I promise Grace I’ll put in a good word for her, and I rush off to the bathroom. I pee for what seems like ten hours. Someone has scratched LOZER on the wall over the urinal. I’m not sure if they were aiming for loser and misspelled it, or there’s some kid named Lozer who wants the world to know his name. Either way, it’s depressing.
I finish my business, then I turn on the water to wash my hands.
The light flickers over my head along with the familiar buzzing of a fluorescent bulb going bad. It’s like a scene from Little Shop of Horrors.
I study my reflection in the mirror.
Adam Ziegler. Skinny guy. Angry acne.
I don’t get regular acne. My acne rises up from the depths like a volcano. I would kill to have normal zits, zits you can pop, nice clean whiteheads that beg to be pinched. Instead I get these rock-hard swellings that make me look like a freak. I’m always turning to one side or the other to hide them. Which side is the least broken out that day? That’s the side I present to the world.
Today I’ve got zero options. Both sides are terrible. I’ve got two zits like twin moons orbiting my nose.
I take a tube of greasepaint out of my pocket. Every once in a while I borrow makeup from the actors’ dressing room for an emergency cover-up. I use a dab now to hide the damage.
The light buzzes again. The horror-movie flicker distorting my face in the mirror.
That’s when I hear it. Heavy breathing.
At first I think it’s my imagination. Part of the horror soundtrack in my head.
“Hello?” I say.
The breathing stops.
A second later it starts again, even louder. It’s not my imagination. There’s panting and something else. A crinkling sound.
It’s coming from one of the stalls.
“Is someone here?” I say.
The panting gets louder. Are people having sex in here?
I should take off and leave them to it, but what if it’s not sex? What if someone needs help?
I look down the row of stalls. They’re all completely open except the last one. The door is shut, but not all the way.
There’s a custodian’s mop leaning against the wall. I pick it up and use the long stick to push the door open …
“Holy crap!” I say.
It’s Mr. Apple.
He’s sitting on the toilet fully dressed, his massive body filling the tiny stall. He holds a brown paper bag over his mouth and breathes heavily, the bag shrinking and expanding with each breath.
“Should I get the nurse?” I say.
Mr. Apple holds up a finger. Wait a minute.
“Panic—” he says.
He takes a deep breath, nearly inhaling the bag into his lungs.
“—attack,” he says.
He breathes out. The bag expands.
“Panic attack?” I say.
He nods.
I know what it’s like to panic. I’ve never had to breathe into a bag, but I’ve freaked out a lot of times. In the dark. On the ladder. And those are just the most recent.
Two more slow breaths, and Mr. Apple puts the bag down and leans back. The walls of the stall rattle.
“Who are you?” Mr. Apple says.
“Adam Ziegler. I’m on the crew.”
“I thought I’d seen you before.”
“Can I get you anything? Water?”
“How about morphine?”
“We used it all at the last cast party.”
Mr. Apple smiles.
“A techie with a sense of humor. That’s a nice treat. Be a good fellow and bring me some wet paper towels.”
I hurry over to the sink and hold a wad of towels under the water.
“Are you sick?” I say.
“Sick of my life,” Mr. Apple calls out from the stall.
And then the heavy breathing starts again.
I rush back with the paper towels. Mr. Apple takes the towels and presses them to his face.
“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Ziegler. Is it as bad as it looks?”
“This bathroom?”
“My show.”
Is the show bad? I hadn’t really thought about it. I’ve been so busy trying to get the lights right, I never really thought about the production as a whole.
Still, Mr. Apple looks so pitiful, I have to say something.
“It’s not so bad,” I say. “I mean, it’s getting better.”
“A tiny bit of advice—don’t become an actor.”
“Why not?”
“You’re a terrible liar. But thank you for trying.”
Mr. Apple blinks hard several times and grabs for the bag. The panting starts again, the brown paper expanding and contracting.
“Is it okay if I go back to the theater?” I say.
He nods for me to go.
“This,” he says, gesturing to himself in the stall, “is our secret.”
“I promise,” I say.
“Good lad,” he says, and he waves me away with a free hand.