Part 2

     This is probably the right time to flash back and tell you more about the young life of this story’s protagonist. That being myself, I should be well up to the task. I’ll tell you about his parents. They aren’t bad people. They aren’t good people. They’re self-absorbed which makes them no more, no less than typical. They pushed him towards college because they desired that he reflect success back upon them. This was quite unnecessary as both his mother and father were well established and hardly needed him for validation. His father ran a successful car dealership and his mother was an absolute pillar of the community. Her fair face could be seen in the photos from countless fundraisers, often alongside that of her pudgy, red-headed husband’s. Such a union of near beauty and relative wealth, to their expectation, should’ve produced a child bound for financial as well aesthetic prosperity. Instead they found themselves with a runty, ruddy faced child with above average intelligence but no practical ambition. They made no effort to conceal their disgust at this fact. They instead kept it present through exasperated sighs, stares and the occasional slamming of doors. He can picture his mother now with her unnaturally raven hair, sharply defined cheeks and lipless, southern twang:

“We simply cannot support you, Sam, darling. I just need to know that you understand that. Do you? Do you really? Your father and I, well, we are giving you every opportunity to succeed but that’s all that we can do. It’s more that we should do, more than most would do, but it’s because we love you. You need to think long and hard about something. Will you do that for me, dear? You’re simply not going to get by on looks and personality and you’re simply not going to get by on us, so when you don’t do as well as we know you can in school, well, that’s just your fault and no one else’s, isn’t it? I’ve seen the test scores, Sam, and there’s not one good reason, not a single one, that you shouldn’t be getting straight A’s. We are not paying for your education when you and I both know that would simply be an admission that you didn’t try.”

And his father:

“Sam, do you think what I do is easy? It’s not. I bust my tail to provide for you and Linda. She appreciates it and she gives back to the world. What are you gonna give, huh? You’re just like me in a lot of ways: you’re short, chubby and stubborn as hell. The difference is, I used that to make something of myself. I swam. I didn’t sink. You’re sinking, buddy. That’s what happens to chubby little bastards that don’t bust their tail. You got that? There ain’t no free rides in life, buddy. You need to work towards a scholarship, because when you’re out of high school the gravy train stops, ok? You’re out of this house and you swim or you die. You’re out of the nest and we’re going to live our lives and we’re gonna be just fine. I don’t know if you will be, pal. That’s up to you.”

    The thing about advice is: it needs marrow. The same platitudes that can be inspiring and effective spoken by a role model are limp and lifeless when parroted by someone you don’t respect. The things his parents said to him, and these were the primary things that they said to him, weren’t entirely unreasonable, he did well in school but he could’ve easily gotten A’s rather than mostly B’s if he applied himself fully. However, from people who didn’t live up to that standard themselves, it all came across as a bit insulting. His father worked as a manager for a car dealership owned by his own father. He received commission from cars sold by those below him. Supervisory abilities he may have possessed- or not, as nepotism generally supersedes ability- but ‘tail busting’ wasn’t part of the job description. As for his mother, she lived a social life. She didn’t work in soup kitchens, she attended parties. They raised money but the amount given was determined by the math of tax deductions not the needs of the given cause. He couldn’t take such people seriously, not when they lived such hypocritical lives.

Their marriage, which may have seemed ideal to a very casual observer, was really something of a farce. His father surely noticed the way his wife looked at other men. She flirted so brazenly that it caused discomfort for even the objects of her flattery. She was constantly patting the forearms and rubbing the shoulders of male friends in front of her husband, often while cooing warm appraisals:

“Nathan, you’re so tall with the most wonderful broad shoulders. Women must adore you. If I were your wife, I’d keep you under lock and key.”

Or:

“Oh, Robert, I’ve always found you intoxicating, the picture of handsome health. You have the body of an athlete and the smile of a leading man.”

His response to these lines was to laugh, often heartily, and the more blatant her advance, the louder he’d respond. Something like: “John, you have the most adorable dimples” would garner a light chuckle. While something like:

“Lucas, this is so funny. I dreamt about you last night. I’m embarrassed to tell you the whole thing but, well, it was like a fairy tale. You were a dashing knight and you rescued me from this monstrous little troll. You saved me, Lucas, and I was so grateful. Heavens, I’m embarrassed to tell you how grateful I was!...  Very. I can tell you that. I was very. Isn’t that so funny?”

That would bring gales of laughter from his father. He would shake his head while bouncing backwards in his seat as if he’d never heard something so outrageously silly. His mother would laugh a bit herself, while leering straight at Lucas. Whether or not she actually cheated on him, though it was likely, was beside the point. She clearly did it out of spite and he refused to acknowledge it as such. It was a fascinating game they played. Their son never tired of observing them. They were both remarkable, yet vastly different, performers. His father seemed to truly believe himself to be a great man and thus conducted himself as if everyone else thought so as well. He couldn’t be shaken from his conviction towards this fantasy. He was always impeccably dressed, not with any trace of personal style, but down to his socks he wore nothing but expensive brand names. He, naturally, never drove a car more than eighteen months past its rollout date. And he was constantly telling crude anecdotes to demonstrate his personal brand of charm:

“We’ve got this green pea” (new salesman at the dealership) “up there and he can’t catch a fish” (gullible customer) “to save his life. So, I told him, ’Jimmy, you’re not confident. I can see it and if I can see it, they can see it. You need to do whatever you can to get some swagger. When’s the last time you got laid, Jimmy?...  Now, I don’t even need an answer to that cuz I know it’s been awhile. That’s your problem. I’ll tell you how to fix it too. You need to go out tonight to a bar, any bar. You need to find the easiest thing in that bar, Jimbo. And don’t be picky either cuz this is business. You get yourself laid, no matter who it is, and you’re gonna get yourself confident. You get confident, you sell cars. You sell cars and you can go back to that same bar, pick out the prettiest girl in there and take her home.’ So, Jim said ‘Thanks I’ll definitely keep that in mind’. Well you know what?”

For punctuation here he would punch his fist into the palm of his hand “Two days later, Ol’ Jim came strutting on to that lot and he sold a car!” And then he would break into a narrow, slightly crooked smile.

                Aside from not realizing that he had told this same story many times before to its prepubescent recipient, It didn’t seem to occur to him that Jim might have already had a current, healthy sexual relationship with a woman, and that Jim may have simply gotten better at sales the way anyone gets better at anything. It didn’t occur to him that all people gain confidence in specific tasks every day that they do them, as they transfer the things that they overthink in the beginning out of their way and into their subconscious. It didn’t seem to occur to him that Jimmy might actually be disgusted by his carnal advice and that he might have only taken it politely because it came from his boss whose surname graced the marquee. No, to him, it was clearly a sign of respect from a man who only sold a car because the great Lou Harvey gave him a pep talk. This was the same ‘great man delusion’ that caused him to brag about the flirtation he got from female customers, women that he was certain he could ‘bang’ if he really wanted to, while not acknowledging the obvious motives they would have to butter him up. The same delusion caused him to find hysterical his wife’s blatant come-ons to other men. How could they be taken seriously? He was a ‘great man’. He knew it and she did. And if he ever thought too much about the discrepancies in this delusion, he’d become remarkably skilled at pushing them into the dark corners of his mind.

                His mother on the other hand was strikingly self-aware. Such a quality can make for an exceedingly honest person or a remarkable liar. His mother was either depending upon her mood which, even in itself, was an affectation. She varied it precisely to fit the situation. Her emotions appeared so genuine to a casual observer that it was standard to forgive her almost any offense in lieu of her raw passionate nature, to say:

“Oh, Linda is just so full of life she can’t control herself sometimes! She always means well though. I swear she has the biggest heart of anyone I know.”

                Variations of this were recited often by friends and family members and it spoke to her talent that, at least in terms of her reputation, she was able to balance the tricky mix of vibrancy/edge with decency/kindness, and that people were drawn to her, thought well of her, in any and every social setting. It was only in observing her, night after night, for years that her son began to see the contradictions. It wasn’t, in fact, until he saw one particularly jarring transition that the artifice of it all was brought into sharp relief and everything about his mother suddenly made sense.

                It was the summer of his twelfth year and he was has having a crisis of confidence. Already short for his age, his parents had pushed him forward a grade and he had spent the previous school year being intimidated by his classmates. He did pushups and sit-ups every night and morning to increase his strength and to attempt to melt away his baby fat but he was drastically outmatched by nearly everyone and had been shoved around as a matter of course in the hallways. The summer break was a huge relief and he now spent most of his time at the library or alone with the flickering screen. It never felt like wasted time. On this particular Friday, he had the house to himself the entire day while his father was working and his mother was out at one of her events. He had watched movies until falling asleep and had just woken to begin his evening workout when he heard the hysterics of his returning mother in the living room below. He had seen his mother sob before but never alone. It scared him. He crouched at the top of the stairs giving him a partial view of the living room while leaving himself mostly obscured. His mother was pacing with a phone to her ear. She was shaking and labored as she began to speak:

“Oh, my God, Lou! Oh, my Lord, I can’t… I can’t… even tell you how scared I am right now” She breathed deeply and paused to summon her composure.

“I was (deep breath) assaulted tonight by a man, a large angry man at the hall” She began a high pitched wail that seemed to go on for several aching minutes but in hindsight must’ve been no more than ten seconds long.

