Flaming

As if he needed to feel even more awkwardly tall.

“Hey, hey, everyone get into places! It’s dress rehearsal! C’mon!” shouts Becky, the stage manager and all-around mama bear (or bossy, actor-and-crew-wrangling big sister) of the production. “Spectacle is over!” After everyone has cleared, she gives Zakary a look, then smirks. “To be honest, didn’t think you had it in you, either. Now get to your wing of the stage. We’re running the show without any stops tonight, Goddess willing.”

Zakary’s face is as red as his hair when he nods obediently and heads off.

Becky’s promise would be broken within the first half hour of the run, when Oliver, the director, stops the show to give the leads of the scene—Hudson and Emilio—some “very necessary last-minute direction”. Backstage, Zakary sits on a chair by the curtain, waiting for the run to resume, and pulls out his phone. The forum is still open, full of countless other Never Have I Ever comments. Was it really worth it, to play the game and do this ridiculous thing to his hair? Even back here in the darkness behind the stage curtains, he feels like everyone is looking at him.

That feeling should only be reserved for actors on a stage. Not for the humble stagehand, whose job is to literally not be seen.

But when Zakary glances toward Hudson and Emilio onstage being spoken to by the moody and irate director, he can’t help but dream his little dream of being out there in front of the audience. Of course there isn’t one tonight, but wouldn’t it be an incredible feeling, to taste just an ounce of what a cocky idiot like Hudson has tasted a hundred times before? To feel the audience’s eyes upon him, drinking in his every word, his every action, then bursting into applause when the curtain falls?

And the play they’re putting on isn’t any normal one. It’s the latest original play by a semi-famous playwright from New York City, Jonatho Nassar, a disarmingly dreamy man in his forties who also happens to be brilliant at what he does. In fact, a play of his blew up the off-Broadway scene seven years ago and earned him notoriety countrywide, though it fell short of earning the Pulitzer, losing to some play about three employees in a Massachusetts art-house movie theater. That didn’t matter to Zakary, who saw Jonatho as a demigod in the theatre world for his riveting, intimate work. Jonatho’s play, which tells the story of two men and their relationship crumbling before their eyes, gripped Zakary’s soul the moment he read the heartbreaking script a few months ago, even though it has a sad, heavy ending. He knew they had struck gold when they happened upon Jonatho’s work, and Zakary was instantly in love with the words. From the wings, he can recite every word by heart and feel every emotion of the characters as if they were his own.

Of course, Zakary can entertain a halfhearted dream or two of being on that stage in any capacity, but the real dream is bringing to life a character that Jonatho has created—like the meaty role Hudson is playing. What’s happening on that stage right now is the real stuff.

Or at least when the director Oliver isn’t shouting at them. “No, no, you’re still not giving it enough. I need to feel your pain!”

The show opens tomorrow, and they’re already treating the final dress like just another rehearsal, stopping and starting at will. And that’s all due to Hudson—a totally straight and cocky know-it-all—and his discomfort playing the role of a sensitive gay man with a vault of secrets. Even a whole month later, it still feels like Hudson has no grasp of his character whatsoever.

Not like Zakary does. Zakary knows all about longing for something he’ll never have. He has felt time and time again the bittersweet bite of pining—and the despairing emptiness of returning home, unsatisfied and lonesome. A lot of near-empty cartons of ice cream in his freezer is proof of that.

As well as his best friend in the world being his cat. The cat isn’t even properly his; she just keeps coming back to his windowsill every night, a stray in the oftentimes harsh environment of the Dallas streets. She seems to be resentful and hateful of everything—except dear Zakary. That’s probably just because he feeds her. He doesn’t mind; having a friend who only sometimes savagely claws at you for your blood is better than none at all.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant, Hudson, Emilio, my sweethearts,” calls out Oliver, stopping the scene yet again. “Hudson, you’re upstaging Emilio if you clink around with the glasses at the bar too soon. We talked about this a week ago. Yes, of course I still want you to pour yourself a drink, as it’s what you’ll splash in Emilio’s face when he pisses you off. Emilio, dear, you need to come from a place of eye-twitching anger when you confront him about why he was out late last night, and—Hmm, y’know what? I’ll just come up, be a bad director, and show you guys myself. This is Jonatho Nassar’s comeback play, his big debut in Dallas, the Jonatho Nassar, theatre royalty, and we open tomorrow for crying out loud! Lord help me …”