The Thespian's Demise

The Thespian’s Demise

By Evan Stalter

Published by Evan Stalter at Smashwords

Copyright 2014 Evan Stalter

Cover images courtesy of Evan Stalter, Joleene Naylor, alfonsodetomas & canstock

Cover by Joleene Naylor

Smashwords Edition, License Notes



This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Also by Evan Stalter:

The Divine Beauty

For my three oldest friends: Jacob Minger, George Jones, and Austin Miller. The reasons are obvious.

To God Be the Glory

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you."

-Maya Angelou

"All the world’s a stage."

-William Shakespeare

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

The Hole in the Drill

Chapter One

All right, blizzard, you win.

That and numerous other, more profane thoughts were whirring in and out of Jacob George Miller’s mind as he laid his head against the driver’s seat headrest of his 2009 Honda CR-V. Minutes ago, the vehicle had slid off the road during a violent central Illinois blizzard and into a ditch.

I’m on Route 24, but I don’t even know what damn town I’m close to, thought Jake, closing his eyes in frustration. When he opened them, he noticed the snow coming down at the same pace as rain, albeit thicker and more menacing. The CR-V would quickly become submerged in the snow, so Jake knew he had to act fast. Nevertheless, he continued to sit, in utter awe of his situation.

A lifelong Chicagoan, Jake had never ventured the regions of his home state south of Interstate 80, even after his novel, My Time, had become a bestseller seven years previously. Over the course of those seven years, Jake had received several requests for his appearance at book signings taking place in Peoria, Bloomington, Champaign, and Springfield, but had always turned them down. He did so politely, of course, because the kind requesters could never understand his real reasoning. He would never forget the wrong that was done to him by a certain person from the lands south of Chicago…

In terms of driving, Jake was a professional. He could navigate the hectic streets of the Windy City better than the most weathered cab driver. He could drive anywhere in the continental United States without the assistance of a GPS; he understood directions the minute he received them. He refused any alternate mode of transportation, especially flying. Jake would never fly in an airplane again. That was another thing about his life that no one could understand, no one except Janelle…

Jake turned the light on inside the CR-V. Hanging from the mirror was a picture of his lovely wife, Janelle Summers Miller. She was leaning against the glass door that led to the spacious patio of their penthouse in Chicago, the skyline and blue skies behind her. He remembered the picture well; it was taken five months previously, before her pregnancy with their son started to show. It was the day that Jake had told her that his masterful play, Forever the Victor, was going to play in Peoria, Illinois, on January 29, 2012.

Janelle had urged him to go.

Forget about what’s past, she said tenderly, stroking Jake’s arms. Annie happened a long time ago.

I know she did, said Jake in a deep voice that was an appropriate accompaniment to his six-foot frame. "But you know what that led to, Janelle. First My Time, then—"

Jake, interrupted Janelle softly, there’s no way a trip to central Illinois is going to ignite a similar chain of events. You’re forgetting that you would’ve never met me otherwise.

Jake had grinned wryly, admiring his wife. Her face was soft and kind. Sleek brown hair cascaded onto her shoulders, giving her a youthful, vivacious demeanor. She was his best friend, and they were going to have a baby together.

What if the baby comes while I’m in Peoria?

I’m sure he won’t, said Janelle gingerly. He’s going to want to meet his daddy right away. And you’re an expert driver, so you’ll be able to get from there to here in no time after that play—

I still don’t think I should risk it—

You do know that Peoria’s one of the most theatrically historic cities in the United States, right? pressed Janelle, softly taking Jake’s hands in hers. "If it plays in Peoria…"

Jake had smiled again at his wife’s use of the famous phrase, which was rooted in the olden days of vaudeville performances in Peoria. It took great effort for Jake not to express his excitement at being invited to the city to witness his now-famous play’s performance, especially considering the harrowing story behind it. However, he did not want to risk missing the birth of his child because of it…

At Jake’s silence, Janelle said, "It’s going to be wondrous, Jake: Forever the Victor, by Jacob George Miller, playing in Peoria. Go. I’ll be fine."

Jake had winced at the sentence. Even Janelle could never know the entire story of what had happened. Okay, he conceded.