“(deep breath) he threatened me! He pushed me…. He wanted to ki… he wanted to harm me!” The wail again, just as sharp, then stuttering sobs and finally “Rush home…. Come home, dear”.

As he watched his mother walk away, his pulse raced. He was angry. His eyes welled up and his body tensed. He wanted to protect his mother, to find that man who made her cry. If he was bigger, when he was bigger, he would find him. He would train like Stallone. He would teach himself to fight. He would make himself into a man. He hated himself for being so weak, so doughy and short. He sat there and wondered what to do. Should he comfort her, tell her it was all OK? Should he retreat to his room and do more push-ups, fortifying himself for the day when he would need to defend her honor? He just sat there and felt sorry for her and himself until he saw her walk back into frame. She was wearing a different shirt and her makeup was flawless. She had the phone in one hand and a wineglass in the other. She placed the wineglass upon the accent table and placed herself upon the chaise lounge. She then dialed and spoke calmly into the phone:

“Meredith, darling, I would’ve called you back sooner but it was just, uh… goodness……. yes, darling, I am absolutely fine. Don’t you waste one second worrying about lil’ ‘ol me……. Well, sure you can come by for a bit….. yes, darling, fine. I swear to it…. Oh, lord, I think he was more scared of me to tell the truth!” Then she laughed in such a genuinely merry way that he couldn’t help but smile …“Well, ok, then, I’ll be here. You just come on in.”

                With that, she placed down the phone and picked up a magazine. She’d never looked more at ease and he felt sincere awe for the first time in his life. Real awe is not merely appreciation but a mix of fear and wonder that leaves you transfixed. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He was repulsed by her disingenuousness as he was dazzled by the fluidity of it. He’d long thought of his mother as being a bit of a flake, an impulsive, prisoner of her emotions. He now faced the revelation that she was always, despite appearances, fully in control.

                When Meredith arrived he crept further up the stairs and listened. After the obligatory offer and acceptance of wine and ‘you sure you’re alright?’ followed by reassurances that she was, his mother began telling the story of her night. It was a fundraising dinner for a local Christian Rescue Mission. They had a rehab program much like AA for the homeless and several graduates of that program had been hired as the wait staff for the event:

“It was going wonderful, darling. We had a swing band, fine wine and a poet who did the most amazing piece about being lost in the forest and somehow he found water or something. Oh, it was all going so well. Then I was approached by one of the waiters. Clearly, he had taken a moment from bringing the wine to, well… indulge.” She laughed a happy laugh and Meredith joined in.

“He says ‘Ma’am I seen you in the paper the other day. I wanna thank you’”

She slurred her words comically as she said this “’And I mean it, I really, really do.”

They were laughing harder now and she must have stood up to pantomime.

 “And he lurches at me like ‘Uh, really do, ma’am, uh, thank you’ like he’s going for a hug. I sashay away like so. Remember, darling, I’m wearing heels but unlike this wino, I can hold my liquor and my balance, and he falls to the ground” Meredith’s distinctive cackle was ringing throughout the house.

“He’s embarrassed of course and he says “I wasn’t gonna hurt you. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, bitch. Well, I may be a lady but, remember now that, I’d had quite a few as well, so I said ‘You ungrateful, little prick! How dare you, you ungrateful little bastard!’ He stands up and says ‘I’m a man! You don’t talk to a man like that!’ No sooner had he said this than one of our security staff tethered his arms and I said ‘No, that is a man, you are just a bastard!”

“Oh, my God, you didn’t say that!” said Meredith.

“I swear I did, Darling. I don’t even know why he was insulted. Technically, it’s probably true!”

With that both they both laughed so hard that they couldn’t talk for a couple of minutes.

“Oooh, you know the truth, Meredith, is that we do everything that we can, I mean everything, but the best those people can hope for is a menial job and even that is beyond the reach of most of them. Still we try. “

“You’re a saint for trying and to put yourself in harm’s way…”

“Oh, I’m hardly scared about some wino doing me harm. I was really just worried that he wanted to dance with me!”

They drank, talked and laughed for about an hour until the phone rang: “Oh, its Lou. He probably heard about things. I might just have to let you go, darling. He’ll be home and worried and I’ll have to soothe him.”

She exchanged pleasantries with Meredith, ushered her out and he slid down the stairs a bit to watch his mother. She walked back to the phone, dialed and without taking even a moment to gather herself, slipped into character. Her voice was cracked, soft and sputtering:

“Yes, dear…. I’m ok… I’m scared… Ye…yes… Don’t worry about me… well, they took him away…. I don’t know if I’ll press charges… I’m afraid…. Yes… just hurry…. I’ll be in bed… ok”.

She placed down the phone and he scurried back to his room. She didn’t check on him. She never mentioned to him the events of that night. He thought about it a lot, about his mother’s effortless switch from despair to levity to, presumably, crying in her husband’s arms. Surely the version she told to Meredith was closer to the truth but why did she even call Meredith? Why go from one extreme to the other and why do it with a potential witness right upstairs? The answers he settled on were: that his mother played divergent characters and switched between them in such a way simply because she could, because she was gifted at it, and that she didn’t consider him in any of this because he was just a kid. He was not important enough to be involved in, or not capable of comprehending the sophisticated game she played. The events of that night were a revelation. The more he watched her, the more he realized that she was essentially performing every moment of every day and the more he watched everyone else, the more he began to see subtle versions of the same thing. Soon all around him he saw the blatant manipulation that fueled the world.

One of the students who picked on him at school was a stocky blond kid only a few inches taller whose acne was as pronounced as his confidence. This kid dominated those around him with aggressiveness. He was constantly running up to his, mostly larger, buddies, feinting with his shoulders and proclaiming in a loud voice “Let’s go! Let’s go right now!” They’d flinch backward then he’d punch them in the stomach or the leg and laugh. They’d laugh too but in the over-agreeable way that never sounds sincere. He didn’t understand how a relatively little kid could wield power among his peers until he saw Goodfellas one night. Joe Pesci is the smallest actor in the cast but easily the scariest. The reason for this is that even people who regularly engage in violence have an aversion to it. Almost everyone does even if they pretend to enjoy it. People like Pesci’s character, people who seem to have a real taste for it, who might spark it at any time, they make everyone uncomfortable and thus people indulge and flatter them just to keep them happy. He assumed that this kid must have been forged in some kind of exceedingly tough environment. He must be a powder keg like Pesci. He assumed this until he began to watch him.

In the class they shared the kid was quiet and sneering but in a very affected way. He’d glare at those around him not just when they caught his attention but while they didn’t even notice, as if he was ever trying to catch theirs. He walked the halls with the same swagger, bumping people with his shoulder and daring a response but whenever a much larger kid walked by, he gave them a wide berth. Then one day, viewed from a couple of tables away in the cafeteria, he was vividly revealed for the pretender that he was. He never sat with his constant companions: the kids he pushed around. He sat above his station with a group of football players who seemed to view him in the manner of a freshman fraternity pledge. He refilled the drinks of the entire table. He was habitually slapped in the back of the head and he took small paper wads to the face, all with the same type of deferential laughter his whipped buddies gave to him. He was no Pesci. He was a lackey who spent most of his day posing an Alpha male. He was just like Samuel’s mother, his father and all the rest: a liar.

It was around this time that he developed one of the cornerstone ethics of his life: If all of society is filled with actors, then the only fully honest people are those who identify themselves as such. They separate themselves from the fakes of the world by openly embracing falsity. They shine a light upon it and transform crude deception into a brilliant art. He wanted to be one of them: an actor, an artist, a truly honest man.

He started mimicking his parents. He mimed the alternating posture of his father who generally slouched and rested his girth on his hips but, when entering a room, would stand taller, puff out his chest and pull back his shoulders for several seconds before lapsing back into his normal lazy stance. When someone approached him or an attractive woman passed by, he would puff up again and then lapse for a while and then puff and lapse as the situation dictated. Samuel exaggerated this, lurching up and down dramatically to emphasize his father’s pep talk style. He’d arch his back and push his chest comically forward while launching into a sermon:

“Now listen here, buddies! We’ve got a job..”

(dramatic exhale and slouch) “to do. These cars here on this lot need to move, uh, off the lot.”

(PUFF) “There’s only one way that can happen!”

(slouch) “I mean provided we don’t move ‘em ourselves and, uh, test drives don’t count.”

(PUFF) “I mean they’ve gotta sell!”

(slouch while breathing heavily)

(PUFF) “And I mean sell big!”

(slouch) “not small.”

(PUFF) “Big! Big margins, buddies!”

(slouch) “so, uh, you guys go and do that. I’m gonna take a nap.”

(PUFF) “A power nap!”

When he had full run of the house he performed his father’s speeches at the front of the living room to an imaginary assemblage on the couch and chairs. His mother was more theatrical so he always gave her an entrance: strolling dramatically from the kitchen or descending a staircase. “Dawwlling” He would say sauntering in with an empty wine glass:

“I’ve missed you so much! No, not you, Lou, sit back down. I mean this enchanting stranger here. I’ve missed him all my life. What’s your name, dear?”

He would then splay himself limply across the lounge and fan himself with his free hand.

“Oh, I’m weak! I’m suddenly weak with desire…. for…. another drink!… Lou, get that for me, will you?”

He’d crane his neck to watch Lou walk away and then affect a stage whisper.

“What’s that? Oh, no, I wouldn’t say happily married. It’s convenient, sure. What size shoe do you wear, darling? Hold on.”

