Nigh

    The night watchman arose for his last shift at Horizon Theater. Its closing performance was underway. The following morning, the building would be prepped for demolition.

Once a dark theatrical epic, “Lost Souls” had become its epitaph. A cast of caricatures trundled across the stage in random acts of mock comradery. Pervasive darkness manifested in players tormented by a sinister otherness: their out-of-body phantoms writhing and convulsing as sonic discord sailed through the auditorium. Fresnel lamps spewed surreal projections of dancing demons across the stage. The effect was spellbinding to a generation past—and a pathetic parody to contemporary audiences. Like talking dead tours, self-mutilation seminars, and public orgies, live theater was in rigor mortis.

The storied stage of Shakespeare’s “poor player” had at last become “full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” Truth be told, the multitude was hungering for something lasting, beyond pathos or ethos, beyond sparkle or spectacle. Brains could be reprogrammed, senses recalibrated, limbs regenerated, and every pain allayed. There had to be more.

Silence swelled as the players took their closing bows. A moth-eaten curtain came crashing down behind them, dust ascended as if for effect. A public guillotining might have garnered more interest, but this was a paying crowd. Probably enough tickets sold to cover lights and sound.

A sea of sad incomers jammed the foyer, shouting as the stream shuffled out in lockstep.

“How was it? What did you see? Was it worth it? What happened to the last soul?”

In its heyday a full house made genteel playacting a profitable affair: an evening of diversion followed by late dining and drinks, perhaps a little rabble-rousing or idle chatter waning into wee hours.

Young theater aficionados enjoyed the matinee version, complete with fiendish giveaways: masks and capes and horns, glow rings, black eyes and bloody teeth, “all the free-loving attire for a self-styled coven of your own making” said the publicity rant. It was a perfect initiation into the klatch of stagecraft.

There would be no more sneak previews, guest visits, or limited engagements.

Backstage, a technician cut the power, locked the doors and exited through the alley. Outside, staring skyward, a small group of figures stood frozen like salt pillars. He walked around them, muttering,

“Discarded props! You’d think they could at least move ‘em away from the door.”

He passed the night watchman coming on shift.

“All yours,” said the stagehand.        

The watchman waved. When he came to the door, he stopped in front of the motionless group, peering into the starry sky.

“All mine, for the last time.” he replied.

Overhead, a pale glow reflected in his glasses. He looked up. It appeared to be moving towards him.

“Just a drone or one of the new spy satellites.” he thought.

Once inside, he moved from cluttered backstage past the orchestra pit through rows of red upholstered seats riding on a worn, fleur-de-lis patterned carpet. Gold gilt fluted art déco columns framed the stage, terminating at the ceiling corners in a floral bas relief. Their sinuous vine work merged into a spacious Tiepoloesque mural overhead depicting paradise, complete with angels and cherubim floating in a firmament of luminous clouds. A star-shaped chandelier with concentric halos hung at the center.

He pulled the overhead cord as he entered the manager’s office, washing the room in dingy ambience. A scattering of papers lay on the desk: bills, contracts, programs, memos and a greeting card. Stylized Greek tragedy-comedy masks were embossed on the front. “Long May You Run” was printed inside; the staff had signed it.

A demolition crew would arrive at daybreak. To wait, watch and wonder at the tumbling debris and rising dust cloud — the end of Horizon Theatre — would be his postscript. Had anyone arranged to save the ornamental furnishings and house fixtures of the town’s one remaining architectural icon? It was time to patrol the foyer.

Under scalloped lights, he perused nostalgic photos of the grand edifice, multitudes meandering beneath the glowering marque. The title, “Lost Souls”, was in every picture. Celebrity shots from the silent to talkie era graced the grim walls of the once regal interior. In one, a droll faced Buster Keaton stood silhouetted and unflinching as a house front plummets towards him. Bing Crosby peers up at a timely solar eclipse in another, a still from “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.” Others hung in tilted frames with cracked glass, their subjects darkened beyond recognition. 

The watchman extended his last nightly stroll, flipping the foot light switch that once illuminated the stairs ascending to the loge; he looked into a tunnel of darkness. Floor lights flickered and went out as he ascended.

It was time to reflect on a lifetime as Horizon Theater’s night watchman. At the top step, a cord with a faded gold card hanging from it said: CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. He hesitated. Stepping over it brought a strange chill. His torch roamed across a dust laden sea of splintered seats and faded carpeting. Ancient remains of food, drinks, cigarette butts and drug paraphernalia littered every row.

Though the once elegant upper balcony held little of its former grace, one thing hadn’t changed: the domed ceiling. He pointed his light up; the perspective was dizzying. A kaleidoscopic expanse of details unseen from ground level overwhelmed him: an explosion of painted stars, windswept clouds, and rippling waves of prismatic light encircled the chandelier. He imagined himself touching paradise. The firmament pulsated.

In his peripheral vision, angelic hosts fanned out across space. He turned to the stage. There, angels descended the columns and flew across the curtain, down the aisles, through walls, and past him. Ethereal voices reverberated through the theater. Stunned, the man pitched forward, leaning over the railing. He was held firm by an unseen force. Dropping the flashlight, he stared at the dark ceiling. The din receding, his equilibrium returned. It was just a strange imagining; he said to himself. Hunger and fatigue must be the culprits.

He returned to the office and checked for messages. After downing a coffee and his dinner, a cold grinder, he kicked back, waiting for dawn. Soon he was snoring.

Next morning he awoke as usual, stiff-necked, groggy, and ready to go home. For his last exit, he decided to leave through the front entrance. It was full daylight when he stepped onto the sidewalk.

A figure in white overalls opened a folding ladder in front of the marque, arose and began setting letters on the blank screen. Where was the demolition crew?

Still dozy, the watchman crossed the boulevard and entered the city park. It was then that he realized he’d forgotten his flashlight and hadn’t locked up. Turning back, he noticed the stone angel in the center of the park, facing the Horizon Theatre. It was standing. He thought he remembered it sitting, hidden in the shadow of sprawling oaks. It was now in full sunlight, wings aglow.

He looked to the theater across the street. Its facade was lighter than usual, almost translucent. Trees in full bloom obscured the marque. The man stepped into the blinding street. Shielding his eyes, he read the sign:  

Under New Management

Kingdom Way Enterprises

Inquire Within