So there he was, on January 29, 2012, sitting in a ditch in central Illinois, a mere hour after the performance of Forever the Victor had concluded in Peoria. The expert driver had crashed, and the chances of him making it back to Chicago to witness the birth of his first child were now almost nonexistent, as it was likely that Janelle was going to have the baby within the next two days.

While Jake was staring at Janelle’s picture, he thought he saw a light flicker in the distance. He squinted, trying to make it out through the torrent of unrelenting snow. It appeared to come from a lamp in what looked to be a small house approximately one hundred yards away.

Looks like I’ve found a safer place to wait out the blizzard, thought Jake, removing the picture of Janelle and stowing it in his pocket. Better than calling 911 and trying to explain where the hell my buried vehicle is.

Gathering his bag and a leather pouch that contained his masterpiece, a play entitled The Thespian’s Demise that was finished in his Pere Marquette hotel room the night before, Jake struggled against the ferocious wind and snow to open his car door and emerged into the white maelstrom. The bitter cold stung his face first, then his ankles, which were only covered by thin black dress socks.

The thirty-year-old writer trudged through the blizzard and toward the light. Sure enough, the outline of a small green house appeared and soon, Jake, wearied and colder than he had ever been, stepped onto the porch. At first, he treaded on a sheet of ice and slipped, but quickly regained his balance and shook the snow out of his hair like a dog.

Watching as his wrecked CR-V quickly became inundated in the torrential snow, Jake chuckled. Clarissa Levet would be so pissed, he thought to himself. Had Jake been any other man, he would have panicked at the possibility of death from wrecking his vehicle in the middle of a blizzard in unknown territory. But a calm aura remained about him, even during his short venture through the snowy deluge to the house. Jacob George Miller had been through much worse.

Jake knocked on the oak front door as loudly as he could, hoping that the inhabitants of the house would be able to hear the thumps over the wind of the snowstorm. Seconds later, small footsteps were heard coming from the other side of the door, along with another noise that suggested a cane being used…

The door opened slowly to a tiny, dimly lit entryway. Standing on the threshold was a small elderly man wearing a green wool sweater and khaki pants, holding a cane. Wrinkles were embossed around the man’s mouth, nose, and soft blue eyes. A small crop of wispy white hair sat atop his head. When the man first saw Jake, his wizened face split into an exuberant smile.

Well, I’ll be! exclaimed the old man in a Chicago accent. Jacob George Miller! What are you doing here?

Jake was stunned that he had come upon a fan of his in this precarious situation. The old man appeared to trim fifty years off his age when he saw the young writer. Jake, trying his best to hide his shock, cleared his throat and said, "Yes, my name is Jacob George Miller, sir. Unfortunately, I drove my car into the ditch outside your house and need a place to wait out the blizzard. May I use your home?"

Of course, sir, of course! boomed the old man, motioning with his cane for Jake to come inside. Jake noticed that the hand that was holding the cane, the right hand, was in a black glove. I’m… I’m stunned!

As am I, said Jake, walking into the warm, cozy entryway. The old man carefully shut the door behind them, and finally the chaotic blizzard was silenced from Jake’s raw ears. Thank you, sir.

The old man, still at the door, appeared to be speechless. How… Where—?

I’m sure you have a million questions, sir, said Jake, removing his shoes and setting his bag and leather pouch down, but I need to call my wife.

Absolutely, Mr. Miller, said the old man excitedly, hurrying past Jake as fast as his cane would allow him. Make yourself at home. I’m going to make us some tea.

Jake despised the taste of tea, but decided to say, That would be great, and let the old man ramble to the kitchen at the back of the house. He pulled out his cell phone, and was dismayed that there appeared to be no signal at the house because of the blizzard. He nevertheless tried to call Janelle, but the call did not go through.

Jake walked through the cramped living room, which consisted of two blue armchairs, a cream-colored sofa, a small television, and numerous old photographs, to the kitchen, where he found the old man boiling the water.

I have no cell reception here, said Jake. May I use your landline?

Anything for you, sir, said the old man, pointing to the other side of the kitchen. A brown, bulky telephone hung from the wall.

Jake expressed his thanks and hurried to the phone, quickly punching in Janelle’s number. He prayed that she would answer despite not recognizing the number.