He’d rise to his feet and yell into the kitchen “Lou, I really want Merlot. Be a sweet man and go fetch some. I’m going to give our new friend a tour upstairs.” He’d then beckon to the imaginary stranger and exit upstage.

                The audience in his mind was always there. They didn’t outwardly laugh or applaud. They watched in respectful silence as he began to learn his craft. They appreciated him. Somehow he knew that they did. It often felt like they were watching him even in his quietest moments so he tried to make even those a bit more vivid. Alone watching television, he would straighten his posture, stroke his chin and try to convey an air of regal thoughtfulness. He would be alone in the kitchen and it was like he was watching himself, seeing the scene clearly as if he were on the screen. Then he’d crack an egg with a flourish and a raised eyebrow. 

From the library he checked out any book he could find that dealt with: acting, film, television or theater. He watched everything, hoping that if he soaked himself thoroughly in the world of performance, it would absorb into him, and his very fiber would be changed.
 

When his freshman year arrived he couldn’t apply for the drama department because he was a year younger than his class and not yet eligible.

For his sophomore year tryout, he was given a one minute monologue to be read spontaneously from a piece of paper. This was a large hurdle given to any first time applicants to weed out the uncommitted. As each of them concluded their brief speeches, they were told to exit left and that there would be a next day notice listing any and all new members of the department. There were no underclassmen on the list.

By his junior year, he had advanced from pitifully short to fairly short and this, paired with the clear evidence of a sinewy, powerful frame, had markedly improved his confidence. He was given a chance to do an improvised piece for his audition and he prepared a crowd pleasing sketch for the cast and the drama teacher. He played the teacher herself as she told her students to: ‘emote and be in the moment’ while she strolled about the stage, checking her cellphone and nails, seemingly bored by the whole process. She apparently had a sense of humor. He was accepted at last.

His parents had enough to worry about by this point that they had ceased bothering him about his grades and seemed entirely unaware of his new extracurricular activities. An economic downturn had hurt both the luxury car industry and the lavish fundraiser circuit. It was so unfair to them that they were forced to fully embrace nightlife in an attempt to cope. His mother ate out virtually every night with ‘friends’. His father, who never before seemed to follow sports- instead fueling his competitive instincts with the stock market- now embraced them with a passion. There was never a night without a game of some sort and thus never a bad night for heading to a sports bar and ogling the waitresses. Perhaps, his wife’s increasing distance from him pushed him towards activities that felt stereotypically ‘manly’. Or, perhaps, his sudden obsession with football, baseball, basketball, hockey, boxing, mixed martial arts, Australian Rules football and stock car racing just happened organically on its own.

Sometimes everything just comes together as if written by an unseen hand. This was such a time in his life. If he hadn’t been accepted to the drama department, if he hadn’t been introduced to this new world at the same time he was living in an essentially empty house, he would never have gotten to truly know Malaya.

She was, and is, the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. She doesn’t have the cold, dull symmetry of a model. Her features are stronger, proportioned in the most sensual way. She has large dark eyes- luminous orbs designed to perfectly catch the light. It dances there, flickering in such a way as to draw anyone unvigilant into a lingering stare. Her lips are so soft and thick that they scramble any present thoughts with the immediate impulse to lean in closer, to promise the world and to obtain it just for a peck of gratitude. Her complexion is naturally close to fawn or earth yellow but it seems to glow in such a way that It begs for the label of an ‘earthen gold’. Without shoes she’s a centimeter on either side of five feet tall and her curves are the type seen less in fashion mags than in the sincere sketches of horny adolescents not yet directed away from their primal desires.

It was only the empowerment he felt from his strong audition that allowed him to talk to her. While his self-esteem was rock solid, forged over years of believing in himself and his ethics, his self-confidence vacillated wildly. Confidence needs reinforcement. It’s only an irrational mind that can expect good results after countless consecutive failures. He knew this. He knew that the warm excitement that comes from a crowd’s approval is a temporary high. So, while it was there flowing through him, shortly after walking off stage, he approached her.

“Hey, are you trying out today?”

“Yes, I’m sooo nervous. You were so cool though! It was really funny.”

“Thanks, I was really nervous too.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell at all.”

She paused after she said this and just looked at him. The light was dancing, lips were pursed upon golden skin, and he couldn’t have spoken with a script to read from.

“Are you ok?”

“Oh, yeah, I, uh… I was gonna say that everyone gets nervous. You shouldn’t ignore it. Just accept it and let it heighten your alertness. Accept that nerves are there and focus on your technique.”

“Huh, that’s sounds familiar…”

“It’s from Uta Hagen-

“-Respect for Acting! I’ve read that. Oh, man, I’m such a geek for this stuff!”

“Wow, no, that’s cool. I love that book. I’m really geeky too… I mean, I just love performance. I’ve never graced a stage before today though.”

“Ahhh, and you looked so comfortable. Oh, gosh, I never have either. I need your composure.”

“W-well, I, uh, I think you’re gonna do great.”

She found this funny and laughed with a perfect toothy grin: “Why?”

“Well, you have natural charisma. Hey, I just met you and I like you so… I think they’re gonna love you. What are you going to do?”

She smiled and melted him with a two second glance.

“Just some silly speech from As You Like It. I’m not doing a sketch like you but it’s a character I’ve always liked and I wanna do a different take on her.”

“Rosalind?”

“Ahhh, you know the play. Yes, of course, Rosalind!”

“What do you like about the character?”

“Um, her loyalty, her strength, her wit… Sooo much about her is what I’d like to be.”

She smiled and sighed while Samuel took a mental note to obtain a copy or, better yet, a film version of the play he was only passingly familiar with.

“Sam, you’re really helping my nerves I think.”

“Oh, great.”

“Yeah, I’m trying not to overthink and talking to you helps.”

“I’m glad.. . how did you know my name?”

“Um, they announced it when you went on stage. You don’t have mine though.”

“Well, no… I mean yes, actually. It’s Malaya. I looked you up in the yearbook.”

She looked at him curiously and gave a slight smile.

“Why’d you tell me that?”

“I don’t like to lie.”

“That’s good to know about you, Sam. And you pronounced my name right. Most people put a ‘lay’ in the middle. I think we’re friends already.”

He blushed, an expression he tried hard to avoid as it brought an obscene redness to his face. She responded with the coy smile given by women who know and take pride in their effect on men. They called her name and she punched him gently in the arm and mouthed the words: ‘wish me luck’. He responded with: “You’re gonna be amazing.” And she was.

                Rosalind spends much of the play posing as a man and Malaya- the most feminine looking creature imaginable- chose a scene to play in drag. She pulled on a newsboy cap to cover her short, black hair and strode onto the stage with only the slightest trace of her natural sway. Standing in profile in the prominent light with dark slacks and a white button up, her bountiful curves of lip, hip and bust made her resemble less a guy than a role playing centerfold. That is until she stepped forward and began dressing down an imaginary girl:

“And who is your mother, that you insult the wretched? What? You have no beauty! I see no more in you than that which without a candle, goes dark to bed. Why must you be proud and pitiless?”

She threw her shoulders into these words and spit them with less the rhythm of blank verse than that of hip hop. It clearly wasn’t verbatim. She was interpreting the text while pacing the stage like a fighter. She was fearless.

“…And you foolish Shepherd, why do you follow her? You’re a thousand times more man than she’s a woman. Its fools like you that make the world full of ill flavored children!”

And funny.

“…..Mistress, down on your knees… and stay down there… thanking heaven for a good man’s love!”

And eloquent.

“Give the man mercy… love him, take his offer. Foul is most foul being foul to be a scoffer.”

She was in the moment and she didn’t stop scowling until she walked off stage and gave him an excited hug. There was no doubt in either of them that she had nailed it.

He spent more time with her than he’d ever spent with anyone. She came by to practice the object exercises they were given in drama class, and then to get his opinion on an essay for English class, and then because she just didn’t like to be alone. Her mother worked most evenings and most evenings she spent at his house. They’d practice and watch movies. They’d laugh and talk for hours. Often he would cook for her, a nicely acquired survival skill from his latch key life, and often she would bring pizza from her job. She was a senior and that made her roughly 20 months older. She saw him as a friend and little brother type with whom she had a lot in common. He saw her as the essence of his life.

“Sam, do you know how you look at me?”

They were on the couch watching On the Waterfront.

“Well, yeah, I guess I look at you as someone who cares a lot about you.”

“I care about you too, Sam. I really do. I love you. But you know we’re friends and we always will be, right?”

He faltered at this, trying to mouth words that weren’t yet there.

“I mean that in the best way, Sam. You’ve been here for me through a really tough time and I will always remember that but just try and see me as your friend, ok? Because if you don’t it can get complicated and I might lose you. I don’t want that. I can’t have that.”

“Ok.”

“Are you sure, Ok?” She put her hand on his shoulder and stared straight into his eyes.

“Yeah, I mean, I can’t lose you either. You’re the best friend I’ve got.”

She smiled.

“Aaah, thank you!”

She hugged him and he felt warm but nauseous. In that moment he knew she was exactly the woman he wanted in his life and he hated himself for all the things he wasn’t. The feeling didn’t ease until the end of the film: a scene where Marlon Brando takes a courageous beating at the hands of the mobsters. His character is a tough former boxer, but a sensitive one, better suited to take abuse than to dish it out. He thinks his tragedy is that he never got to fight for the title but there’s not enough violence in him to convince us he ever could have been a great champion. What he has is integrity, stoicism and endurance. He inspires by being good and sacrificing for a cause greater than himself. This comforted him and he smiled as he glanced over to see her asleep, curled up against the armrest. He knew he would be good to Malaya, regardless of his place in her life. And if he did that, everything else would work out just as it was meant to.

