A Play

“He looked between us once more and said, It’s either her or me…”

“He looked between us… he looked, between us and said… it’s either her or me? …”

“What does that even mean? Where is he supposed to be? I suppose they are facing each other or maybe turned askew and looking at him, and he’s staring in between them? Huh? That’s a weird place to be looking. I suppose he could be too incensed to look either of them in the eye… That makes the most sense to me… But who wrote this shit anyway?” Reads some more, “it looks like a terrible play,” throws the manuscript on the table and looks out the window at the city street.

“And who could even concentrate here? With all this hustle and bustle… It’s ridiculous!”

“Where are all these people going anyway? Why do they all have something to do? What is it that propels their lives?”

“And what is it that propels my life?”

These were the thoughts (and some actions) of Anthony Bordeaux, a young man attending art school, wishing to be an actor on the big screen. He was lodged in a small apartment, consisting of one room, in the downtown of a small city, where many other art students also paid outrageous prices, gifted to them from their parents or schools in order to learn what many would call meaningless things. Anthony, as he was always called, was not good enough or bright enough to get a full scholarship, but had received enough so that his family had to fork out very little. His parents, whom he was practically estranged from, did not dedicate anything, but instead his parents’ siblings and their parents, out of guilt or some other ‘fine’ emotion, decided to chip in and lend some money for Anthony’s college career, though somewhat begrudgingly for some of the more conservative of them. But they fell in line, so as if only not to stand out as stingy or simply to not have to hear remonstrances from their partners, family or friends.

Though Anthony had gotten a free ride through college, a lot of good it did him. Since he didn’t have to work to make ends meet, he simply didn’t, and spent all his time in class or in his small apartment, which he had grown to loathe.

The white walls were simple, bare and quite dirty and dusty; Anthony couldn’t be bothered to do any cleaning; and the small kitchenette was cramped and unwelcoming, with this afternoon’s cereal bowl sitting soaking in the sink; the most basic of counters sat bare and with still barely any space available. A basic blue couch, or love seat rather, sat up against the wall, with a bed in front of it on the floor and in front of that was a tv on a tv stand. All of this, with a small dining room table, too high to sit comfortably at, was all that furnished Anthony’s little hovel.

Outside the window walked plenty of happy people in the bright sun, in bright yellow dresses, light and airy red ones, jeans, jean short, shorts of other kinds, skirts and all the like that young beautiful women like to wear to show off both their upper and lower halves. The men looked particularly well dressed themselves, with some decked out in fancier clothes, appearing posh and cultured, while others went for a more laid-back vibe, loose and open clothing, a more appropriate choice in the newly found heat of the early summer. And as Anthony hadn’t failed to notice, they all seemed to move with a sense of urgency, even those who wore loose clothing and moved much more lackadaisically, even these stoners or beach bros, seemed to move with something akin to a spring in their step, while Anthony’s only spring was the one that sprung him from one spot to another as he paced back in forth in his hovel.

‘If only I had a friend,’ he thought, but Anthony was by nature, a very shy and introverted human being, who though could get along quite easily with mostly friendly people, never really allowed himself to open up enough to let them see that he was willing to get to know them. Of course, this type is not uncommon in the art world, though there are also a fair share of outgoing and bubbly personalities, and though these bubbly types will speak to almost anyone, they for some reason seemed to loathe the awkward shyness of Anthony. It perhaps sprang from the fact that Anthony was a rather good-looking young man, with a decent height, a decent jawline, and a decent head of hair. His eyes were of very bright blue, maybe even gray or slightly green, which gave him a sort of otherworldly look. This with his pale complexion and stubbled face, gave him a sort of godlike appearance, which some resented and some secretly feared. It was not that he looked like a god, but just that he looked so alien, and perhaps even picturesque, that he was rather striking. It also didn’t help that he almost never looked at anyone, was almost always peering off into the distance, into some unknown, pondering many thoughts, and this gave him a pretentious look to those who felt some envy for him. And when he did look at you, the suddenness of it, of his bright blue eyes, would both wow you and scare you, like finding yourself in the path of a moving car all of the sudden, or perhaps a predator, you would almost freeze involuntarily and then feel some embarrassment for doing so.

There had been a few girls who had taken a fancy to Anthony. In fact almost all of them thought he was handsome, but only the very desperate ones had made any attempt to talk to him. These ones were all out of shape and personality wise were not the greatest, and so Anthony could not help but act even colder towards them, trying to show disinterest, but not doing so with any tact. And this was perhaps his greatest issue, that he really didn’t have any tact, or any social skills at all. He was completely awkward, and often, when a conversation began to drag or lag behind, he would not even know how to cut it off, would just stand there feeling like some stupid imbecile, trying not to frown involuntarily, until the other person turned away, themselves frowning involuntarily, and Anthony’s mouth, somewhat twitching, trying it’s damndest to hold something akin to a normal position, which made it all the more difficult to do so, slightly spasmed under a facade of "normality". And he was often trying to keep his face in a "normal" position, and things of this nature, thinking far too much about simple, rudimentary things that others never thought about, for they had been trained through their experiences on what to do in social interactions. Anthony had not learned to ride this bicycle of social interactions and therefore had no friends, no job and sat all alone in his little apartment.

