44 Mr. Armand Goes to the Theater

August 14th - The bloody convention is to-bloody-morrow

I couldn't remember the last time I'd been to a play, so I hadn't been sure if I had to dress up or bring flowers or what.

"Your assistant's lead?" Lakshmi's voice over the phone yesterday had been hoarse and flat and entirely done with me.

"He's not my assistant, he's my ..." What was his job description again? Something liaison ...?

"But he's the lead? And he's what, nineteen?"

"Aye."

"Then you bloody well bring him flowers."

"Noted."

"And you wear whole clothes—nothing fancy, Armand, just not shredded; you understand the distinction?"

"Do I own any clothes that aren't, as you say, shredded?"

"No, but I packed you some anyway. A shirt should have four openings, no more. You don't embarrass this boy on his big day."

I hadn't told her about Lucas, so she had no way of knowing I'd already made a pathetic attempt at appearing human tonight. However, it was fascinating to note that even an ocean away she'd managed to develop maternal feelings for a boy she'd never met. Finch's innate vulnerability was that strong.

"I'll get some flowers."

"Good lad."

And I had. Now, in my office, I changed into the starchy, posh clothes Lakshmi had bought me and which I'd somehow managed to wrinkle over a mere couple of hours. Come to think of it, it might have been a result of shoving them into my messenger bag.

And so, rumpled, a tad drunk, but game for anything at this point, I found the venue, collected the ticket Finch had left for me, and took my seat at the back of the theater. Next to the one I'd saved for Lucas.

Which remained empty.

I'd considered waiting for him at the front, but the idea had made my legs threaten to stop working, so sitting down had probably been in everyone's best interests.

A sad little part of me, that I'd honestly thought had been struck out of commission weeks ago, wished I hadn't drunk so much in anticipation of meeting Lucas, that I'd managed to stay sober and unwrinkled and the slightest bit suave just for tonight.

But I hadn't, and Lucas was about to get a glimpse of reality.

If he ever showed up.

As the theater around me slowly swelled in humanity, and the house lights began to flicker in warning, I checked my phone, which like an obedient fool I'd immediately silenced upon entry, and saw a text from Lucas waiting for me.

Lucas: I'm so sorry I can't make it tonight :( :(:( :( milkshake's gone

Lucas: I know it's last minute but I'll try to be at the con tomorrow

I stared at this text for a few moments in uncomprehending silence, then responded, I'm sorry, see you there, hoping that would suffice or make the slightest bit of sense in these, the oddest of circumstances.

I had no idea how the absence of liquefied ice cream had led to us missing yet another—if not the last—of our chances to meet before I flew away to England. But my flask-related activities earlier in the evening ensured I was somewhat numb to it.

He wasn't coming.

That was fine.

Truly, it was fine. Lucky, honestly, given that I wasn't exactly at my best. I didn't want Lucas to be here. Hadn't spent the entire day silently counting down to this moment. Hadn't used the idea of finally seeing Lucas tonight as the scaffolding for the whole of my universe, which might otherwise collapse in on itself in a splat of self-loathing and flower petals.

The lights went down, and as I sat there, roses wilting in my lap, I tried to focus on literally anything else. Fortunately, I was given the opportunity to notice that Finch, the boy I was here to see, the friend I was meant to support, was actively not sucking on stage. He was, in fact, not sucking to the point of being quite good.

It was eerie. He didn't move like himself—none of the jerky bursts of hyperactive energy I'd come to know so well. Even when he wasn't wire-flying like an ethereal creature, he was making lightning switches between the persona of a na?ve, fresh-faced, boy-foot bear with teaks of chan, and that of a glint-eyed, grinning, sinister hobgoblin that clung to the shadowy corners of the stage. He was simultaneously endearing and terrifying, his voice modulating from the brassy ring of a laugh to the rasp of a barked command—exuding watercolor layers of equally bright joy and rage, all vibrant against the canvas of pure, unblemished, sociopathic boyhood.

I, along with every member of the audience, found myself enthralled.

It slowly began to dawn on me why Finch's life had been so fraught with misfortune and why his emotions seemed to get the better of him on a regular basis.

The poor bastard was an artist.

A real one. The kind that can't bloody help it. No wonder he was so hopeless socially—every faculty, every ounce of will and every synapse were spoken for, caught up in manufacturing a Peter fucking Pan I fucking believed.

There was no growing out of this, either. The boy was doomed; not only was he passionate, he apparently had the talent to back it up. He had no options at all.

I looked down at the roses in my lap and realized that perhaps lilies would have been more appropriate.

I also realized that while Finch's performance was appallingly good, the play itself was simply appalling. It appeared to be a Peter Pan retelling, but with all the whimsy wrung out. Finch's Peter was still the lovely, terrifying, Puckish creature he was meant to be, flying and flitting about the stage, but far too much time was spent on "Jimmy Hook," who wore plaid and a beanie and a beard and lamented his lost youth and artistry. Wendy, who was, I would argue, the most fascinating character in the original work, was relegated to beautiful, mindless prize, and The Lost Boys were a heavy-handed metaphor for a White Supremacist group trying to recruit "Jimmy" into their ranks. Tiger Lily and her people were, unsurprisingly, nowhere to be seen.

At one point, Wendy—dressed in athleisure wear and carrying a yoga mat—tried to explain to Peter that she was in love with him, while Jimmy stood in the background doing some sort of interpretive dance composed mainly of grimaces and stomping.

"Peter, what are your exact feelings for me?" Wendy asked, sitting on a bench center stage, vines and steam valves entwined around her.