Julie Monroe was the name of their drama teacher and she had a fondness for him from the beginning. Perhaps it was his enthusiasm for acting or the fact that he was so well read on the subject and always prepared. Even more though, he suspected that she saw something of herself in him, as her other favorites seemed to be his fellow misfit toys in the cast. Julie (she insisted on first name familiarity with her students) was a wispy 30 something brunette- long of hair, nails and face. She had a bit of a haunted look about her eyes and cheeks and she seemed to disappear into the background within seconds of ceasing to speak. If she ever aspired to an acting career for herself, he imagined her typecast as a good hearted ghost.

She spoke in a soft, distant voice that was easy to misread as dismissive or distracted. What it was, in truth, was direct. She deprived her words of emphasis and took care to choose just the right ones to convey what she needed to say. When she demonstrated for the class a particular way to read a scene, the effect was spellbinding. She was subtle in her emotion, underplaying a bit, but vivid in contrast to her normal demeanor. She was a virtuoso with body language. She seemed to easily take on the movements of each student, mirroring them and then suggesting a subtle change: a wider stance, a tilt of the head just a few degrees more toward the audience, a fuller extension of the hand when making a dismissive gesture. She made it clear that she wasn’t showing them the correct way to do something. She was simply showing them another option. She encouraged her students to be free and not rigid, to lose themselves in the characters, to approach full immersion and thus to be entirely unafraid. Her mantra was a quote from Oscar Wilde:

“A man is least himself when he speaks in his own person. Give him a mask and he’ll tell you the truth”

She told them that once you give yourself over to a role, you can lose your nerves and inhibitions and thus only service the character. She said that giving yourself over to art was one of the most worthwhile pursuits in the world. She told Samuel specifically that he had a gift, that he had an ability to read people, to mimic and interpret them. He knew that, with Julie Monroe, he had found a like-minded soul and a true mentor, his Hagen, his Stella Adler. It was on stage in her class that he experienced a sort of rebirth and regrowth. It was where he took his first breaths as a real actor, where he took his first steps and spoke his first tentative words and even where he experienced his first kiss.

The latter came during an acting exercise called park bench. Julie would call three students to the stage to sit in chairs. She instructed them to act out a specific fictional or historical character without divulging it unless directly asked. These characters were to interact on the park bench until they could no longer provide the scene with momentum, at which point they would exit voluntarily, or at the moment Julie tapped them on the shoulder, to be replaced by another character. The first trio called to the stage featured a senior cheerleader named Kate doing a quite obvious Blanche Dubois; another senior, the tall and cocky Mark doing a generic pimp of indeterminate origin; and a meek junior: Josie, another of Julie’s favorites, who channeled her nerves into a cranky older woman, likely Miss Daisy. Blanche chewed the scenery with aplomb, announcing that:

“I just dunt know whut I’m gunna dooo with muh self, all alone here in this great big ol’ city.”

Miss Daisy announced that if she didn’t care for ‘the big ol’ city’ the bus stop was only a few blocks away and that she could depart within the hour.

Mark asked if anyone had seen his ‘hos’.

Blanche: “Oh, I think I’ll stay but I do appreciate the advice, Miss. Ya know, Ahh’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Miss Daisy: “You need to learn to depend on yourself. That’s the problem with this world, you know, just a bunch of lazy people always looking for help.”

Mark: “I got a whole stable of girls working for me-”

Blanche: “-Miss, I’m far from lazy, I assure you. I’m a lady but I’ve always strived to take care of mah self”

Miss Daisy: “Well, then go about it, why don’t you? No use yammering on about what you can do. That’s the trouble with the world, you know, talkers, all talkers, but no one does a damn thing.”

Mark: “You know what I like to do? I like to do ladies.”

Julie was shaking her head but appeared to be concealing amusement as she walked behind Mark to tap him out. She pointed directly at Samuel and mouthed the words: ‘you’re up’. He was immersed in his enjoyment of the scene and had to quickly think of a character as he walked up the steps to join it. Instinctively he thought of Sidney Poitier. He had recently read the great man’s memoir and was delighted when Malaya cited him as her favorite actor. Mr. Poitier can slide effortlessly into any social situation because he exudes such easy confidence- genuine, never forced or haughty- that he instantly charms everyone around him. He is intimidated by no one but he looks down upon no one until they show him or others disrespect. He has the temperament of the benevolent king who protects the common man and the common man who carries himself with the grace of a king. To try and capture this, Samuel fixed the word ‘regal’ in his mind and strode straight and proud towards the center of the stage.

Blanche: “Well, now who might you be, dahlin’?”

Samuel straightened his imaginary sport coat, sat gracefully between the girls and crossed his legs. He nodded politely at Miss Daisy, then turned towards Blanche, and stared straight into her eyes for a couple seconds. He had practiced Poitier’s voice- not quite raspy but resonant and precisely enunciated- many times at home and now he summoned it, taking a defiant line from In the Heat of the Night and delivering it with bedroom warmth.

“They call me… Mister Tibbs.”

Blanche looked away bashfully. He heard Julie’s amused ‘Ha!’ somewhere to the left and he had to suppress a smile. One of students could be heard saying: ‘now that’s a pimp’ and there was laughter from the class. Josie clearly recognized the voice.

Miss Daisy: “Well, I think this is just fine, nothing wrong with a black man sitting with two white women on a Sunday afternoon. Progress is just wonderful.”

Samuel turned back towards her and borrowed a line from Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner. Rules notwithstanding, his was to be a general Poitier.

“That’s just it, Miss. You think of me as a black man” He clenched his fist and touched it to his chest “I think of myself as a man”

Blanche: (fanning herself) “Oh, my, I declare!”

Miss Daisy: (shaking her head) “The only thing more stupid than a young woman is a young woman in lust. Mr. Tibbs are you married? Please say yes so she can stop fluttering.”

Mr. Poitier: “No, I’m not married. I’m afraid I travel too much to settle down right now. Are you married, ma’am?”

Miss Daisy: “I was, am still to my mind. My husband passed a few years ago. What do you do, Mr. Tibbs?”

Samuel borrowed from Lilies in the Field here because he knew Malaya would enjoy it: “Well, I can do just about anything that needs to be done really. I’m working just outside of town right now building a ‘shapel’.”

Miss Daisy: “A ‘shapel’? Well, you’re doing that all by yourself now?”

Mr. Poitier: (shaking his head and smiling) “Well, that’s just the thing. I started it by myself and I had a mind to finish it that way but… help has come and I’m learning to accept it. Sometimes help comes when you want it and sometimes when you don’t, but we have to accept blessings whenever and wherever they come, I’m finding.”

Miss Daisy: “Amen, to that. I feel the same thing, at my age especially. You can’t pick and choose your blessings.”

Blanche: “Well, ahh’ve always depended on the kindness of friends. Would you like to be mah friend, Mr. Tibbs?”

She batted her eyes at him and Miss Daisy dismissed her with a long sigh.

Miss Daisy: “If I was ever so dumb as that, I feel blessed that I can’t remember.”

Mr. Poitier: “Well, don’t be so hard on the young lady.”

Miss Daisy: “Pray tell, why not?”

Mr. Poitier: “Well, she’s still finding her way in the world.”

Miss Daisy: “The light must be harsher on that side of the bench. From here she looks like she’s been around the world more than once.”

He heard another uncontained laugh from Julie. She was walking up from behind them.

Mr. Poitier: “Well, I’ve found that you’re never too old to learn and it’s certainly never too late. I used to be a teacher-

Blanche grabbed his arm with both of hers, clinging to it like a buoy in the sea: “-Oh, a teacher, I declare!”

Miss Daisy: “Good heavens, she’s like a puppy, she’s so hungry for attention! I used to teach too, Mr. Tibbs and I think anyone can learn but this one might be the exception that tests the rule.”

Samuel patted Blanche’s arm politely and pulled his away, saying softly: “Careful, now. I may need this later in the day”. He could feel Julie standing to his right just behind Kate.

Miss Daisy: “Where did you teach, Mr. Tibbs?”

Mr. Poitier: “Abroad, actually. I spent some years in London.”

Miss Daisy: “Well, you must have some stories to-“

Blanche rose from her chair and sat across his lap. She kissed him, close mouthed, but hard and then stared at him with her arms around his neck. The class gasped and hooted collectively and waited for his response. He looked over to Miss Daisy with a slight smile, nodded and said softly ‘not bad’. Miss
Daisy looked appalled and his smile faded. He shook his head and said ‘no, of course, you’re right’. He gently pushed Blanche off his lap and stood, looking at her sternly, recalling a speech he’d practiced from To Sir, with Love.

“I can take no more of your crude behavior. There are certain things a decent woman keeps private and only a desperate one would have done this.”

He walked to center stage and looked out, admonishing the class:

“Those who encouraged her are just as bad, you’re all to blame! Now, I’m going to leave this stage for five minutes by which time that woman had better be removed and the windows open to clear the stench of her perfume. If you must play these silly theater games, you should do them at home and not in Julie Monroe’s classroom!”

He walked off stage to applause and sat back down next to Malaya. She was beaming and punched him in the arm as a show of approval.

