Beyond the Gateway (Cranksepticeye)

One

"What do you mean 'promoted'?" Jack felt his pulse quicken.
It was the fifth week of rehearsals for the Avalon Grande's production of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Never mind that the Avalon players- a thirtier repertory company so far off Broadway it might as well have been in Hoboken- had only hired Jack as an understudy, which really only meant glorified stagehand. It was his first job as an actor after a disastrous stint in theater school, and, only at seventeen, Jack had been grateful for the resume builder. But today, three steps into the theater, Mindi the stage manager had waylaid her.
Jack was carrying a box of props he'd gone to fetch from outside, and he had a pair of fairy wings strapped to his shoulders- the only way he could carry them without crushing the frames. "Mindi?" he asked again. "What do you mean?"
"I mean don't bother taking those wings off kid." Mindi took the box of props out of her hands. "Our darling Diva deWinter just busted his ankle. He is out of commission and that means you, little understudy, will be stepping into the lead role of Titania, the fairy king, for the run of this show.
Jack was speechless. He'd dreamed of this- although however many times he'd sat through rehearsals, watching Benjamin deWinter overreact and under charm his way through his scenes, he'd never wished anything bad upon him. This is it. This is my big break!
"Hey!" Mindi gave her a friendly shove. "Enough daydreaming. We open in ten days and Quentin is- well, to put it mildly, our esteemed director is now freaking out. So I suggest you go slip into a pair of rehearsal pants and haul your understudy butt on stage so that the Mighty Q can run you through your scenes. Good luck."

My scenes. My scenes . . .
Thoughts in a whirl, Jack almost ran down the actor playing Puck as he swung himself gracefully off the set scaffolding, singing "Am I blue?" Funny, because he was actually green, a pale iridescent shade head to toe. Hair, skin, eyes, right down to his leafy tunic. Jack had been told by one of the other actors that his name was Bob but that he was something of an extreme Method actor and demanded he be referred to only by his character name while in costume and makeup, on threat of quitting the production otherwise.
Lunatic actors.
Between him and the equally demanding and very English director Quentin St. John Smyth, Jack was beginning to think he'd fallen in with a real asylumful at the Avalon Grande. He threw open the doors to the wardrobe storage and fumbled with the rack of rehersal clothes, slipping some over his jeans and T-shirt and buttoning them the best he could with trembling fingers. " 'Faries, skip hence,' " he muttered aloud. "No, that's wrong . . ."
Oh God, what's my first line? Jack thought frantically.
" 'These are forgeries of jealousy.' Aw, crap!" He was blanking. "That's not even the right speech!" His heart pounded in his chest, and he leaned his head on the door frame.
This is what you've wanted your whole life, he told himself sternly. All those years of putting on one-man shows for the household pets, and all the months of begging Uncle Evan to let him move into Manhattan to try to make good of it. This is it. Get out there and show them what you've got!
Feeling slightly more confident, Jack took a deep breath and ran down the hallway and through the backstage area, at the exact moment that "Puck" launched a handful of glitter into the air. Jack gasped, startled, as the cloud of sparkles settled on his hair, face, and shoulders.
Oh, thanks a lot, Bob," Jack muttered, brushing at the shimmering dust as the eccentric actor laughed wickedly and darted towards the stage-left wing. It was futile, he was coated in glitter. "That's just super. I look like a disco ball." At least it matched his Dream Daddy t-shirt.
"Is he coming sometime today?" Jack heard Quentin's irate tones echo through the theater and felt his nervousness come flooding back as he ran toward the stage.
Once there, Jack discovered that under the lights the fairy dust was shiny to the point of blinding. Distracted, he found himself tripping over both the hem of his pants and his lines. His heart began to flutter as he heard the exaggerated groans and sighs of frustration coming from the darkened rows of seats, where the director sat watching him stumble around like an idiot.
After forty-five minutes they'd progressed only a little over a page into Titania's first appearance. Jack had already managed to butcher half of his lines, trip over a bench, and step on Oberon's foot. When he almost toppled off the stage and into the orchestra pit, Quentin called a merciful halt to the proceedings.
"Jack. Your name is Jack, isn't it?" He didn't wait for Jack's conformation. "Yes. Well. Tell me . . . that bit just now . . . was that from Dantes Inferno?"
"Uh . . . no," Jack stammered. His face felt hot.
"Really?"
I'm in for it.
"Are you sure?" He continued. "Because it most certainly wasn't from this play. And it bloody well sounded like hell."
"I-"
"You know as well, let's face it shall we?--as completely incompetent as our former diva may have been in this part," Quentin sauntered up onto the stage, where he circled Jack like a shark. "He did still have one tiny advantage over you luv."
"He . . . he did?'
"Of course  he did. He knew the bloody lines!"
The entire cast took a step back to avoid the leading edge of Quentin's blast radius.
"And, while I obviously appreciate all the effort you've put into making yourself sparkly . . ." Jack shot a glance at Bob, who'd found something particularly fascinating to look at under one of his fingernails. Probably a sparkle. "What kind of crap-arse UN-DER-STUDY doesn't know the bloody LINES?"
"But I do know them!" He protested. "I mean, I did. A second ago. Backstage . . ."
The Mighty Q's sneer grew. "Well, that's marvelous. Perhaps we'll just invite the audience into your dressing room in twos and threes, and you can deliver your performance from there."
"I . . ." Oh, God, Jack thought, its just like theater school all over again.  The blood roared in his ears, and he thought for a moment he was going to faint. Or maybe barf. Right there in front of the whole cast. His cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Assuming your delightful predecessor doesn't miraculously heal, then you have less than two weeks to learn the part. Less than two weeks. This production opens on the first of November come hell or high water. At this point, I'm betting on both." He turned sharply on his heel and waved one hand in dismissal. "Right. We're broken for lunch, minions. I can't see the point of belaboring this any further. Be back here at two for ensemble work. You", he aimed a pointed glare at Jack, " look at your dammed script."
The theater cleared out quickly. No one seemed to want to hang around much after that, and certainly not around him. Jack stumbled blindly,to the courtyard and collapsed onto the steps.
"Jack?"
He turned at the sound of his name, spoken by Gentleman Joe Savage, the actor playing Oberon, I the show. He was a veteran of the boards, in his early fifties, with a solid presence and a voice that could melt ice or peel paint, depending on how he chose to employ it.
"Hi, Joe," he said, wiping his eyes in embarrassment.
"Gadzooks, man." He said soflty. "I know the Mighty Q bowels like a banshee, but really, you mustn't let the old fart get to you." He sat down on the steps and u screed the top of his battered thermos, pouring himself a cup of coffee. The scent of dark roast Columbian was comforting.
Jack gave him a weak smile. "Joe . . . you know that people, most people, don't actually use the word gadzooks in everyday conversation anymore, right?"
"I'm on a one man crusade to bring it back into fashion. Along with odds my bodkins, 'sblood, and, let us not forget, yoicks." He took a sip of his coffee and patted Jack's knee with fatherly affection. "Everyone has a purpose in life. That is mine. Quixotic as it might be."
"What if I don't?" Jack stared fiercely at his sneakers, willing away the prick of tears behind his eyes. He felt-he knew- he'd just blown his big chance.  "Have a purpose, I mean? A destiny."
"Impossible."
"Why DL you say that?" He looked up at him, desperate for his honest opinion.
Joe raised an elegant grey eyebrow. "I'm the king of fairyland," he winked at him. "All of that pixie dust has given me extremely potent powers of observation."
"Joe, I'm not kidding."
"Neither an I." Joe held his gaze with Jack's, his face serious. "Jack . . . you are seventeen. You are on your own in New York City. And you are chasing a dream that most reasonable people consider either unattainable or a dammed-fool waste of time. Beleive me, I know. All of which tells me that you are either fearless or just a little bit foolish. I suspect both. I also suspect that you are one of those precious few with enough natural talent to make a go of it."
Jack scoffed in disbelief. "You saw what I just did in there, right?"
"And heard, yes." Joe chuckled. "You mangled just over fifth percent of your limes. I don't care what Quentin says, for a first timer that's not half bad. Well, it was half bad. But that's the point. It was also half good."
"You . . . really think so?" Jack said, trying to gauge if he was being sincere.
"I really do." Joe shrugged and drained his coffee. "You've got a voice. You've got a presence. More importantly, you have a heart and stubbornness that could very well take you places most of us scarcely dare to imagine." He screwed the cup-lid back onto his thermos. "Now, call that destiny, call it purpose, whatever 'it' is my dear boy, you have it in good supply."
Jack wasn't entirely convinced, but he smiled, grateful for the kindness. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a silver tongue, Joe?"
"Many times. Unfortunately never the reviewers."
"Thank you."
"No need to thank me." Standing, Joe tipped an imaginary hat to him as he went back inside the theater