Finch, that is Peter, stood balanced on one foot on the back of the bench like an autumn leaf clinging to a dry branch. "Those of a devoted son, Wendy." He giggled.

Jimmy wriggled in the background in an explosion of silent rage.

Wendy gave a heavy sigh. "I thought so."

Peter leaned forward into a handstand, walking back and forth across the bench back, which clearly hid a set of parallettes. I'd had no idea Finch was such an accomplished gymnast. "You're so funny," he told Wendy, but also seemed to be speaking to the incomprehensible Jimmy—who was now miming making multiple espresso shots and downing them one after the other. "It's like there's something you want to be that isn't my mother. Something you want me to be that isn't your son."

Wendy gave Peter a simpering look. "Don't you have any other type of feelings for me? Nothing in your heart? Nothing in your ... other places?"

My god, who had written this?

Peter righted himself and shook his head, grinning widely. "Nope! I want to be a little boy forever and have fun!"

I reached for the playbill and squinted at it in the dark of the theater—I had to know who was responsible for this—and my heart stopped.

The Shadow of Never, written by Dr. Kenneth Lazlo.

I almost laughed out loud but covered my mouth at the last moment. Of course. He had told me he'd written a play, after all.

Distracted as I was, my eye was still drawn to a soft light in the audience a few rows down. Someone was texting during this pretentious middle-aged wank of a play, and I still couldn't help but think: How rude!

Yes, I was sitting here in the relative finery purchased by my agent (on account of my apparent inability to dress appropriately), and I still felt that whoever thought being on their phone during a performance was acceptable, was, in point of fact, damn uncivilized.

Before I could help myself, I heard Ken's voice: "Could you be any more adorably English?"

I swallowed hard and tried to keep my shoulders from seizing up. This was stupid. I tried to concentrate on Finch, on this horrible, horrible play, but the damn light was as distracting as ever.

Despite the picture I might have presented so far, feeling lonely was not something I allowed myself to do lightly. It could so easily get out of hand, especially in public, and that was how things like Ken happened.

But somehow the very act of sitting here, surrounded by people and darkness, with one extremely empty seat beside me, was stripping away my carefully constructed buffers.

Ladies and gentlefolk, if you will direct your attention to the third to last row near the aisle. The dark boy with the flowers, yes; here, ladies and gentlefolk, we see Armand Demetrio, a semi-young, semi-successful cartoonist, alone at the theater. Mr. Demetrio will return to his flat later tonight, unaccompanied. He will work, drink, and fall into bed without having spoken to a single person, not even a fish. Armand Demetrio lives, as you can clearly see, ladies and gentlefolk, as he will die: alone and unloved. Thank you for your time.

I was letting it all get to me, or perhaps it was simply the experience of holding a bouquet of roses, the seat beside me pulsing like a black hole of could-have-beens. Feeling trapped and surrounded by strangers. Alone.

Alone and trapped.

My throat closed up, my hands and feet became cold, and every single cell in my body informed me that I needed to leave this room right now, right now, move, Demetrio—

I moved as quietly as I could and slipped out of my row and toward the back. There, a lovely young lady in an usher's vest accepted the roses and agreed to deliver them, along with a card I'd hastily scribbled, into the hands of that charming little ginger in tights. Her wide smile suggested she was more than happy to do so on my behalf.

I made it outside the theater and took several big gulps of air, before finding myself a shadow away from the electric lights and leaning against the wall, lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. I took a harsh drag and shut my eyes, pressing the back of my head against the rough brick wall.

"Laughing Boy?"

My whole body locked up.

There was a figure standing in even deeper shadow, but when he stepped forward, I saw the glint of salt-and-pepper curls, the craggy forehead lines of Dr. Ken Lazlo.

My heart was still pounding, my temples and the area behind my eyes throbbing, I couldn't get enough air in or out, my chest was going to explode—

"Whoa, whoa there, it's okay, kiddo, shh." Ken placed two large warm hands on my shoulders and pressed down, grounding me, somehow keeping me from running and fraying at the ends. He was smiling, a hand-rolled blunt tucked into the corner of his mouth and glowing a friendly ruby red. One shiny shoe carefully stamped out the cigarette I'd dropped.

I trembled under his hands but eventually began breathing normally. Or at least normally enough to glower at him. "W-what are you doing out here?" I asked, still swallowing in an aching throat. "This is your show."

Ken stepped away, gently relinquishing his grip on me and smiling shyly—fuck him for being charming. "I ... I can't watch my own work. It makes me want to die, you know?"

I did know. And I'm sure it doesn't help when your work is bloody shite, you bellend. I didn't say that and just reached over to take a hit off the joint he'd so thoughtfully brought along. Ken handed it over wordlessly and gave me another sweet, patronizing smile. Resting one hand comfortingly on my hip.

"It's good to see you again," he said. "I never really got to apologize about how things ended last time."

I realized belatedly that he was slowly moving further into the shadows—into a dark, secluded corner between the theater wall and a hedge.

My body, giving little thought to the matter, was following a script even more transparent than that travesty being shown on stage. Dr. Ken Lazlo was going to use me to distract himself from the labor pains of creation, to celebrate the glory of his artwork—to make us both feel like we were part of a romantic, doomed, edgy affair—

I laughed out loud.

Then handed him back the bifta and stepped away, back toward the light at the front of the theater. "Goodnight, Ken."

He looked stricken, for how long I've no idea, since I'd turned away, shoved my hands into my pockets, and hurried out across the nighttime campus.