              She came to his house around five. He was feeling creative and had begun preparing a dish featuring brown rice, bananas, peppers and nuts. She hugged him at the door and commented that the smell was ‘interesting’.

“Well, I’m feeling, ambitious. I’m trying something today.”

             She pulled a stool into the kitchen and sat down. She was wearing jeans with a white peasant top that when accented against her curves, brought to mind a young Sophia Loren.

“Sooo…. you kissed one of the most popular girls in school and then stood up and called her a slut on stage. That takes a lot of nerve, my friend.”

“I did not call her a slut. And it was her character, not her. He says ‘slut’ in the movie when he’s talking about whoever left the tampon. I said ‘desperate woman’. I softened it.”

“Still- a whooole lot of nerve.”

“I talked to her, after. She was cool with it. She thought it was funny.”

“I still can’t believe she did that, and you just played it off like it was nothing.”

“She was just really into the moment and she wanted to stay. Julie’s amazing. She’s got us all brainwashed to think we’re serious actors.”

“How was it?”

She said this with a sly smile half an octave lower in tone.

“To kiss her?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Just a kiss. I was so into the scene. I didn’t even … I was just reacting.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

“I was in the moment and she’s not really my type.”

“’Ooh, cause you’re that rare guy that doesn’t like sexy blonde women?”

“I’m a rare guy in a lot of ways.”

“Was that your first kiss?”

He grinned nervously and turned back towards the stove.

“It was my first stage kiss.”

“That’s not what I asked, Sam.”

“Yeah, it was, but it didn’t mean anything.”

“You didn’t enjoy it? You looked like you did.”

“Well, I was trying to be funny and play the moment. When it’s real, I’ll be in the moment and it’ll be different.”

He could feel her standing right behind him. He turned back towards her and she touched him on the shoulder.

“Aww. You’re a really great guy, Sam. You’re gonna have a lot of moments, and not just on stage.”

“Well, yeah, I know that… I mean like this right now, this is a moment.”

“You think so?”

“Of course, yeah. When they show my life story on film, they’ll be sure to include the moment when you told me there would be many moments to come. I mean, that’s the heart of the story, really.”

“This does feel rather momentous, now that you mention it.”

“Oh, it is. And just think how it’ll look on screen when we’re standing in the rain just outside the train station and you’re about to depart… actually, you’re out of the rain. You’re standing at the edge of the railway car, looking luminous and beautiful and I’m standing in the rain, but you can still tell I’m crying, and just before the train pulls away you call out: ‘You’re gonna have a lot of great moments, Sam!’… Sorry, to be so melodramatic but it’s Hollywood, you know.”

“Well, of course, Hollywood. But where am I going on the train in this scene?”

“College.”

“Ahh.”

“I mean, I’ll be fine. The first act has to be sad so there can be redemption later.”

“Well, in the movie of my life, the redemption comes earlier.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yup. Do you know why I don’t have many friends, Sam?”

She locked on his eyes and he shook his head.

“…. there was a boy. I was crazy about this boy and I made him the focus of my life at the expense of everything else. I gave up a lot for him but he didn’t appreciate it because he was just, he was just a jerk and a boy. Ha, he’s a year older than me, actually, but I was more mature than he was. I was ready for commitment and he didn’t really grasp the concept yet. I should have known better but I was crazy about him and he used that to hurt me, Sam. He made me feel low and ugly and unwanted. When I finally got over him, he wanted me back. He wasn’t trying to be evil. He was just a stupid, asshole boy. Then you came in to my life when I really needed someone to talk to, someone good and decent and smart and caring. You’ve helped me get back into acting which was one of the passions of my life before this stupid boy changed everything. I’m a better person more whole, than I was a few months ago and you played a part in that. Do you understand? You will always be a part of my life, no matter how far apart we are. Always, you got that?”

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

She punched him in the arm, hard.

“Say it, Sam. Say you’re always gonna be a part of my life.”

“Well, I want to be. I just know that people go different ways. I’ll always be a part of your life as long as you want me to be.”

She popped him in the arm again. This time it stung.

“I just told you I did!”

“Do you realize how often you hit me? You keep punching me and telling me I’m special. I feel like a battered spouse.”

She laughed.

“That’ll be in the movie too, the part where you find yourself after an abusive relationship. Hollywood, you know.”

He smiled and turned back to taste the rice.

“I hope you weren’t terribly hungry?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m gonna need to make something else. This is wretchedly sweet.”

“Ha, really?”

“I put banana syrup in as well as bananas and I thought that would give it a nice kick. It’s terrible.”

“Well, you can’t be good at everything, Sam. When you’re a big star, I’m sure someone will cook for you. Sick of pizza yet?”

“Never.”

“Great.”

She leaned in and kissed him softly, briefly on the lips. The warmth spread over his entire body.

“There. That one counts. I don’t wanna turn on the TV years from now and hear you talking about how Kate Pouncy gave you your first kiss.”

“T-that… yeah. It is a much better story that, um, it came from my best friend who used to beat me with her fists.”

She nodded. “Uh huh, I think so too.” She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes and appeared to be contemplating something: “Half deluxe, half pepperoni and mushrooms?”

“Sure.”

She went into the living room to use the phone and he leaned back on the counter and watched her walk away.

                    It can be very hard to let go of a role once you’ve completely immersed yourself in it. This was the case for his father. When his world began to crumble on multiple fronts, he faced a crisis of identity. His whole conception of himself as a successful man hinged on his name, his financial status, his wife and the respect that all of the above accorded him. If he felt insecure in one of those areas, he could rely on the others for reassurance. When he began to lose them all simultaneously, intrinsically connected as they were, he lost himself.

                It took just one story on the local news to begin the fall. The report revealed ‘mile busting’ being done at several local dealerships. One salesman in the used car department on his father’s lot was caught on hidden camera joking about having just sold a trade-in, on which the odometer had been rolled back. This report created immediate scandal and fallout for every person and business mentioned in the story. Damage control by the owner of the lot: William Harvey- was just as swift. He bought a full page ad in the newspaper to run every day of the week following the story’s airing:

“We at Harvey Fine Imports have been proud to serve this community for the past 27 years. Over this time, we’ve built a reputation for quality and integrity with our thousands of customers. It is their trust that has helped us grow into one of the largest dealerships in the state. To maintain these relationships and to continue to grow new ones, we hold our staff to the highest possible standards. We absolutely must have the best people working for us in order for us to best serve you.

This is why we were so appalled and ashamed when it was brought to our attention that fraud was perpetuated by a few members of our staff in the manner of inaccurate odometer readings on seven of our used cars.

I would like to make clear that we are making more than full reparations to everyone who was defrauded by these criminals.

I further pledge that we are dealing with these inexcusable acts by rooting out everyone who was responsible for these actions, terminating them and doing everything we can to make sure they are prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

We have thus terminated three members of our sales staff, three members of our automotive staff, and four members of our administrative staff, who were either knowledgeable, or in most cases, simply should have been knowledgeable about these acts of fraud that were committed upon our customers. These terminations include the General Manager of our dealership and occasional spokesman: Lou Harvey- who, although unaware of these transgressions, remains guilty of allowing them to happen on his watch.

Zero tolerance is the standard that we have always maintained here at Harvey Fine Imports for anything and anyone that fails to live up to our lofty standards of honesty, integrity and excellent service, both to our customers and to our community. We apologize to all for the fact that our commitment was compromised by the wrongful acts and shameful negligence of a few former employees. We hope that you accept our apology and that you will continue to entrust us with your business now and in the future.

Sincerely, William Harvey”

              That press release was the only direct statement that William Harvey ever made to his son about his dismissal. He clearly felt no other was deserved. Samuel had only met his grandfather on two occasions, both when he was quite young, and he had only a vague memory of his face. He existed more as a concept than a man. His was a name often wielded as a sarcastic adjective by his mother in an attempt to tweak his father. When he wore a particularly dapper suit, she’d chirp: “My, Lou, aren’t you looking very William Harvey tonight.” A generous tip or a donation to one of her causes, a graciously opened door or well-received joke, all were commonly met with a: “Why, how positively William Harvey of you!” The implication was clear. His mother knew that Lou was in awe of his father in much the same way that he was in awe of, and cowed by her. Every time she invoked his name, she wished to remind him that in his very best moments he could only aspire to be a genuinely great man and that any proximity to such a goal was nothing more than genetic good fortune. Still, Lou Harvey knew nothing of forging his own path and he never seemed outwardly bothered by comparisons to a man he clearly saw as better than himself. He seemed perfectly happy with- and slavishly loyal to- the concept of being defined by his family name. To have that stripped from him, to be deemed unworthy by the original source of his self-worth, must have shredded him.

              His finances were already in tatters. Awash in the security of working in the family business, and with an expectation of inheritance, he had borrowed and invested lavishly. His abrupt, public dismissal left him with slim career prospects and fat obligations. He and his wife were forced back into their home by frugality. They staked out opposite sides of the house, which was soon put up for sale, as a countdown clock was hung prominently above the Harvey marriage. Its ticking was heard by all but no one spoke of it openly, just in the hushed guilty tones that sting worse than blunt mockery.

