- Better Bad Theatre-

www.tittybiscuits.com

An usher checks his flashlight; turning it on for a brief moment and then turning it off. It's now seven P.M. The orchestra begins arriving. No cars are involved. No public transportation. One by one, the orchestra just arrives... materialising out of thin air. And the instruments too, arrive from thin air... as if transported to the site by futuristic space equipment. First the woodwinds... then the brass section... then the strings and percussion... they all just magically appear in the orchestra pit.

At 7:20 Guy Lester Stamford is escorted to his seat. Two big men, one on either side, walk Guy up through the middle aisle and deposit him in the gathering of chairs at the centre, ten rows back from the stage.

They chain Guy to his chair, running the chain around his stomach and fastening the lock behind him, where he can't reach it. "Stay put." they say. Guy is accustomed to the bad treatment. By his count he'd been in this position more than a thousand times. He looks around, but without making it evident that he's impatient.

A small group of people are wandering around, looking at seat numbers, trying to find their places. They've seen the chain go around Guy's waist.
"What's he done?" one asks.
"Blew up a theatre." answers one of the guards. And then the two guards walk to the back of the theatre.

Guy sits quietly. The wandering group settles into their seats just a few yards away. A few in the group missed the explanation. "Why did they say he was locked?" one asks.
"He blew up that church in Selma."
Guy turns around. "I didn't blow up a church. I blew up a theatre."
"Same thing." someone says.

All around the centre, patrons are taking their seats. All around the edges people are scurrying to complete their work. Ten men in yellow coveralls are walking between the rows. They have tanks of pale green liquid strapped to their backs. They are spraying for crickets.

One man, dressed in: white pants, a spark-ly red vest, tennis shoes and a turban, is leading an elephant up the side isle. The elephant looks calm. It looks very obedient. It almost looks sleepy. But so far in it's life, it's never heard any applause. Applause is a very startling sound, if you've never heard it before. No one will realise this fact... until everyone is seated and the first act comes to an end.

Guy looks back over his shoulder. A dozen firemen are in the balcony, all of them carrying extinguishers. One is dressed like he's from the 1800's. He's spraying a big white cloud of foam at a tiny red light built into the edge of a steel step. "That's just a light." someone tells him. So the fireman hurries off to spray some curtains. "The curtains aren't burning, they're just red." someone says.

The man with the spray pushes his hat back, and looks at the curtains, and then looks at the person with the information. Then he talks and explains the foam. He counts them off on his fingers as he talks. "The Brooklyn Theatre... The Iroquois theatre... The theatre in Deli... That big theatre in Tokyo... well, this time I'm not waiting to the last minute." he says. This time I'm not waiting for the dead bodies to get piled up by the exits. This time I'm foaming anything that even looks like a fire." He continues to spray anything red, or warm, or combustible.

Outside, in the huge and ornate lobby, a group of policemen gather. Their captain asks them to check their guns. He tells his men, "If we do go in... don't be afraid to make a little noise... aim for their bellies."
Out in the lobby the lights go off... then flash back on... go off... then flash back on. His men evidently aren't afraid to make noise. Spooked by the sudden darkness three shots are fired. One hits the far wall and two strike the ceiling.

Inside the theatre the lights dim. Two complete sets of actors enter, one set from stage left, and one set from the right. On the right half of the stage they're putting on the play, "Dark of the Moon", a most serious play dealing with issues of witchcraft, mankind, and morality. On the left half of the stage they are putting on the play "Auto De Fe", written by Tennessee Williams. "Auto De Fe", is a very serious work dealing with the issue of homosexuality, mankind, and morality.

