of course, and he was somewhat resistant to traversing new ground without the guaranteed acclaim that had become his customary due. Ambrose was uncomfortable with his immediate future in flux and devoted most of his free time sorting out his options. He utilized a mental debit and credit list to achieve a balanced decision, going back and forth until none of it made much sense. He would then approach the problem with a fresh perspective and ultimately end up with the same unresolved dilemma. On the one hand he had certain success and steady employment in his current milieu; on the other was an opportunity to broaden his options and realize his potential, promising a lifelong dream come true. Of course his play could tank and he would be left disenchanted and looking for work again. He would need energy reserves he hadn’t tapped into for a long time to bring about a quality production under his direction, including casting, set, and prop considerations. Did he need the headache?
He considered his position in the “Down From Olympus” family of actors, stage managers, and assistants. How many assistants had left the show for greener pastures during the run? This was the seventh year with a fifth stage manager in charge. Most of the original cast had left, and although he enjoyed a comfortable relationship with all the dramatis personae, he had belonged to other theatrical families in the past and knew how short was the grieving period after their dissolution.
An unexpected event proved to be the deciding factor in the decision-making process. Mildred Parsons announced her plans to wed her betrothed in a few short weeks and, after hugs and congratulations, she assured Ambrose that they would never lose touch. They parted amid tears and promises after a cast party in her honor. Ambrose was considering asking Mildred to appear in his play if he were to decide on making the leap toward foreign waters, but in lieu of her upcoming nuptials he figured he might as well frame his proposal in an e-mail. He waited until the last minute to accept the invitation to stage his play, still running back and forth in his mind the benefits and downsides of the venture. When a couple of his female cast members were overheard discussing their invitations to Mildred’s wedding, Ambrose was at a loss. He checked his mailbox daily, but no request for his attendance at the festivities arrived. Each evening he would overhear the young women discussing what they would wear to the affair. He thought back to all the alliances he had enjoyed throughout his career and could only recall a handful of names; people he lived with on tour, amorous involvements, sworn comrades-in-arms in the battlefield of dramatization; all of them vague memories now.
Ambrose was in his dressing room after the show, musing on his past associations, when Marty came in and asked him if he would hear a monologue from ‘Hamlet’ that he was preparing for an audition.
“It’s an amateur theatre group, but they have a good reputation and I always wanted to play Hamlet,” he explained. “If you could give me some feedback I would appreciate it.”
Ambrose regarded him closely. “Wait … you want to give up a paid gig to join an amateur group?”
Marty’s eyes lit up and his enthusiasm was unmistakable. “Sure. This is Hamlet!”
“Sure, I’ll listen. Shoot.”
Marty cleared his throat, took a moment for reflection, than began. “To be or not to be. That is the question.”
Ambrose, suddenly energized, listened patiently, gave him mostly positive feedback, and left his dressing room as if he were on a mission, shouting back, “To be or not to be, that is the question … and the answer.”
He tendered a leave-of-absence for “Up From Olympus” and immediately informed the new producers that he was onboard with a full production of his play. He then returned home and embraced his beloved, knowing that whatever the future might hold, he would always return to her at the end of the day. Life was still good.
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