Hello? came Janelle’s voice, higher and shakier than when Jake had spoken to her last.

Janelle, it’s Jake. Listen, I tried to make it home from Peoria but I wrecked the car in the blizzard and I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere at an older gentleman’s house.

What? Are you hurt? Where are you? Janelle seemed extremely worried.

Honey, I’m fine, assured Jake soothingly. It was a minor accident, even though the car is probably lost. And I don’t know where I am—

A mile outside of Eureka, came the old man’s voice from the stove.

Jake nodded his thanks to the old man. I’m outside of Eureka, he finished. Which I believe is—

It’s east of Peoria, I know, interrupted Janelle. She was still worried; this time, tears showed in her voice. Jake, I don’t know what to do… The contractions are seven minutes apart and I’m going to have to go to the hospital soon…

Jake closed his eyes in frustration. Why did I have to go to Peoria? Everything’s going to be all right, Janelle. I love you. We’ll figure this out.

But the blizzard’s going to last for hours, and the roads won’t be cleared for days!

Well, then, tried Jake, the little tyke is going to have to wait—

This was the wrong thing to say.

"You think I can wait? screamed Janelle into the receiver. I have no control over it, Jake! I don’t want to have our baby alone!"

I’m sorry. I’ll try the best I can, Janelle, said Jake, trying to make his voice emanate serenity. There’s no place I’d rather be…

Why’d you have to go to that play in Peoria?

I’m an idiot, Janelle, replied Jake. He did not bother to remind her that she was the one that insisted that he went. I’m so sorry… Like I said, I’ll try my best to get to Chicago in time…

The power began to flicker in the old man’s home.

Janelle, the power’s going out!

Jake…

I’ll get to Chicago, I promise!

Don’t go off the line!

I love you!

The old man’s house went black. Jake smashed his ear against the phone, hoping in vain that Janelle had not been cut off, but no sound came from the other side. A horrible sinking feeling emerged within him, and he softly set the phone in its holder on the wall. Jake gripped the countertop and noticed that he was trembling. He was helplessly going to miss the birth of his son.

I’m afraid I can’t finish making the tea without any power, said the old man softly. I’ve got a candle in the living room.

Jake offered no response and, all of his energy sapped, followed the old man into the living room. Once settled in a blue armchair, the only light coming from a flickering candle that gave off a faint scent of cinnamon, Jake, like he had done minutes before in his vehicle, laid his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes in despair.

The old man sat in the other chair, opposite Jake. He said, You know, you should consider yourself lucky, Mr. Miller. My wife and I never had children.

Jake opened his eyes. The energy and happiness that had been exuded from the old man’s face was virtually gone. He now looked a centenarian, his face full of exhaustion. Jake also thought he detected a hint of regret.

I’m sorry to hear that, sir. What’s your name?

Frank Eldon, said the old man tiredly. A man whose time has run its course, a man whose only current joy came from reading your novel, Mr. Miller.

Jake studied Eldon, unsure of whether to express sorrow over the old man’s state of sadness or gratitude over his enjoyment of My Time. He decided to simply say, "Thank you again for taking me in, Mr. Eldon. I greatly, greatly appreciate it. I would have died out there."

Call me Frank, said the old man. "It was my pleasure, no, my duty, Mr. Miller. Without you, the world would be devoid of similar inspirational stories to My Time in the future. I’m still so shocked that you are here. What brought you down here?"

"My play, Forever the Victor, played in Peoria tonight," said Jake dismissively.

Frank raised his eyebrows. I wish I would’ve known. I’ve wanted to go see that play ever since news broke of the world premiere on Broadway. I am sure that it is masterful, Mr. Miller.

Jake was flattered yet again at Frank’s praise. Thank you, Frank. I’m glad that you are such a fan of my work. And you may call me Jake, by the way.

Frank chuckled. Oh, I’m not sure I can do that, Mr. Miller. Who am I to address you in that casual way?

You’re the man that took me in, said Jake gratefully. You’re the man that essentially saved my life. I’m pretty sure you’ve earned the right.

A twinkle appeared in Frank’s eyes, exemplified by the flickering of the cinnamon candle. He smiled and said, Well, at least I managed to do one great thing in my last days.

