Outside, Looking In

I was given a script to read, a part to play. I read my script and played my part, and I did so with true intent. Simply excited to be on stage, I gave no thought to the content or quality of my script. I was a part of something, a grand play. My friends and I all defined ourselves around our acting, often staying late under the guise of improving our acting, but really we just fed each other meaningless compliments. In truth, our acting was terrible, but nobody cared enough to tell us, or perhaps they simply didn’t notice.

Deep into a rehearsal session one day, something happened. I faltered, and could not find the words. I knew the words, I had said them a hundred times before, but for some reason they simply would not come. I stumbled and stammered through, mortified beyond belief at my failure. I expected to be either mocked or chastised, but to my surprise it was as though nothing had happened. The others cheerily patted me on the back, the director chimed in with his usual uplifting comments. It was then that I noticed how fake everyone was, how hollow the whole ordeal felt.

I started to become bored with the play we had been working on for so long. I began dropping lines out of my dialog, to see if anyone would notice. Sometimes, I would arrive at the start of rehearsal, then sneak out to the parking lot to sit in my car and listen to the radio. I would return before the end, and if anyone noticed, they never said anything.

One day, the director called me aside to inform me I was being recast. Starting next week, I would be playing the lead. THE lead. Suddenly my passion was renewed. I instantly forgot my distaste for the material, because after all, now it was all about ME! My eyes filled with stardom, I worked harder and longer than I ever had before. I honed my craft, my part became my life. Then something happened that would change everything.

I saw a play.

I know, it sounds crazy that I spent so much time on this project without actually doing any actual research, right? Well, that’s what I figured, so I decided to go out and actually see a play. What I experienced was shocking to me.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The characters felt real, the story was enthralling, and most of all, it actually made me feel something. It made the play I was working on look like the scrawls of some halfwit with a fountain pen full of feces. I began to see more plays, some good, some bad, but all were better than that awful festering mold on the nipples of good taste that we had the poor sense to commit a crime against humanity by calling it a play.

Yet I still felt an obligation to participate in it. Maybe out of some sort of sense of duty, maybe because these people were my friends, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I did my best to try to elevate it, but I simply felt foolish. I sleepwalked through most of the rehearsals, and left as early as I could. Whenever I was there, I wasn’t actually there. My mind wandered, to more interesting places, more compelling subjects, and sometimes I would read my mail-order scripts during times when I was supposed to be studying my lines.

The big day finally came, opening night. I looked around, surrounded by plastic smiles and propped up bravado. The curtain rose, and I looked out over the audience. I realized how incredibly silly I must look, associating myself with these mannequins and spouting this worthless tripe.

I was given a script to read, and a part to play.

Breathlessly, I stepped forward. The other actors waited in their states of mock euphoria for me to start the show, the audience politely and silently held their applause. I stood straight and tall, in this moment of frozen time, and they regarded me with slight anticipation. In that very moment, I clicked my feet together, lowered my chest in a tremendous bow, and exited the stage, never to return.