Desperate Remedies

Marlon Brando got it. He understood the craft. He was disliked by his costars. They called him ‘frustrating’, ‘unpredictable’, ‘difficult’. Short-sightedness was the common feature among the people working with him. They couldn’t see beyond his intricacies. But their worst sin was that they couldn’t comprehend that art requires sacrifice. I got it. I understood it perfectly. I, like Brando, was an artist in the truest sense. I, like Brando, would be misunderstood at first but it would not matter in the end. The thing is, Brando never even thought about doing what I was about to do. No one did.

There will be questions. People will wonder, expect foul play, make up various scenarios. Police will investigate and they will quickly figure out that it was me who replaced the prop with a real gun. They will arrest me, sooner or later, and I won’t resist.

But the people, oh, the people will love me, I thought. They would say that it was the most brilliant, the most beautiful show there was. That it wasn’t just a show. That it was a revolution. That I, like Brando, was the pioneer of the show business. That I will be the next big thing. But it will take time. I knew that. In my mind, I saw the headlines:

“Broadway Actor Shoots His Co-Star”

“Real Gun at the Broadway Show Leads to Tragic Death”.

“Madness or Dedication? Murder on Broadway”

I could already see hundreds of titles, each article digging deeper into reasons why. I imagined everyone wondering and discussing my mental state. Someone would get me. Someone would understand that what I’ve done was not an outburst. That I paved the way to something new. An absolute form of entertainment requiring total, undeniable dedication. I would be compared to people shooting their abusers in court. The people would understand that. The people would not only forgive, but praise me. I would be sentenced to parole on the grounds of the crime being justified. The court would say that the killing was lawful. That the positive societal impact outweighs the murder I committed.

I was standing offstage, thinking and looking at the drops of my sweat soaking into the cracked wooden floor. I felt pats on my back. Heard the empty praises coming from people who despised me. It must have been similar for Brando, I thought in that moment. To hear the cheers and bravos from the cast after the perfect take, only to watch them give him the same vile glances and whisper behind his back the next day.

“That was absolutely perfect, buddy!” I heard the voice from behind my back. It was Brett. — “You sure are ready for the big night tomorrow,” he said and grabbed my shoulder. His face tense in fake smile.

“I’ve never been more ready in my whole life,” I said, grinning. I saw that his smile dropped and at the sight of my gums. They were rotten. I did that just for this show. I let myself go just for that role. I gained weight, I stopped brushing my teeth. I became filth. I became the husband that wife would not want, but need to cheat on.

Brett was the lead. In an otherwise cliché scene, I was supposed to barge into my apartment and find him with my wife. I was supposed to shoot him in the belly, but I told the director that it’d be better to go straight for the head. Brett had some lines, some final last words to say. I said it wouldn’t be so impactful. That it would deprive that crucial scene from a shock-factor. The director agreed with me. People would later recall how I was the one to suggest that change. That I was human, after all, and I didn’t want Brett to suffer unnecessarily. I also didn’t want anyone to figure out that something was off during the scene. He would scream in pain and, what’s worse, not say his lines.

“That was majestic!” Another pat and half of a hug from John, the director. He loved me. He was a true artist, just like me. He appreciated me pushing the boundaries. He was an eccentric. He often made random, spontaneous changes to his plays but all of them I agreed with. He loved when I improvised too. During the opening night of one of the shows I was supposed to mark the punch but I hit the member of the cast for real. I didn’t just punch him, I knocked him out. I was planning it for a long time and I took boxing classes in preparation for just that scene. The gasp of the audience during that moment was something that lifted me five feet above the stage. I was divine. And John acknowledged that afterwards. He understood me. He saw that thing in me that made me special. I was special. I was liberated from the norms and constraints of everyday people. Art has set me free. I always pushed it further and further. There was one show where my character was supposed to throw acid on another. I suggested that we should use the real thing instead of water, but John rebuffed me, and treated the whole thing as a joke. It was a mistake. I should’ve never told him about it. I should’ve just done it, like I did with the punch.

I made my way through the backstage and exited the theatre. I stood by the door and lit a cigarette. I absorbed all the noises that suddenly hit my ears. Car honks, sound of people walking by, hiss of steam from a cracked pipe. I opened my eyes and saw nothing but the billboard promoting tomorrow’s play. My face was in the bottom left corner. Round and plum with reddened cheeks, double chin and no jawline. Brett’s was in the centre. It was the million dollar face. The face of a man born to fame. Single stroke of thick hair falling onto his sky-blue eyes. High cheekbones and jawline so sharp it could cut through paper. He looked like a star and already acted like one. Shame, I thought.

I inhaled the last puff and threw the cigarette into the drain. I didn’t bother looking at the third face on the bottom right side of the poster. It was the face of a woman playing my wife, so talentless it physically hurt to watch. I spit on the ground and made my way down the street. It was buzzing with life, people walked in different rhythms, chatted in different languages, laughed, admired, soaked into the New York’s entertainment epicentre.

I turned left and entered the 7-eleven. The cold breeze coming from the AC above the doors hit my face like an ocean breeze. I stood there for a while, breathing-in the synthetic air, before approaching the counter.

“Two packs of Marlboro reds,” I said and froze at the sight of the cashier. She was a cute twenty-something blonde, chewing gum. Her pupils widened at the sight of me. Her shoulders tensed. I was admiring her neck and pale, milky skin. I wanted to bite it. She knew that and turned around, reached for the middle shelf to grab my cigarettes. I scanned her top down. She turned towards me again and glanced at my eyes. She quickly moved them to the cash register and furrowed her eyebrows. Her jaw tensed. I could see her collapsing into herself. I stopped licking my mouth and told her I would pay with cash. I put it on the counter and held my hand a little bit too long to see what she’d do. She waited until I raised it and quickly took the notes. I extended my hand but she placed the change on the counter. I grinned to myself. I loved that part.