Jake raised his eyebrows. What do you mean, Frank?

Frank sighed and said, "Since you’re the man that essentially inspired me to make it this far, I guess I’ll tell you. I have terminal cancer. It’s asymptomatic, so that’s why you don’t see me in a terribly wretched state. But I have one month to live."

The sinking feeling within Jake grew even deeper. Frank… I don’t know what to say—

You don’t have to say anything, Mr. Miller, said Frank faintly. "You just have to write. Your story about Mr. Rosenthal and his aspiration to do one great thing before he died moved me to tears. And now, Mr. Miller, I realize that I have done that one great thing."

Jake was speechless. This situation could not have been mere coincidence. His novel, My Time, was about a middle-aged man, Mitchell Rosenthal, and his fight against terminal cancer. Rosenthal wanted to do something great with his life before his death, and eventually wrote a book about his struggles, which earned enough money to pay for his daughter’s college tuition after he died. The novel had been an inspiration for most, which was the reason why it had become a bestseller. But Frank Eldon was the real-life Mitchell Rosenthal, and he had essentially rescued Jake, the story’s author, from a snowy grave.

Frank had tears in his eyes. Even you don’t know the power of words, Mr. Miller. But that’s okay. No one does, until it touches them.

Frank, began Jake, fighting the tears, "I am so sorry. I’m glad you found solace in the book. May I ask how this happened?"

Asbestos, said Frank simply. I worked as a custodian for forty years up in the suburbs of Chicago. After my wife died of a heart attack in 2006, I moved downstate to this home outside of Eureka. Ronald Reagan was my favorite president, and since he went to college in Eureka, I figured it would be a nice place to be. After visiting the Reagan Peace Garden once, I coughed up blood, so I went to the doctor. Several trips later, I was finally diagnosed, and here I am today.

Jake could tell that Frank was of the opposite personality: the old man was not the one to tell long stories. It seems like you’ve had a good, long life, at least.

Oh yes, I have, said Frank, appearing to recall his life fondly. "Gloria and I had a nice fifty years together. She’s the one that got this lowly janitor into reading. She read your book in 2006, and finished it just before she died. She read everything from Stephen King to John Irving to Nora Roberts, but she told me that My Time was the greatest book she’d ever read."

Jake flushed as Frank continued, "So, I read it. And boy, was I moved. I remember every word of it, and have been keeping it close to my heart during my struggle with cancer. It is as if its pages pump that dwindling heart."

The pair sat in silence for a few minutes, the flickering of the candle casting eerie shadows onto the heavily decorated walls. Jake did not know what to say or think; he was receiving the hospitality of a man that was essentially on his deathbed, only pushing forward because of My Time. The situation was so ironic, and yet so moving. Jake was reminded again of why he was a writer.

Frank broke the silence eventually. Forgive me for the intrusion, he began, "but I noticed you carrying a leather pouch into my house. I remember an article from The Chicago Tribune about you that said that you keep manuscripts in a leather pouch. Could it possibly be—?"

My next work? asked Jake, grinning. The happier look on Frank Eldon’s face boosted his spirit. Yes, it is. It’s actually another play. It’s in the entryway right now, should I get it?

Frank smiled. If it’s not too much trouble.

Jake rose from the armchair and felt his way through the darkness to the entryway, where he grabbed the leather pouch that held The Thespian’s Demise. Returning to the room, he saw the old man’s eyes widen.

I’ll be, muttered Frank Eldon. "Jacob George Miller is unveiling his next work in my house…"

You can take a look at it if you want, said Jake, sitting back down and offering the manuscript to Frank.

He declined. Perhaps later. I don’t want to immediately rummage through your work. What’s it called?

"The Thespian’s Demise."

Frank exuded a look of great interest. Raising his eyebrows, he said, Intriguing title, albeit dark. May I ask where you got it?

Jake hesitated before answering. The old man had asked a question that could possibly expose some of his confidentiality. However, looking at the wizened, trustworthy face, he answered, Well, it’s a phrase I came up with.

Frank’s eyebrows were now flirting with his white hairline. Really?

Jake hesitated once more, shifting in his chair. Um… Yes.

