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When Oedipus learned the traveler he had murdered years ago was his father, and the woman he married was his mother, the anguish was raw and powerful. Almost destructive. His tortured denial reverberated through the theater as if it could shake the foundations. Bring the whole building crashing down with him as he collapsed to his knees.
When Jocasta—his wife and mother—hung herself, the king’s grief and pain sucked the audience in, uncomfortably close.
When he tore the golden brooches off her dress and used them to claw his own eyes out, the stage blood spurting from under his palms was as real as the horrified blood thundering in our veins. His agony saturated every scream, every syllable, every weeping gasp of breath. And we had no choice but to feel it too.
I was vaguely aware of sniffles from the seats around me, people passing tissues and exhaling ragged sighs. But it wasn’t until Oedipus, purged of the terrible weight of the prophecy, was exiled from his home that tears broke free and streamed down my cheeks. The fallen king cast adrift in the dark, forced to wander alone.
The curtain fell and we all bolted to our feet in a thunderous standing ovation. The crowd roared louder when Isaac took his bow. Behind the beard and the streaks of blood, his expression was exhausted. Then he smiled. A brilliant, breathtaking, triumphant smile of someone who’d taken a dark journey and come out the other side.
I slammed my hands together over and over, tears streaming unchecked as the dwindling, flicker of a fire in me stretched taller and reached for the stage.
Isaac
The post-performance crush was always surreal for me. The congratulatory hugs and back pats from the cast seemed to fall on someone else’s body while I looked on from a corner, still lost in and connected to Oedipus. Some actors called it being in the zone, but Martin called it the flow. A current of creativity where performance stopped being performance and became real.
The flow was my drug. I craved it as soon as I left the theater. Like a junkie, I’d sell off everything I owned to live in that place where painful emotions trapped inside me were set free. It let me be exposed and raw, yet kept me protected under costumes and shielded by sets.
Lorraine Embry, the forty-year-old school teacher who played Jocasta, pulled me in for a long hug. Tears stood out in her eyes when she pulled away.
“Every night,” she said, her hands holding my face. “How do you give so much every night?”
I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”
We headed to the dressing rooms to change and wipe off stage makeup and, in my case, fake blood. Changing into street clothes, the guys shot the shit and talked up the show, lamenting how we had only one more performance. They waved goodbyes and headed out to greet friends and relatives who’d come to see them. As usual, I felt a fleeting curiosity if Pops was among the crowd in the lobby. As usual, I shot it dead.
Only if every ticket came with a bottle of Old Crow.
The dressing room was now empty except for me, Martin and Len Hostetler, who played the role of Creon.
“You guys want to grab a beer?” he asked. Then he laughed. “Shit, Pearce, I keep forgetting you’re only eighteen, O king, instead of thirty.”
Martin, a slender man with a shock of graying hair and wide blue eyes, beamed. “Actually, today is—”
I shot him a warning glance through the mirror, shaking my head slightly.
“—not a good time,” he finished. “Thanks, Len.”
Len saluted. “What’s the play after this, Herr Direktor? You make your decision?”
“Yes, I’ve decided it’s going to be Hamlet,” Martin said, meeting my stare in the mirror.
“Good choice,” Len said. “It begs the question, what came first
—the play or the actor you had in mind for it?” He laughed and chucked me on the shoulder. “I kid, kiddo. You were brilliant. As usual.” He turned to Martin. “We gotta use this guy’s talents before Hollywood or Broadway snatches him up, am I right?”
“My thoughts exactly,” Martin said.
“Have a good one, fellas.”
The door shut and Martin and I were alone.
“The entire cast would throw you a birthday party if you’d let them,” he said, tying his shoes.
“We have a party,” I said. “A cast party. Tomorrow night after closing.”
“That’s not the same—”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Turning nineteen and still being in high school is fucking pathetic.”