              For Samuel, these events crystallized an idea he’d been toying with for weeks. He had already accumulated enough credits to allow for a small course load in his senior year and full-time work. Since he would be sixteen by the early fall, anyways, it would actually make more sense to finish his high school obligations over the summer and began the next year with full independence. It would be easier for his parents to deal with their issues without him in the house and it would allow him to follow his dream. He didn’t tell Malaya, or them for that matter, anything about his plan. He simply focused on his work and began discreetly studying for the SAT. Around this time, inadvertently, he made one of the worst choices of his life.

              Julie had asked for suggestions early in the year for a play and Samuel had recommended Neil Simon’s Barefoot in the Park. It’s a comedy that features mismatched newlyweds struggling in a small apartment in New York City. Julie chose this as their big spring production. There are only six parts in the play and four major ones which fit her desires perfectly. She believes roles should be earned on merit and that the members of the cast who don’t make the cut are best served supporting the other actors in an off-stage capacity. She wanted them to take pride in the production even if they were deprived of a cast billing, to watch and learn. She wanted it to be like life really was, or at least to her idealistic heart, how it should be.

              Malaya, as Samuel had hoped, was chosen to play Corie: the beautiful, romantic young optimist around whom all things revolve. Her husband, Paul, would be played by a bland yet talented senior by the name of, as luck would have it, Paul. The role of the eccentric older neighbor Mr. Velasco was snagged by Samuel, and Josie, by now a specialist in portraying the elderly, would play Corie’s mother.

                Something that he would think about for a long time after was: why had he chosen that specific play? Had he suggested something different, Samuel might have grown closer to the love of his life. By choosing the wrong one, however, he set off a chain of events that pushed her away.

Malaya soon spent more time with her leading man than with him. And although it made no sense for him to be jealous, jealous feelings came to him several times a day, perhaps several times an hour, and rationalizing with them did nothing to make them dissipate. He knew she needed time to rehearse together with Paul and he was, in theory, glad that she had another person to connect with, to discuss acting with. This also gave him more time to work on his own role and to study and prepare for a busy summer. All of that made rational sense but viscerally it felt like a disease was ravaging his body. The less she was a part of his life, the less meaning anything seemed to have. Malaya centered everything for him. She gave life purpose and hope. When he pushed himself to practice or study, he thought of her. He did it for her. When he imagined a future, he couldn’t envision anything that didn’t begin with her. Any success he could imagine would only be meaningful if it made her proud, and any choices would only be validated by her approval. She was his muse and his life support. To tall, dark, good-looking Paul, she was another pretty girl. When she became fixated on Paul, it seemed wholly unfair. He didn’t need her like Samuel did, but blessed people always stand first for additional blessings. Paul wasn’t the most handsome guy but he was handsome, not the most gifted but gifted, and with an easy charm that made him captivating on stage. Everyone liked him. So, why shouldn’t she?

Whenever he saw them together she had a giddy nervousness about her. It sparked even at the mention of his name and Samuel couldn’t help but feel resentful. It meant that she desperately wanted Paul’s approval. In a fair world, we’d be drawn to those who most appreciate us and not to those who act aloof and withhold their affection. Ideally, we’d be thrilled by those who are thrilled by us. But it’s not the way we’re made. We are genetically hardwired to desire what’s just out of reach and to bypass what we know we can grasp.

This is a dynamic that the movie star is aware of. They traffic in feigned accessibility while drawing a clear separation between themselves and the masses. They appear in control and confident at all times, even when they’re portraying the exact opposite of those emotions. They own each moment in such a way that they leave the audience in awe, subconsciously seeking their approval. This is the quality of a star. Sometimes though, a real artist, often a star, transcends this dynamic. These actors have an innate ability to exude love for the audience in equal measure to what they receive. They portray vulnerability and strength in such a beautifully human way that they truly let us in. They share a real part of themselves, if only on screen, and they make us feel their equal. We don’t merely appreciate these actors. We love them as surely as we could an intimate acquaintance.

Tom Hanks has this intangible, as does Sandra Bullock. It’s why they’re beloved. Jimmy Stewart had it in such abundance that, decades past his screen prime, he remains almost unrivaled in his ability to elicit audience affection. In truth, he only had one peer in this respect: the Japanese actress Setsuko Hara. She’s important, to this story, actually. But I’m digressing. Truly, I’m stalling.

Before you’re told about her, before I tell you about her, I should tell you how Malaya left my life. For Ms. Hara only needed to enter my life as Malaya receded from it. No matter how much I’d like to, the hard part can’t be skipped. I need to write it. I need to tell you how I ruined things with Malaya, the best person I’ve ever known.

I was standing in the wings watching her fall in love. I was gradually shrinking as I did so, I could feel myself fading to the floor. By the time I was cued to go on stage, my vantage point was lower than Ozu’s camera. It was a rehearsal. They were supposed to be bickering but as I gazed up at them, they were verbally dancing in the way that new couples do. She looked at him with flustered adoration, which fit her character, but when she looked down to address me, it disappeared completely. She didn’t even notice me shriveling across from her. She just spoke to the spot where my head should have been. I rehearsed the part enough times, and it’s such a showy role, that I’m able to bounce through my scene without any real conviction. I did so and slunk off stage. Josie looked down at me pitifully and gave me a supportive nod. Malaya yelled at Paul, he stormed away and the scene ended. She flashed him the warmest smile and punched him softly in the arm. I watched this from a dark corner, peering over the tops of my shoes.

She caught me in the hall between periods. She was wearing a light blue t-shirt and slacks. She was, as always, luminous.

“Saaaam, you were so funny today!”

“Thanks, you were perfect.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong… I’m a little tired today.”

She tilted her head and stared at me like I was a thief.

“I’m gonna ask you again later. You hang in there ‘til then, ok?.”

She gave a brief smile and rushed off to class. Later, she was sitting next to me on the couch when she inquired:

“Ok, so what are you bummed out about? You’re supposed to talk to me about things like this.”

She was wearing a plaid skirt and a black blouse. Her hair was up.

“You’ve changed.”

“What?”

“I mean since school. You changed. You look really nice.”

“Thanks. I have kind of a date tonight.”

“Ah, well that’s exciting. Is it Paul?”

“You’re redirecting, Sam. You’re really good at that but we were talking about you.”

“Do you not want to talk about your date?”

“No, I just want to find out what’s wrong with you first.”

She stared right at me and I looked away with a nervous smile. She held her gaze.

“Are those two things connected? Does it bother you that I’m seeing Paul?”

I forced myself to look back at her and rapidly blurted out my thoughts.

“Yes, but that’s my issue. I’m happy for you. I promise I’m happy for you. I’m bothered though. Every time I see you with him it bothers me. It shouldn’t and I know eventually it won’t, but it does. I need to get past that. I will but I can’t… I mean not yet. I know there’s no rational reason for it. Believe me that I know this, but I kind of hate him. I just hate him because he’s everything I want to be, because he sees you all the time and he makes you happy and I don’t. I miss the times we used to talk all the time. I miss being needed in your life. I know I’m not needed now and I hate that. The only time I really see you now is when you’re onstage with him and I don’t want to anymore. I think I can be happy for you, knowing that you’re good and you’re happy if I don’t have to see it, if I don’t have to be reminded every day that there’s a part of you that I’ll never get to see because you save that part for the person you love, you know? It’s been bugging me because I’m not tall like him, smooth like him, pretty like him and I’m not even strong enough to deal with that. So, please, just forgive me for having this problem. I’ll fix it. I’m trying to fix it.”

Her eyes were wet. All the rigidity seemed to drain from her body and she slumped and laid her head against the back of the couch, looking at a point somewhere over my left shoulder. She thought for several seconds before she spoke.

“Ok, since we’re being honest, Sam. I kind of resent you right now. I don’t want to but I do. Here’s why: we’ve talked about this. You’ve known for some time that we can’t and won’t ever be together and yet you’ve held on to this fantasy that was bound all along to make you sad. I’m at a point in my life where for the first time in a long time, I’m really happy. Things are going good. I’ve met a really nice guy. Acting is going great and now you’re telling me that if I don’t give one of those things up, it’s going to make you miserable-“

“I’m not saying that-“

“I think that is what you’re saying.”

She looked at me now with those wet eyes and I felt like a monster for making her cry.

“Here’s what I’m saying… I’ve been stressed. My parents are having trouble. I’ve got a lot of things to take care of with school and I think that I need to take a break from acting class. It would solve so many problems.”

“No, this is your dream! Why would you even say something like that?”

“It’s still my dream. It will always be my dream but..”

This was the only time I ever lied to Malaya:

“…I’ll have my whole senior year to focus on acting. I won’t have many classes to take next year because I’m getting a lot of that out of the way right now. I’m taking on too much. I’ve just been stressed for a lot of reasons. God, I’m sorry that I laid it on you. I’m nervous just doing rehearsal and I’m scared to death to perform before an audience without being truly prepared. Every time I step out on stage I’m shaking inside. Because of all that, I think I haven’t handled the Paul thing well but it’s a lot of things beyond that. I just need some time to myself. I just need less pressure.”

She looked right at me and gave the slightest shake of her head.

“Why, would you quit something you’re really good at, the one thing that you’re the best at?”

“I’m not quitting. I’m going to watch and learn. I’m younger than everyone else and I have plenty of time to catch up. I think I need to grow up just a little bit more, maybe just a year, and then I’ll be ready to be a performer. I’ve been using my feelings for you as an excuse and that’s totally unfair to you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not just trying to make me feel better?”

“I want you to feel better but I’m being honest. I always have been with you, haven’t I?”