“I didn’t see you before,” I said, drilling my eyes into hers and smiling with my mouth closed to hide the teeth.

“I just started,” she responded with an inpatient tone to it.

“How do you like it so far?”

“It’s a job.”

“Oh, come on. You must love saying that you work on Broadway, huh?”

“Can I get you anything else?” She finally snapped.

“How about your number? Would you like to have coffee sometimes?”

“Sir,” she started and I immediately realized how much additional weight and lack of self-care has aged me. I was probably as old as she was. — “I have a boyfriend and if you don’t mind I have some items to restock.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” I said, reaching into my pocket. — “How about you and your boyfriend come to tomorrow’s show. On me. They hand out two of these for leads and I don’t have anyone to give it to either way, so…” I placed two tickets on the counter and pushed them in her direction.

And that was that. I was waiting for that moment. I envisioned it all the time when I was alone. The moment of confusion. The look of disappointment in making up her fake boyfriend. How she regretted dodging me like that. How she was about to say that it’s not that serious and here’s my number, and how about we grab that coffee right now, I have a break in five, you know what, actually it’s way past six, how about we grab some drinks, even better, let’s take them to your place.

“No, thank you. Excuse me,” she said and walked away to the backroom.

I got out of the store and counted to ten. I remember the fingernails digging inside the palm of my hands. The pain of the jaw I clenched so hard at the thought that I’m not there yet. That I deprived myself from the focus I needed to go through with the plan for a moment of pleasure. Pleasure. Good one. More like embarrassment. But there’s freedom in that. That sweet aftertaste in being humiliated and rejected. The realisation that revenge is on the horizon because you not only know what you are destined to be but also have a clearcut plan and determination to go through with it.

The next day we made two more rehearsals. Jack was uneasy. He was all over the place. It wasn’t unusual, but there was something about him that made the cast tense. He would walk onto the stage, in the middle of the scene, to fix the curtains. To move the vase on the table slightly to the left. He would walk back five minutes later to move it to the right again. We could hear him shouting at the lights guy and throwing different things around. He went on behaving like that until we finally made it to the final show. He calmed down once he heard the first laughs and gasps of the viewers, all of them occurring when I was on-stage. My performance so far was immaculate. It was pristine. It was flawless. I was making history. Every single line, every single movement would be analysed throughout history.

Right before the final act, I went backstage to the prop room and switched the guns. I bought the real one weeks ago. Perfect, if not slightly heavier, copy. I loaded the magazine, made sure that the bullet is in the chamber and safety is off, so that all I needed to do was pull the trigger at the right time. I made it easy for myself. I didn’t want any hiccups.

I went outside to have a quick smoke. I was calm. I was collected. I was ready to kill Brett. I looked at my hands and saw them being steady until I heard the loud bang behind me. It was Jack who slammed the doors open. He ran towards me and grabbed me by the collar.

“I know!” he screamed and pulled me towards him. His pupils were dilated and tears were running along his cheeks. — “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Tell you what?” I said through my teeth.

“That it’s the most overused scene there is!” He screamed again and shook me. — “Everybody does that! Everybody! Oh, how could I be so stupid!” He cried out, kneeled down and hid his face in his hands. I could hear him weep.

The doors slammed again and I could see Brett rushing towards us. He didn’t even look at me.

“Jack, what the hell is going on?”

“It’s all a big nothing! This whole thing!”

“What?”

“The ending!”

“What about it?”

“Everybody does that! Everybody!” He stopped crying and threw himself onto Brett. He grabbed him by his shirt and slapped him in the face. — “You two, you two knew that it’s cliché! You find your wife shagging around and you kill her lover!” He said pointing at me and Brett — “I’m switching the whole thing up. Brett, you are going to shoot him!”

I couldn’t breathe.

“Now, Jack, the plot is great as is, you don’t have to make any changes now. Don’t be rush,” I pleaded.

“Actually, I think that works,” Brett said and Jack laughed out loud. I couldn’t hear what they were saying from that point on. Everything became a blur. I heard them as if I was underwater. Jack was pointing at me, and then at Brett, probably telling us what to do and what lines to use. I saw Brett nodding his head. I saw Jack clapping his hands and going back inside. I felt the pat on the shoulder and saw Brett disappearing behind the door. I had thousands of thoughts running through my head. It might be even better, I thought. He’ll shoot me and I’ll survive. Then I would admit that it was me who switched the gun and that I did it for the show. That I did it for the art. That I wanted for it to be real. To show how dedicated I am. Then I remember what I suggested to John and collapsed to the ground. I realized that I wouldn’t get out of it alive. That it was me who said that I should aim for the head, and that now it would be Brett who’ll do the same.

No. I won’t go down like that. I’m a revolutionary, not a martyr, I thought at that moment. I rushed back inside and into the prop room. The gun was still there. I took out the magazine and hid it inside my pocket.

Next thing I know, I was kicking in doors and finding my wife, in my bed, with her lover. I remember screaming. I heard gasps coming from the audience. I saw the barrel of the gun, Brett’s lips moving. And then, I felt the realization softening my legs. I remember thinking to myself that it was not how it was supposed to go. I saw the flash of light before everything went black.