The second half of rehersal also ended early, but this time it wasn't Jack's fault. It would have been had to screw up his lines when he'd been ordered to rehearse script in hand. Although it was humiliating for Jack to still be "on book" so close to opening, the company whipped through the large ensemble scenes at a pace and with a level of competency that even Quentin could only manage a few halfhearted mutters over.
After a couple hours he releases most of the cast, holding back the two girls playing Hermia and Helena so he could work on their monologues because, he remarked pointedly and well within Jack's earshot, "they already know their lines."
Lucky them Jack thought, as he changed back into his street clothes. He gathered up his stuff and hotfooted it out of there before the Mighty Q could change his mind.
Outside the day was glorious, the October sky deep blue and the air mild. The sun was shining brightly, and it reminded Jack of all the days at home in Ireland. He felt a wave of homesickness.
Why am I doing this? he wondered.
In his six months in New York, Jack had never once questioned his life choices: graduating high school early, dropping out of theater training to move to the city, leaving behind what few friends he had, not to mention his Uncle, who'd raised him singlehandedly since his parents' death twelve years earlier. Jack was all Evan had and they loved each other but, instead of continuing with his studies at a nearby university, visiting Evan on weekends, here she was. Living in the toughest city in America, chasing a selfish dream that, Let's face it, he told himself morosely, apparently, he really wasn't any good at. No matter what Joe said.
He scuffed his feet as he wandered up Eighth Avenue, reluctant to !make his way uptown to the fourth-floor walk-up that he now called home. Except that home was something else. It was sky and grass and the trees of the woods outside his old window, and peace.
Jack came to a stop at the corner of Fifty-fifth Street. Central Park was only a few blocks away. There would be trees and grass, and benches where he could sot quietly, looking over his lines away from city crowds. Turning to veer east, he broke into a jog.