“Uh huh, and I really hope you’re not lying to me now. Don’t lie to me, Sam”

“I’m not. It’s the truth. I just… we haven’t talked as much lately and I haven’t been able to tell you about everything that’s been bothering me so I just lashed out about Paul. It was childish. I didn’t want to seem like a coward and I felt pathetic for being scared about the play.”

Again she lightly shook her head.

“I have to go, Sam. I want to talk to you later but right now I have to go. I hate that you’re not yourself right now. I understand you’re dealing with a lot and I hope it gets better but I have to go.”

She stood up and seemed to be thinking of what to say. She finally gave a little wave and mouthed the word ‘bye’. She walked away.

I apologized to Julie for not being able to complete my role. I asked if I could help out with the set design instead and she said that would be fine. I sensed that she knew why I was having trouble. Good actors are often hyper-sensitive to the feelings of other people.

Malaya didn’t come by anymore. I saw her at school and we talked pleasantly but it wasn’t the same. When I asked if things were going well with Paul, she just said “that’s not relevant” and told me she had to go.

I watched the first performance of Barefoot in the Park from the audience, six rows back. Malaya was breathtaking. Her timing was exquisite, her delivery natural yet clear. She nailed the character’s frustration while making it clear throughout that she still truly loved her husband. I later heard that they had broken up a few weeks before but the chemistry between her and Paul was brilliant on stage.

I watched her walk at graduation. I spoke to her after and gave her a collection of Paul Simon’s plays. She hugged me and punched me on the arm, promising to keep in touch. We talked a few times on the phone over the summer, small talk, nothing like before. We didn’t have a real conversation until I told her that I might see her at community college. She paused for a long time.

“What does that mean? You’re not going back to school? What about acting class, graduation, the prom? What about any of that stuff?”

“I mean, I got all my credits. I’m done and I really don’t care about any of that other stuff. I’m ready to move on and It’s crazy at home. I need to move out.”

She paused again.

“I love you, Sam, but I had to take care of myself for a lot of my life. I can’t take care of you too.”

“Wha- why would you have to take care of me?”

“You’ve never even had a job. Are your parents going to pay for all of this?”

They’re not going to pay for anything. I’m going to work really hard. That’s not a problem for me. I’m going to SCC because I can work and still pay for classes.”

She paused again.

“I’m sorry. I’m not saying you can’t take care of yourself but it’s hard out here in the real world. I just hope you’re ready for that.”

“You think I don’t live in the real world?”

“I think you’re an idealist, Sam. You’re creative and you’re a nice guy, really young though. People could take advantage of you.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Well, yeah, any experience is a good experience. Whatever doesn’t kill us… is fuel for art.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. Life isn’t just art. Life is hard and I don’t think you’ve even had enough experience to deal with that.”

She sighed.

“I knew you lied to me.”

Another pause.

“Apparently, you never planned on going back to school. You threw away the one thing you were good at to follow me.”

Another pause.

“You’re super smart. You’re parents are freaking rich. Why on earth would you go to a lousy school? I don’t have a choice. You’re just making a bad one.”

She sighed. I sighed.

“I didn’t have a choice either. My parents had money. They don’t now and they were never going to spend it on college. I’m going here… yes, because you’re here. I’m not lying now, ok? You want me to be honest, right? I mean, that’s just part of it but it is part of it. You’re my only friend. Don’t people go to school with their friends?”

“That’s just it, right there. Sam, I can’t be your only friend. I can’t carry that burden. I wish I could do that for you but I can’t. You need to meet other people. You need to have those experiences that you think you need to make art out of-“

“I will.”

“You will?... At community college?”

“There’s no better place.”

She laughed.

“Damnit, Sam. I love you but you drive me crazy sometimes. We’re cool. I’m going to keep an eye on you but don’t try to take on too much at once.”

“So, I’ll see you around. Maybe we’ll have a class together. Are you taking drama?”

She sighed.

“I don’t know, maybe. I’ll talk to you though. Be good.”

When I told my mother I was leaving, she was inconsolable so I made no attempt. If I didn’t know I was watching an artist at work it would have been quite affecting. She sobbed and begged me to reconsider but when I said I had to go, she recommended that I leave no later than July 4th since it was ‘independence day’.

My father said he was proud of me and gave me $500. He told me, without irony, that the most exciting time in a man’s life is when he leaves the protection of family to prove that he can make it all on his own.

I started my quest for the American dream working at the most appropriate place to do so: McDonald’s. I was there mopping the floor the next time I saw Malaya. She was with a guy: a 300 pound cliché. He wore a tight shirt with a rhinestone design not dissimilar to the tattoo on his arm. He was tall and barrel-chested, tan with a white backwards cap stretched across his wide forehead. He was husky and muscled up top but with thin legs like Craig T. Nelson’s Mr. Incredible. He looked like he could easily tip over but that he would surely crush anything that he happened to fall on. He wore the same clenched, chin-up expression that all guys like him wear, the one retailers make you practice before they’ll sell you the outfit. He had his arm around her shoulders as they walked in. They ordered and giggled while waiting at the counter. When they went to sit down, they were out of my line of sight. I saw them through the window, though, as they left to get in a garishly lifted white truck with oversized tires. He picked her up like a child so she could step on the rail just outside the passenger door. She was laughing so hard at this, her head reared back.

“Hey, I saw you the other day.”

It was a Saturday afternoon. I had managed to catch her on the phone.

“What do you mean: ‘you saw me’?”

“I told you I started working at McDonald’s right?”

“You didn’t say which one.”

“On third.”

“Okay, so if you saw me, why didn’t you say anything?”

“Well, I was working and you were with someone.”

“Okay, but you can still say hi, Sam.”

“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt. It looked like it might be a date or something.”

She paused.

“So, what, you were just watching me?”

“Well, for a minute. Then I saw that you looked busy.”

“Well, just say hi, next time, okay?”

“Is he-“

“-It’s irrelevant, Sam. Don’t worry about that. There’s a lot of that goes on with me that you don’t know about and you shouldn’t.”

“I got it.”

“I’m not trying to be rude. It’s just better that way, okay?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“I understand that you care and I appreciate it but you can’t be concerned with everything in my life.”

“Ok, I understand.”

“Love ya.”

“I love you too.”

It was about a week later when I saw Mr. Incredible again. I was cleaning tables and he came in with two of his friends. All three wore jeans, tight shirts and backward caps. They could have been a dance team. I worked the lobby until I got over to the side they were sitting on. Then I listened.

“-Bruh, I’d beat that up though.”

That was him: the largest and loudest of the trio, the alpha male.

“Nah, that’s jailbait right there.” The lankier version of him said, protesting this statement.

“Bruh, sixteen’s the age of consent. It’s also the age you gotta be to work here. If she’s got a job, she’s legal.”

The lanky one considered this while the chubbier towheaded version of him nodded in agreement. His role was clearly not a speaking part.

“Ok, so she’s legal and ugly. I still wouldn’t touch her.”

“Please, you don’t touch nuthin’ but yourself, bruh. You need to lower the bar and get some points on the board.”

Chubby nodded heartily.

Lanky defended himself: “Just cuz I don’t talk about it as much as you, don’t mean I don’t score, bruh. Quality beats quantity.”

“Yeah, ‘cept I get both and you get leftovers. That’s why you’ll never be me.”

Chubby laughed heartily at this.

“Whatever” Lanky was stung a bit but tried to conceal it “most of your leftovers are high school girls. You’re like that dude in Dazed and Confused”

Chubby chimed in here with his one contribution to the conversation. He drawled: “They stay the same age” in a game attempt at Matthew Mconaughey via John Wayne. He was ignored.

Mr. Incredible countered with “snatch is snatch, bruh” and Lanky shook his head.

An actor should be capable of remaining an objective observer, astutely recording what is without judgment. I’ve trained myself this way and it’s why I’m able to give you a fairly precise depiction of events from so many years ago. When I recall myself in this moment, I remember passively watching the situation, in fact, I remember making a conscious effort to do so but that was clearly not how things turned out. Anger must have been rising in me and I must have moved closer because shortly after he said the word: ‘snatch’, I threw, from a distance of about four feet, the plastic bucket I’d been using to clean tables. I threw it directly at his head and it connected. Dirty, soapy water splashed all over the table, him and at least one of his friends. Things seemed to slow down here. He jumped up. Curse words flowed from him almost incoherently. It sounded like the barking of a dog. He kept reflexively punching his right hand into his left forearm. Lanky grabbed him and held him back “ThinkMIke! ThinkMike! You can’t do that here!”

I just stood and stared at him while Chubby stood against my shoulder looking down on me. Lanky was soothing Mike while pinning his arms:

“Itscool, Itscool… Just don’t hit him. You can’t risk that right now. Think, man.”

This worked remarkably well. Mike cooled down quickly. He stared at the ceiling and breathed heavily through his nose. He finally spoke. He looked right in my eyes and said in a measured tone:

“I’m not even gonna get you fired. I’m gonna fuck you up though. It’s gonna be soon, bitch.”

Chubby bumped me with his shoulder and then I watched the three of them walk away.