"Auto De Fe" is complicated and robust. Actors love the dialogue. And it is fascinating in another area as well. I believe it is an example of the intrusiveness of chance on meaning. In the play there's a scene near the end, where a woman is supposed to cross to the edge of the stage and burn some letters. The letters are supposed to prove, that one character in the play has engaged in certain actions with another character in the play... engaged in what one writer has dubbed, 'the love that dare not speak it's name'. In Tennessee Williams' version she burns the letters to save someone's reputation. But as we all know... if something can go wrong... it will. And so, on limited, but numerous, occasions; the play has been performed with the woman forgetting to have the letters in her possession during this important scene. And many an actress has resorted to PRETENDING to burn the letters. I'm told on those rare, and strange, occasions... when the actress has to PRETEND to burn letters, the play doubles in intensity.... Because IF the letters are a figment of the female characters imagination... as would be indicated by her having nothing of substance to feed the fire, then the play takes on a whole new, and very sinister slant... and I seem to think that's just wonderful. I can only pray Mr. Williams thought such a thing might someday happen. I can only think he knew the play might have two separate personalities... one evil and one good. Like a man who has an evil twin; one he hasn't yet met.

On the right half of the stage they are performing "Dark of the Moon". Because of a collating error made at the printers... what is right now being seen on the right half of the stage is the second half of, "Dark of the Moon". So the production is now at the point in the play where a woman gets raped in a church... and the church members are cheering encouragement to her attackers. This is a powerful scene, and a powerful statement on the fragile nature of man. The audience is very quiet... and following every word... when suddenly a woman four rows behind Guy stands up and shouts, "YOU ARE ALL GOING TO HELL!" at which point she pulls a gun from her purse and shoots herself in the head. Warm blood sprays the room and grey matter drops like pudding. up, Red droplets reach all the way from row E-E and back to the far wall.

By this time most everyone agrees an intermission is due. The lights come up. People aren't sure if the suicide is part of the performance. A mild patter of applause escapes the seated spectators. It isn't a lot of applause but it's enough. The elephant can be seen running across the stage. The elephant's trunk is curled around an actor and the elephant is obviously very agitated. The elephant is pounding the actor against the boards. Some critic once wrote, 'There are no small parts... only small actors.' The elephant is proving there actually are, 'small parts', as small parts of the actor are coming off.

The lights come up. Guy is released so he may take part in the intermission. He strolls back lobby. Strolls back to the bar. One of the waiters is being scolded. There are some patrons laying on the floor... holding their stomachs. The lead bartender is looking at some of the glasses and scolding a younger employee. "I told you not to touch these..." he says. "...they're for the last act of Hamlet."

Behind the bar there are large picture windows. Trees can be seen coming towards the theatre. Trees are crossing the parking lot and heading towards the theatre. Guy turns to look at a pretty lady. He points his thumb back over his shoulder, pointing towards the windows, "Birnam wood come to Dunsinane." he quips. The lady... aware of her beauty... is prone to cruelty.
"Those are obviously Ents." she says, with a superior lilt in her voice.
"Well pardon me all to hell." Guy says. He tosses his head back finishing his drink and then heads back inside to take his seat.

Again Guy gets fastened to his seat. The lights go down. For almost thirty minutes nothing happens; some coughing a few sneezes and that's it. "Maybe we're, Waiting for Godot." Guy whispers. A man near him says, "With this much time gone by... we're probably waiting for The Understudy of Godot."

Finally both plays resume, but in addition, a man in a tuxedo walks out to centre stage and starts an introduction. The spotlight follows him as he walks. He says, "Last year, an opera called 'Barry Scadinov' made its debut. The setting was the outdoor theatre of Moscow; a 10,000 seat outdoor theatre built near the city's main business district. The great musical talent, Gerghe F, wrote this animated and controversial opera. The opera, written about the fall of the Ruric dynasty, and yes, the fall of that Russian dynasty was a very turbulent affair. The opera, written about a turbulent era, fittingly... maybe necessarily... had a very turbulent debut. Gerghe F.'s opera was barely underway when an unexpected thunderstorm crashed up into the sky. And remember they were in an outdoor theatre. I guess they could have cancelled the performance. They audience could have sought shelter. They could have gone inside. But these were Russians. Russian people. Russian patrons of the arts. So, for the most part, they sat in their seats and suffered. Here tonight we'd like to re-create that opening night.”