Can you explain it to me?

This Jake could do. "When an actor’s, or thespian’s, character he or she plays dies in a play, he or she doesn’t truly die, just his or her character does. So at the end of the play, at the curtain call, when all the actors are called onstage, even those who die are seen alive. In layman’s terms, a thespian’s demise is a fake death."

Intriguing, said Frank again, rubbing his chin with the gloved hand. So, I take it, your new play is about a fake death?

Mostly, yes, said Jake. His dismay over not being in Chicago for the birth of his child was slowly fading while talking about his new work. Of his three works, The Thespian’s Demise was hands-down the best. Jake considered it to be a triumph of modern literature, and could not wait until the play premiered on Broadway, whenever that date would be. It was his masterpiece.

So tell me, Jake, said Frank casually, how did you, as a writer, come up with this idea? What sparked you to start writing this play?

Well, said Jake uncomfortably, stowing the manuscript between his feet, it’s kind of a long story.

We have time, observed Frank, looking out the window at the raging snowstorm. You have more time than I do, but nevertheless, we have time. I’m sad to say that you’re probably not going to get to Chicago any time soon.

You’re probably right, said Jake miserably, following Frank’s eyes out the window. It’s really coming down out there.

No response from Frank Eldon. Jake was still looking out the window, giving himself time to think about what he was about to do. Was he really toying with the idea of telling the entire truth to a man he had just met, while his own wife, about to have his child, did not know all of it? Frank Eldon seemed kind and trustworthy enough, and he had also saved Jake from a blizzard. But Jake had sworn to himself never to tell the full story to anyone…

Jake, murmured Frank softly, causing Jake to whip around at the sound of his first name, I understand if you don’t trust me with the story behind your upcoming masterpiece. You don’t have to tell me. I was merely being curious.

Jake slumped in his chair at the saddened look on the old man’s face. "Would you understand?"

Jake, I have come to terms with the fact that I am going to die next month, said Frank wearily. "If I can understand that, then I can understand anything."

Frank began fiddling with his cane. Jake looked on his host with great pity. Frank Eldon, a nice, hospitable man who had worked an honest job his entire life, was deprived of the miracle of children. His wife had also been taken away from him, and now here he was, sitting in the middle of a blizzard in central Illinois, waiting out a virtual death sentence.

It was the least Jake could do to tell the man his favorite writer’s true story.

Frank, said Jake delicately, I’m going to tell you a story that no one else in the world knows. I need you to promise me that you will not repeat this to anyone.

I’ll only be around a month after you tell it, so chances are I wouldn’t anyway, said Frank softly, but I promise.

You deserve the truth, Frank.

Well thanks, Mr. Miller, said Frank, reverting back to the original formality. I’m all ears.

And Jacob George Miller did what he had not done in two years. He revealed the truth.

Chapter Two

It seemed to be a stroke of good fortune that the tenth floor janitor of North Park Apartments deemed it prudent to slide a ticket to renowned playwright Gaston Levet’s Shattered Souls at the newly constructed Prestige Theatre under Jake’s door. Since the publication of My Time in 2005, Jake had suffered from a severe bout of writer’s block, and thought that perhaps he had caught a break and would capture a few ideas from the masterful Levet.

Enjoy, kid, was the janitor’s sloppy handwriting on a note that accompanied the ticket. The play is on the night of Saturday the 24th at 7:00. A hot date steered me away from it, so I figured the famous writer of the tenth floor would like to go instead. Consider it my treat for being such a good resident. –The Janitor

It was May 17, 2008, and Jake had been about to call it a night when the faint sound of paper whooshing under the door reached his ears. The twenty-six-year-old writer was slightly confused, as he had never seen the tenth floor janitor, but shrugged and checked his calendar.

Of course, murmured Jake, as he scanned May. Blank white blocks served as the days; as the writer of a bestselling novel, Jake’s royalty checks had excused him from finding a job. No job; no girlfriend; free Saturday night.

Jake researched the play online and found that it had been receiving raving reviews from nearly every critic in the country. Levet at his finest, praised one. The young duo of Phelps and Flaherty transform the stage into a sizzling platform of sheer entertainment, said another.