‘Maybe if my name was Antonio… maybe then I’d at least seem more interesting and people would…’

But my dear Antonio, the door is right in front of you, between you and the outside world, all you have to do is stare at it, stare at it long enough and make the resolve… Oh but who am I kidding! You won’t make the change. I should know, I am your creator. You are simply the product of my ill mind, concocted from bad memories of my own, in my very own apartment, bigger than yours sure, and not in the city, but rather right in front of a main thoroughfare, where plenty of stupid cars came whizzing by, some obnoxiously loud, motorcycles, the homeless, ruffians, even posh young men and women, out for a jog and somehow ending up in my part of town, a not so good part of town, I don’t think… but then again, that is with any place, or more so any apartment complex. Any place where people can rent for cheaper prices, you’re bound to find someone who doesn’t have their shit together, has terrible kids, or something of the like, in short, someone with problems that spread into the outer world, and who wants to go out in such a world then anyway? No Antonio, it’ll do better for you to stay inside after all.

But I’ve let you out of my mind, here you are, running across the page, though still going nowhere. Did I mention that these are simply my impressions from not so long ago? The worst year of my life. One of the worst. When I rented an apartment in a bad part of town, or perhaps simply not the greatest part of town, all to get away from my alcoholic mother, who had been drowning me with her problems. But there are problems everywhere! No, we cannot run away from our problems… but let me ask you this, are the problems as bad in an upper-class neighborhood? What sort of problems do we have here? Drug problems? Maybe alcohol, but let’s be honest, what successful people do we know who have these sorts of problems? A successful serial killer? No, sorry clowns, but there will never be another John Wayne Gacy, not in this digital age. And all the others, were young, inexperienced, the ones who managed to live their double life the longest, well, they were by no means successful, by no means upper class. Though I suppose, but what’s the point in supposing? It means nothing if we don’t know. And how do we find out? How can we find out all the secrets of the universe? Are we simply to do with idea that all we must do is try? Try and you might succeed! Might. Might makes… what is the saying again? But oh, poor Antonio, it was much better in your world… let us return to it.

So now here you are, here I have put you, like your play, staring at the door, wondering well, what is it that lies between you and the outside world? Is it simply a door? Or is it something more? Something metaphysical? Something grandiose and primordial? Is it fear? Fear of rejection or fear of the unknown? Or perhaps fear of the… but why go one when there’s so much to be afraid of, and then again so very little to be afraid of when all is accounted for because well, those things simply will not happen to you, my wonderful protagonist Antonio. No, never to you…

So, Antonio, or Anthony as he has always been called up until most recently… approaches the door timidly, now that the strange voice in his head has stopped making so much noise. He stealthily crosses his small abode, grips the doorknob, lets go, forgot his shoes… slips on his shoes, grabs hold of the door knob again, bronze, or some kind of dirty gold, a sphere, rotates it counter clockwise, forgot to unlock the door, blast! Unlocks the door, hears it unlock, what a pleasant sound, begins to turn the nob again, when all the sudden there’s a knock, his heart stops, he stays perfectly still but then finds it pointless, for he very well can’t stay that still for long, and decides to open the door. Two men enter with masks over their head, brandishing weapons brazenly in the air. I did tell you to go outside Anthony! I told you to get out while you can! But it is too late for Anthony, they sit him down on his stupid blue loveseat, look around and find a bare room with nothing to steal and aim their guns at him demanding cash.

“Here’s my wallet,” he says, reaching underneath him, the men get tenser, and before they can shoot him he releases his hand, realizing he doesn’t have his wallet anyway, and he points to the dinning room table, “it’s on the table,” he says, and the two men take it before looking around briefly, in cupboards, even in the fridge before making a quick bolt out of there and leaving Anthony shaken but happier than he’s ever been in his short life.

“To think, I could have just died,” he says out loud and sighs with relief. “They didn’t even take the TV… The fools!” But at this they come back in, smash his TV, and leave again.

“What the hell!” he says, incensed and now is disconsolate, as his TV was his one and only reprieve from the hells of solitude.

But there’s still the door Anthony, though now it stands wide open, but I did tell you I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you, now is your chance! Get out while you still can!

No longer scared of the voice in his head, Anthony leaps up off the couch and runs for the wide-open door, springing over the doorstep and onto the wooden landing. But just then, a creak followed by an ominous groan is heard, and the whole set topples in on itself, crushing Anthony inside. What is left of him, is broken, bruised and battered, and exists no more. His soul has left his body. Has exited… stage left.