I worked until closing. The manager, who spent most of her time in the back with headphones and paper work, never even knew that an altercation occurred. My co-workers said nothing but seemed to regard me with a kind of puzzled respect. I was scared of the assured retribution but also excited by my anticipation of it. This was the type of tension that you can only replicate if you’ve lived through it. I made a point to really think about my feelings, to record and store them for later use. The fear heightened throughout the night until it was time for me to leave. As I walked to my car, the warm air hit me like a wave. I forced myself not to look around. I forced myself to walk, if not calmly, then at least without obvious haste and panic. As soon as I closed and locked my door, I began breathing deeply. It was then that I began to feel foolish and selfish. My survival instincts, and my infatuation with them, had largely pushed aside the vastly more important issue: How would I tell Malaya that she was involved with a promiscuous creep?

I left a message for her the next morning. I told her it was important that we talk. She called back quickly and we arranged to meet at a coffee shop down the street from my job. I arrived ten minutes early and found that she was already there. This is the image of her that remains most strongly etched in my mind. She set in a tall chair near the window. She wore form-fitting jeans, tan boots and a navy and white striped tunic. She wore glasses instead of contacts that day, which was rare. Maybe this was just random and maybe it was a trend. She looked as beautiful as always but more assured than ever. The sun lit the particles in the air around her and seemed to frame her in the slightest haze. We exchanged smiles as I walked in. I noticed she had a drink in front of her, something with foam and I went to the counter and placed and received my order. Upon my return:

“Milk? Yup, that’s Sam. Still healthy. You remember when we used to eat pizza every other night? You always blotted yours with a napkin and never ate more than two slices. Whenever you cooked, it was always something well balanced.”

“And you eat just about anything but always look amazing.”

“It’s called being young. You could get away with a lot too but you have, like, this Zen discipline thing that I’ve always envied.”

“I envy a lot of things about you.”

She took a sip and regarded her cup.

“You like a lot of things about me but a lot of it’s not exactly real. I’m not the girl in your head. I’m more complicated than that.”

“I know you’re complicated. That’s what’s great about you.”

She smiled slightly and shook her head.

“The other day someone was talking about Stendhal Syndrome. Have you heard of that?”

“Yeah, it’s when someone has a profound appreciation of artwork that causes them to become overwhelmed by it. They might walk through a museum and suddenly be unable to move.”

She smiled again and nodded.

“Of course, you would know that. Sam knows everything. Well, when I heard of that, I immediately thought of you. I think you see me like I’m a painting or something. You put me on a pedestal and look at me as some kind of ideal girl. It keeps you from seeing everything else. You can’t see the things about me that aren’t so good and you can’t see other girls. It’s like you can’t move on.”

“There’s nothing about you that’s not good. I know you have faults but that just makes you interesting. Your strengths are what draw me to you and your faults just enhance your character.”

“Well, one of my faults is that I’m not sexually attracted to you. That’s a pretty big fault from your perspective, isn’t it?”

My stomach churned. I pushed it down and responded.

“That’s why we’re friends. I’m ok with that and I want to play that role as well as I can.”

“But you’re not ok with it though. I’ve known that for a while and I’ve had to distance myself from you a little because I know that holding on to this fantasy isn’t good for you.”

“When it’s time, I’ll meet someone else.”

“I know you will.”

“But what’s wrong with just… appreciating you while there’s no one else in my life?”

She paused and considered her words.

“It slows you down, Sam. You need to pursue your dreams, all of them. If you’re stuck at a dead end just… clawing at the wall, it keeps you from making progress. You need to move forward with acting, with meeting new people. You need to reach your potential. You have a lot of it and I don’t wanna see you waste any.”

I gulped down the buildup in my throat.

“Ok.”

She looked at me with pity. It was quiet for a minute.

“What did you want to talk about? Was it this?”

I gulped again.

“Ok… the guy you were with the other night, I saw him again at work.”

She tilted her head and looked at me curiously.

“Well, I was in the lobby and I overheard him talking. He and a couple of his friends were talking about girls, young girls, in a really crass manner and he was using derogatory terms and saying that he slept around a lot. It made me angry…. I just…. I had to tell you because you deserve to be with someone who’s as good as you are or at least, almost, something close, and this guy just seems like a pervert and I had to let you know what I heard. I can’t stand to see you hurt by someone like that. I can’t stand that and I won’t.”

I was sputtering.

She looked at me, again with pity.

“Sam, I’m not dating Mike. That’s his name, Mike. He’s a friend of mine and he’s not even my type. But even if he was, I can take care of myself. You’ve got to know that. Guys talk like that. They do. It’s crude and it’s stupid but it’s usually just talk. Why would you think I was with him?”

“He had his arm around you”

“When?”

“When you were at my job.”

She was annoyed but trying not to show it.

“I don’t remember that, and if he did it was only for like a second. That doesn’t mean anything. Friends touch each other. They hug. They put their arms around each other. He’s actually a decent guy. Why would you jump to conclusions about my life when there’s a great deal that you don’t even know anything about?”

“I didn’t mean to. I just guessed… I had to try and protect you.”

“You’re not my man. You don’t need to protect me.”

It was quiet again, longer than the last time.

“I love you, Sam. You need to know that. If I go away, it’s not because I don’t love you…. It’s because I believe with all my heart that that is what’s good for you.”

She paused.

“Do you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Just for a while, Sam. If you ever need me, if you ever really need me, I will be there in a heartbeat… but I think we need to spend some time apart. I’ve thought about this a lot. You can do great things. You will do great things but you’re going to do them without me.”

“I always thought I’d do them because of you.”

She paused and I noticed that her eyes were a little wet.

“You’re going to do them for yourself. That’s the way it works.”

She locked on my eyes as she said this and held it for a couple of beats.

“I’ve gotta go and you’ve gotta work soon. Remember, if you need me, call. But until then, take some time for yourself. Ok?”

“Yeah.”

“No, I mean that. Ok?”

“Yeah, I will.”

She punched me softly in the arm and tousled my hair. She went out and I watched her out the window until she turned the corner. I haven’t seen her since.

I stayed for another hour or so watching the street. I had planned on lunch but my appetite vanished. I felt numb and slightly drowsy. I distracted myself by observing the pedestrians: their gait, their posture, the way they moved their mouths. They key to a good vocal impersonation is often gleaned from watching the way in which people talk as much as from the actual sound. When I see someone out a window engaged in a conversation I cannot hear, I like to try and guess their voice simply by the way they form their words. I played this game and tried to take a respite from my thoughts until the time came that I had to leave for work.

I changed clothes in my car and drove the short distance to the restaurant. My shift was quick and hazy. I went through the motions but nothing that I did seemed present before me. I replayed the conversation over and over, trying to extract positive signals but the one word I kept turning over in my mind was: pedestal. Why would anyone not want to be put on a pedestal? I only placed Malaya where she deserved to be. I tried to do everything right because anything less would be obscene. The purest and most beautiful things in things in this world should be regarded with a sense of awe, lest we take them for granted. We should bathe them in the glow of enthusiastic appreciation. All I’ve ever aspired to in this life is to have the honor of being seen in something of that same light.

                I got off around nine. When I walked out back to my car, I wasn’t surprised to find it blocked by a ridiculously large white pickup. This was a logical and fair turn of events. What surprised me was how much I did not care. Alpha, Chubby and a third unknown (backward capped) assailant climbed out and began posturing. They flexed their necks and rolled their shoulders in similar fashion. Perhaps, they really were a dance team. It’s not that I wasn’t tense. My pulse quickened and I’m certain my eyes were dilated. The fight or flight response acts on its own. It does not care about one’s girl troubles. But at that moment, my conscious mind was ambivalent. It wasn’t until after Chubby had pinned my arms and I’d taken the fourth shot to my torso that my sentiments shifted heavily towards self-preservation.

I knew how to take a punch from watching a documentary on Hong Kong stunt men. If your abdominals are strong, and you make sure to exhale the air from your lungs, before each shot the pain is greatly reduced. I thus took the first three punches easily and, odd as this might sound, with feeling approaching pleasure. There was a satisfying thud as Alpha wound up and connected against my stomach the first time and the second. He was bigger than me, he was stronger, but my body was harder than his. Pound for pound I was tougher. I think he knew this and it frustrated him. By the third punch I had begun to enjoy it. I needed this. The fourth though was a left hook to my ribs and it produced a pain that froze my thoughts. In that instant, I remember only the urgent desire to leave my body, to hop back from it like a child who’s burned their hand on a hot stove. My side felt like it had exploded from within, as if one of those long dormant creatures from Alien had awoken and burst from it clutching some of my viscera. Everything around me disappeared. From my toes up, every fiber was scrambling, concentrated solely on closing the gaping wound on the left side of my body. This I would come to later realize, had been a direct shot to my liver. As if cocooned in a shock wave, I heard only snippets of sound: Laughter, a car horn, muted dialogue. I was picked up my wrists and ankles and swung back and forth a couple of times. They were trying to garner the momentum to throw me. I was weightless for what felt like seconds before my head collided with the metal edge of the side of the dumpster. They had failed in their attempt to toss me in. I heard: “Oh, shit!” clearly and then felt fingers pressed firmly against the side of my neck. A moment later, a door slammed, tires screeched, and I knew I was alone. I laid there for only a couple of minutes before I forced myself to my feet. I welcomed the imminent loss of consciousness but refused to do so lying in the liquid muck that drains from garbage.

I made it inside my car and felt my eyes dimming as I stared out at nothing in particular. The pain was intense but receding and I knew sleep would make it tolerable. I felt my side. It was wholly intact. My distinct thoughts as I passed out were: It’s getting better already. I deserved that and I needed for it to happen. I could die here and she’d never even know.