Jake’s eyes widened. Was it THE Peter Phelps? Was it THE Ian Flaherty? It could not be possible that the two most well-known stage actors in the country were going to be in Chicago the next Saturday night. And yet, it was true. On the Prestige Theatre’s website, their names and dashing faces appeared along with a picture of a bespectacled, graying man: Gaston Levet. Sure enough, the legendary playwright was going to be in attendance on May 24 as well.

At finding this, however, Jake slapped himself on the head. C’mon, Miller. You know that Levet lives in Chicago. It had been a dream of Jake’s to run into Levet in the streets of Chicago, to shake his hand, to ask for an autograph, but it had never happened. Never had anyone instantly recognized Jake’s face from the back cover of My Time, not on the streets, not in restaurants, not in bars, not even in his apartment building. But for Gaston Levet, it had to be a daily occurrence.

I haven’t reached the pinnacle yet, thought Jake later that night, as he watched the ceiling fan in his bedroom whir in dull circles. Not even with a bestselling novel to my name. I need more. I need another brilliant idea, then another and another. Then I’ll be recognized. Then I’ll be one step closer to finding a woman. Damn it, there’s Annie’s face again…

Jake forced his eyes shut sharply, banishing the thoughts of Annie Saxon from his mind. When he reopened them, he knew he was going to go to that play at the Prestige Theatre on May 24, 2008. He knew he would then conceive a magnificent idea from the masters themselves: Phelps, Flaherty, and most of all, Levet.

He just knew it.

Jake despised the fact that the royalties from My Time had not been enough to buy a penthouse deeper in the heart of Chicago. The cabs always took a lifetime to reach North Park Apartments, even though Illinois Street was far from the busiest street in the city. By the time Jake found an available cab on the night of May 24, it was already fifteen minutes to curtain.

Jake promised the driver extra cash if he would step on it to the Prestige Theatre on State Street. Had the cab not been flying through the heavy Saturday night traffic, Jake would have serenely looked out the window to admire his beautiful city. The sinking sun on the cloudless, warm May evening gave the darkening blue sky a pinkish tint, and its fading rays sparklingly reflected off the glass windows of the towering office buildings. Had Jake been in any other part of Illinois, the night would have been tainted by humidity, but with the cool breeze coming off Lake Michigan, the conditions were just right in the Windy City.

However, the cab was flying through the heavy Saturday night traffic, and Jake felt as if the chicken salad sandwich he had eaten for dinner was about to discharge from his innards. His cab, driven by a Blues Brothers-like maniac, received several irate honks from fellow drivers, as well as a few middle fingers and glares from pedestrians. Jake, toughened from being born and raised in the city and fighting to suppress his dinner, paid no notice, and the cab arrived at the Prestige Theatre five minutes before show time.

Jake stiffly paid the cabbie and entered the theatre under the hundreds of light bulbs that shone under the glimmering entryway sign. The sign read: TONIGHT: SHATTERED SOULS BY GASTON LEVET, STARRING PETER PHELPS AND IAN FLAHERTY. 7 PM. Above was the vertical, soaring sign attached to the building that gleamed the word PRESTIGE. Jake had waited for what seemed like ages to experience the new state-of-the-art theatre, and even though he was hurried, he could not help but grin.

Once Jake entered the auditorium, his mouth dropped. The ground floor’s red seats were absolutely packed with people. And what was worse, the people were well dressed. Suits and ties clothed nearly all the men, and several sleek, radiant, multi-colored dresses festooned the women. Jake felt awkwardly out of place in his purple polo shirt and blue jeans.

He found his seat near the front, and after making his way through at least fifteen dapper spectators, sat down and exhaled a sigh of relief. At least his underdressed frame was no longer in the spotlight amongst the throng.

Sitting next to Jake was a middle-aged man with his wife. Jake overheard their conversation, listening with great interest.

Did you know that Gaston Levet is here tonight? asked the man of his wife.

No, his wife replied, where is he?

The man turned and pointed up toward the grand balcony. Jake discreetly followed his finger, and eventually found Gaston Levet.

