It Is Sentimental, It Is Not Realistic; It Is Life-Defining

Song for this chapter: “Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll” (Amy Macdonald)

It Is Sentimental, It Is Not Realistic; It Is Life-Defining

Chris didn’t text Zach after all.

When he took the cab from his hotel to the theater, he wasn’t even sure if he’d try to stick around afterwards. If he was lucky enough not to be recognized sneaking inside (that would be the day), he might head back to the hotel right after the show. He was only scheduled to leave New York in two days – he really needed a break at the moment – so he could always call Zach tomorrow (though he had no idea how he’d explain not dropping in after the show) – and of course he could always catch an earlier flight back to L.A. if New York was too much for his peace of mind right now. And it wasn’t as if he had anything to prove. To Zach. Or to the media. Or to himself. Well, maybe to himself.

Of course Chris was spotted pretty much the moment he got out of the cab in front of the Booth Theatre. Frankly, he hadn’t anticipated such a turnout in terms of fans, not for a serious play like “The Glass Menagerie”. So much for slipping away unseen. To his surprise, it wasn’t that bad, though. Maybe because he wasn’t jostled by security or hustled by publicists. Maybe because he wasn’t in a hurry to go somewhere, do something, be someone. However, he refused to sign any playbills. He had nothing to do with the play, for heaven’s sake! But he did put his signature on pretty much everything else except naked skin. (Although in one case he was almost tempted.) (Almost.)

One thing about theaters, though: People were in general better behaved than out in the streets. Once he’d claimed his seat, he was left alone. Alone with his thoughts – and that strange mixture of anticipation and anxiety that had taken hold of him.

When Zach appeared on the stage, Chris felt as if he had the breath knocked out of him. As if they were doing that stupid fight scene on the bridge all over again, with Zach’s hands wrapped around his throat while he gasped for air and tried not to drown in Zach’s dark eyes. And why did his mind have to flash back to that moment out of all possible Zach memories of seven fucking years?

“The play is memory. Being a memory play, it is dimly lighted, it is sentimental, it is not realistic.”

Yeah, Chris nodded, memory is indeed damn nonrealistic. Also, his memory was obviously big on poetic license. His brain had omitted a ton of details where Zach was concerned in the course of just a few months. Like how much he lo— how much he liked the exquisite nuances of Zach’s voice. His heart ached with each line, with each gesture.

“In memory everything seems to happen to music.”

Chris shuddered as a nearly overwhelming sense of surrealism gripped him. He knew it was impossible, but he could have sworn the stage music was that Edward Sharpe song all over again. And no matter how much the play captivated him, every now and again the story and the stage faded away. Scenes turned into slow-motion close-ups of Zach, of Zach talking to Chris instead of Tom speaking to the other actors.

What are you even doing here? the shadows surrounding the stage demanded. And on the stage, Zach shouted: “In my life here that I can call my OWN! Everything is—”

I— I wanted to see your play, of course, Chris thought. But that wasn’t quite true.

I wanted to see you, he admitted.

“Adventure and change were imminent in this year. They were waiting around the corner for—”

For … ? But Chris didn’t hear the rest of that passage because his heartbeat reverberated in his ears like fucking jungle drums.

“What did you wish for?” Amanda asked on the stage, startling Chris back to his senses.

Zach looked at Chris. Or did he? “That’s a secret.”

Tom’s monologue to introduce Jim really messed with Chris’s mind. For a moment he didn’t know anymore if he was watching the play or if he heard Spock talking about Jim Kirk or if this was Zach talking about him, about Chris.

“Captain … always running or bounding, never just walking … always at the point of defeating the law of gravity … I’m not patient. I don’t want to wait … I know I seem dreamy, but inside …”

When Zach wasn’t on stage, Chris was torn between relief and grief. As if all of a sudden not seeing Zach for a few minutes was too long, too much of a separation. And the splintered silence between the scenes asked him the same question over and over again: What the fuck are you doing here?

“I didn’t go to the moon, I went much further – for time is the longest distance between places,” Zach declared in his closing speech, and Chris’s stomach twisted into a tight knot. “I tried to leave you behind me, but I am more faithful than I intended to be …”

The candles went out; the scene dissolved; the applause was deafening.

Chris needed more than a moment to come back to reality. He needed even longer to man up and walk to the backstage entrance, asking politely if it was okay to go through. (“Yes, of course, Mr. Pine. If you’ll come with me, Mr. Pine …”)

Then he stood in a dimly lit hallway that smelled of sweat and dust and powder, knocking on a battered, non-descript wooden door. Five seconds later, Chris was staring at Zach, who was visibly still in the process of cleaning up after the play. His damp hair stuck up every which way. His face was flushed, his eyes still shining with stage high.

“What the fuck, Chris.” Zach beamed at him. “You couldn’t have called? Or texted? Or something?”

Chris attempted to shrug but didn’t get anywhere with the gesture because he was pulled into a tight embrace that left him breathless all over again, his heart pounding. How could something as elusive as the hug from an old friend affect him so strongly? Also, his heart wasn’t the only part of his anatomy that reacted to Zach’s greeting, though luckily his friend didn’t seem to notice.

“I should have,” Chris admitted. “And I should have brought flowers. Blue roses, of course. Or champagne. Or both. Yeah, definitely both.” For a desperate second, he thought he couldn’t come up with a compliment that wouldn’t make him sound insane. Fortunately, he sort of remembered a very sophisticated review he’d read in the New York Times months ago. “You know, that Brantley guy in the Times was right. This play? It’s really career-defining for you. Life-defining. And he used all those cool words in his article that currently escape me. Except fucking fantastic. Fabulous.”

“Stuff it with the alliterations, already. That’s so Peter Piper.” But Zach couldn’t stop grinning. “Give me ten minutes. Then we can head out. Go somewhere, or hang at my place.”

“Your place sounds good. I’ve been somewhere too often lately.” Chris gave Zach his best puppy dog eyes and added plaintively, “My introvert tendencies are in desperate need of assuaging.”

“Poor baby.”

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Author’s Notes

• Quoted passages in italics during the play indicate quotes from “The Glass Menagerie” by Tennessee Williams.

• The review Chris refers to is the article “Wounded by Broken Memories” by Ben Brantley, New York Times Theater Reviews, September 26, 2013.

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