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Harrison Coleman closed the medicine cabinet. The face in the mirror stared back at him.
Is this what it’s come to? Is this the only way you can get through the night?
The answer was a resounding: Yes. He picked up the water glass and downed two X-embossed pills, fast. Then catching his reflection again, he held up his right hand, making the shape of the letter “L” with his thumb and forefinger, and pressed it against his forehead.
Loser. Weak loser. You pretend to be a good person, but when it comes time to take a stand, you buckle. You caved all those years ago. And you caved just now, when someone told you he desperately needed your help.
Coward.
He stepped out of the bathroom, wringing his hands. He had to get his head together before the show started. He was the chief production officer these days, and at the Gresham Theater, just down the street from the Mahaffey, one of St Petersburg’s top performance venues, that meant something.
He stepped out of his office and was soon backstage. All kinds of crewpersons bustled about, taking care of business. He could see the plush seating, the elegant European-style loge seats. This was a fine theater, and his association with it gave him pride. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players...
He knew some people assumed he got his job through money or connections, but the truth was, he had worked hard and earned this.
Except he didn’t deserve it, did he? He didn’t deserve anything, except to die like a dog, which was what he was. Why keep dragging it out? To be or not to be, that is the question, right? He didn’t need to be.
He strolled through the backstage area, technically checking to make sure all was as it should be, but in reality, barely paying attention. Everyone had signed the call board. Everyone knew their jobs. They were brimming with talent—unlike him.
“Showtime in ten, boss.”
He nodded at the stagehand passing by, smiling a little. They tolerated him, even humored him. But they did not love him. They never would.
Why should they?
He could go outside, watch the crowd arrive, or better yet, return to his office. No one needed him.
The only time anyone had needed him—he’d been a complete failure.
When he returned to his office, he noted the chess table beckoning, urging him to make the next move. He needed to play more often if he wanted to maintain his grandmaster rating. He moved his remaining rook to an appropriately threatening position. That would do for now. Later he’d come back and play the other side. He was nearing the famed Lucena endgame, and he wanted to explore the possibilities.
He stepped into the bathroom and disrobed. It had been a long day and he needed a shower. That was why he’d had this tub-and-shower combo installed in the bathroom adjoining his office. He needed it. Sometimes he showered twice, even three times a day. He tended to sweat and sticky clothes and musty smell were not the ticket to success in the theatrical world.
After he finished, he dried off, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stared at himself in the foggy mirror for far too long.
Who the hell are you, anyway?
He left the bathroom and entered his main office, thinking he would pour himself a drink. He didn’t notice at first. He walked to the desk, shuffled papers pointlessly for a moment or two.
Then he looked up.
He was not alone.
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
“How long have you been there?”
“What difference does that make, Harrison? I’m here.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve come hoping for complementary theater tickets.”
“No.”
“There’s no need to be rude.”
“That remains to be seen.”
He stayed behind his desk, as if a rectangle of plywood would somehow protect him.
He could see his visitor staring at the theatrical posters on the wall. “Are these all plays you’ve put on?”
“Yes. Not all here.”
“You go in for all that Shakespeare stuff.”
He stifled a smile. “You could put it that way.”
“I can’t understand what people are talking about when they talk Shakespeare. Seems pretentious, if you ask me.”
“You’re not the first to say so.” Because insecure people always criticize what they don’t understand.
“You must like that Henry VI.” He pronounced it, “Henry Vee-Eye.” “You’ve put it on often enough.”
“No, you—” He swallowed his original response. “That’s four different plays. Parts 1-4.”
“Four plays about one guy? You’d think if Shakespeare was so great, he could tell the story in one play. Just leave out the boring parts.”
“Shakespeare’s audience loved history plays. A series of four plays was an artistic triumph—and also a great commercial success. Shakespeare was quite the businessman, you know.”
His visitor turned. “If people can make money with these stupid plays—why are you such a loser?”
“I—I don’t—Look, why are you here? I have work to do—”
“I doubt it. You look completely unnecessary from where I’m sitting.”
“I’m the chief production officer.”
“Meaning you don’t do squat.” He pivoted. “What would your pal William Shakespeare say about your miserable life?”
His voice choked. “A tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing.”
“That sounds about right. I think it’s time that miserable tale ended, don’t you?” The sound of music outside boomed. The overture was underway. “Good. That will cover the noise.”
He saw his visitor approach but did nothing to stop him. His hands trembled. “The play’s the thing, wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.”
“Your conscience has finally caught up with you, Harrison. Now it’s time to ring down the curtain.”