Flaming

But what is it?

Zakary finds his answer in the greenroom, where Jonatho is seated with Oliver. A stony silence seems to have recently fallen between them. Zakary breaks it: “Did something happen?”

The two look up from the table. “Hudson got cold feet,” says Oliver with an acrid bite. “The damned lead actor fled like a coward. Gone. Poof. I knew I should have cast understudies for this show, but I thought I had committed, loyal actors who have more sense than to just flake on opening night of a Jonatho Nassar worldwide premiere.”

Zakary looks at Jonatho, finding the heartbreak in his eyes. This is supposed to be his big comeback show to impress the New York City producer who will be in the audience tonight. What a nightmare.

Jonatho sighs. “Well, I guess we could make an announcement, cancel opening night, and—”

“Are you crazy?” blurts Oliver. “We can’t do that. This is the defining show of the season. The patrons are expecting a performance. Our investors. Someone from the Dallas Observer will be here. Not to mention Jeremiah, the producer from New York. And the house is sold out all weekend. We … We can’t … oh my god, I’m gonna throw up.” He clutches his head and pulls on his hair. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god …”

“There, there,” says Jonatho, rubbing the director’s back with a hand. “Worst case scenario, we can call someone in to run the play with script-in-hand. Maybe we can … turn it into an intentional thing. Or a staged reading complete with lighting and sound. An intimate, interactive experience.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“I know. But what else can we do? It’s not like we magically have someone on-hand who happens to know every word of the play and can easily—”

Jonatho freezes halfway through his sentence. His eyes carry a glint of desperation and hope as he brings them to Zakary. His lips part with the astonishment of an idea occurring to him.

A very bad idea. Zakary loses all his breath the next instant. “N-No,” he blurts out. “I can’t. I … No.”

“But you know the whole play, Zakary.” Jonatho is to his feet at once. “You know every line. You even know and understand the motivations of the characters. You live and breathe every scene of my play. There is no one in this city I would trust more with my work than you, and that’s saying a lot.”

“I … I can’t do it.” Zakary lets out a manic laugh. “I haven’t acted in anything since I was a teenager. You’re insane to think I can just hop in Hudson’s place and—”

“But you can. It isn’t a happy ending this play’s missing. It’s someone like you. Raw. Natural. Real. Red, you did skits and studied acting as part of the curriculum in college, did you not? You told me about them last night, how they made you feel. Just because you relegate yourself to being a stagehand out of fear of the spotlight doesn’t mean you’re not an actor. Are you hearing what I’m saying? You were natural enough when I put you onstage during dress rehearsal yesterday and threw water in your face. I could have believed you were rehearsing just as much as Hudson’s been.”

It’s now that Oliver lifts his head from his hands, catching the rapid fire discussion that’s going on across the table. “Wait a minute here, Jonatho, hold your horses. Are you trying to recast my leading man … with one of the stagehands? Are you kidding me? Did you not hear who will be here tonight? What kind of ridiculous farce do you think this is?”

Jonatho seems as certain as if it’s already a done deal. “It’s our only option. And it makes more sense than you think. He knows the entire play. All the blocking. All the lines. Even Emilio’s.”

Oliver turns to Zakary, as if seeing him for the first time ever, a total stranger. His maddened eyes turn quizzical as he squints.

“You can do this, Zakary,” says Jonatho. He comes around the table and takes hold of Zakary’s hands, which have quickly become cold, clammy, and shaky. “Look at my eyes. There isn’t even a question in them. Even the walls right now are muttering their agreement, these walls who know you better than I do, these walls who’ve watched you. My play is in your blood, Zakary. It’s as if …” He smiles that dashing smile of his. “It’s as if I wrote this role for you and didn’t even realize it until tonight. Fate has a funny way of working out, doesn’t it? This is just as much your chance as it is mine, and it’s as easy to take as … fishy food off a tiny saucer by the window.”

Oliver recoils. “The hell kind of analogy is that?”