The tuxedoed French playwright looked to be in his mid-fifties, wearing circular glasses and, if Jake was not mistaken, holding a top hat in his lap. Throughout his illustrious career, Levet had been heralded as the Shakespeare of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. His plays were known for their gripping, tragic storylines and ability to penetrate deep into the soul of the viewer. Jake, who had never been to a play written by Levet, was skeptical of the latter statement.

But Jake’s eyes were not entirely caught by Gaston Levet. They soon became latched upon the woman in a bright red strapless dress, presumably in her twenties, seated next to him. Sleek, shining blonde hair was neatly and beautifully piled on top of her head. She had a radiant, soft face. Her body was that of a supermodel; Jake was sure he had never seen anyone more beautiful. And then Annie’s face popped into Jake’s mind’s eye once more. No, not again, he thought, figuring the stunning woman was Levet’s new lover and turning around to face the stage.

The man and his wife did the same. I never thought we’d be in the same room with such a legend, remarked the man. His wife nodded in agreement.

Jake began to seethe. You say that about a man fifty yards away from you when Jacob George Miller is sitting right next to you and you don’t even know it. I guess I’m still as unrecognizable as my cab driver in this city…

The auditorium of the Prestige Theatre went dark and Jake allowed his frustration to float away. The excitement of finally seeing a play by the great Gaston Levet was starting to sink in. Jake watched as a giant, billowing red curtain that blocked the stage withdrew to the sides. There stood the dashing Ian Flaherty, wearing eighteenth century blacksmith attire and whacking a long slab of metal. He stopped and dramatically looked toward the balcony.

Jake suppressed a snort. Please don’t let this begin with a soliloquy.

Despite Jake’s silent pleas, Flaherty began to speak in a deep, throaty voice. Alas, is there anything more in this life for me? Am I meant to suffer, day in and day out, beating on this metal slab laboriously? Or will I make a name for myself, go out into the world and conquer it like the great Genghis Khan?

Flaherty walked to the center of the stage and parted his mane of black, scraggly hair before continuing. "The life of a blacksmith is one of loneliness and heartache. In my private musings, I realize that while I dream of grandeur, I only require one thing: the love of a beautiful woman. But no lass will ever stoop to Frederick Nelson’s level, for I am but a dirty, decrepit peasant in the midst of power-wielders, doomed to second-class citizenship for all eternity."

As the play progressed, Jake quickly caught on to the story. His initial displeasure at the opening soliloquy vanished as fast as it came. Levet had spun a powerful, twisting tale of a love triangle in eighteenth century Great Britain. Peter Phelps, the sandy-haired, muscular star, played a tyrannical power-wielder, Lord John Laidlaw, and Joanne Banner, a striking young actress from Detroit, played Mary Thomas, Laidlaw’s fiancée and Frederick Nelson’s love interest.

The acting was superb; each character’s British accent was flawless. The dialogue was also superior; Levet wielded Shakespearean power through relatively simple diction, a power of writing that Jake had not seen since the plays of Arthur Miller.

Jake’s favorite Arthur Miller play, The Crucible, was brought to his memory when Lord Laidlaw showed his influence in the decision-making of George III and ordered for Frederick Nelson, whom he suspected was becoming involved with Mary, to be framed for murder and hanged from the neck until dead. Hanged from the neck until dead, thought Jake over and over, remembering his twentieth century playwriting class at the University of Chicago. Professor Wilkes’ favorite phrase…

Jake was a junior English major at the University of Chicago when Wilkes’ class was studying The Crucible, a play about the Salem witch trials. He remembered the September 2002 day very well; the idea for My Time had just been conceived, and he was thinking about telling someone about his prospective endeavor. His college buddies most likely would not care, and his mother, his only living parent after his father had died of a heart attack in 1990, had moved to Florida. He had no girlfriend, but that was about to change. It was the day he met Annie.

Professor Wilkes had just finished his lecture on Arthur Miller, and assigned everyone in the room to read the first act of The Crucible. When everyone stood up to leave the class, a very attractive girl seated behind Jake with black hair, large earrings and piercing green eyes muttered, God, this class sucks.

Jake had snorted; the way she said it, for some reason, was amusing. She looked up at him and smiled. Was that a little loud?

Perhaps, said Jake, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. I’m pretty sure Albert Einstein didn’t hear, though.