The man in the tuxedo gestures and actors in Russian costumes invade the centre of the stage (invade a stage already crowded past reason.) To supply the storm, the firemen in the balcony open brass nozzles and water rains down. Some of the firemen are using their hoses like water cannon and knocking things over with the hard streams.

"I give you... BARRY SCADINOV!" the MC shouts as the orchestra begins to play and the Russian actors begin to sing.

It's a long evening. Guy gets tired. First the play on the left comes to a close. And then the play on the right. Then, finally, the opera sounds its last wet note.

The lights come up. The two huge guards make their way to his section and unchain Guy. They walk him up some narrow stairs. Up to the manager's office.

The manager is a fat man and he's wearing a costume. He's dressed like a clown because he often sings the part of Tondillierento, and tonight he's been practising. The manager opens a drawer and takes out a pack. He lights a cigarette. He puts the cigarette to his lips and takes a hit. He slowly lowers his cigarette and blows the smoke in Guy's direction. "Aren't you tired of this?" the manager says. "You must have seen, Auto de Fee, twenty times by now."

Guy squeezes water out of his hair and out of the edges of his coat. "Not like tonight's performance." he says.

"Haven't you had enough bad theater. 'cause that's all we do here... bad theater." The clown snuffs out his cigarette. "Guy, all you need do is apologize," he says, "then you may travel on... pass over... depart this veil of tears."

"I've told you before, " Guy says, “I was following orders. I was told to blow up that theater. It was an order. We were making a firebreak. The whole city was burning. We were blowing up everything in the path of the fire, trying to deny it fuel. So I did it. I blew up that theater. And I'd do it again if I had to."

"All I know is the rules." The clown answers. "If you ever damage a theater, any kind of theater... you have to come here and visit us. And your stay lasts as long as you remain stubborn. You stay here until you apologize. Don't you want to get past this veil of tears?"

"I think I'd rather bear those ills I have, than fly to others I know not of," Guy answers. "Besides," he adds, " you know how hard it is to get seats to a show."

The clown frowns. "An impasse… I could have guessed as much. An impasse." He turns to the bulletin board and looks at some papers. "So I guess you'll be here tomorrow night. Tomorrow we'll be doing 'West Side Story' and on the other part of the stage I'll be singing my greatest role; Tondillierento, the sad clown. In the middle they'll be presenting some captured creature from some island... some nature thingy. But if you're smart you'll keep your eyes on me." The clown approaches closer and smiles. Even the clown’s eyes seem to smile. "For tomorrow I sing."

"Talk to me after that." Guy says. "That just may be the tie-breaker."
Guy gestures, pointing to a couch in the manager's office. "Ok if I sleep here?" he asks.

"Sure," comes the answer. "I have a date with a showgirl. If all goes well I'll be in her bed tonight."

The clown turns off the lights as he leaves.

In the dark Guy Stamford closes his eyes. "Better bad theater than no theater at all." he says. He starts drifting off to sleep. Right at the point where he's drifting off, he says, almost in a whisper, almost without thinking about it...

"Our revels now are ended, and our little life rounded with a sleep."

He sleeps quietly.

He'll need his rest.

Tomorrow when the curtain opens…

he gets to meet King Kong.

 

Author’s Note On The Text:

A lot of what's described in this story has actually happened. The suicide, the collating error, the spraying for crickets that sent dozens to the emergency room. Anything that can go wrong in real life can go wrong in the theater... sneezing at the wrong time, sudden illness, power outages... I think that's what makes real theater magic.

I read that the theater in San Francisco was blown up when the great fire approached it during the early 1900's. I always wondered what the man who blew it up felt like.

*

Thomas Lee Joseph Smith has been published in 13 Stories, Scared Naked, Apocalypse Fiction and other places.