by Ethan Hawke
My poor understudy cowered. I wheeled around, my black leather cracking, drew my sword, and hissed, “They come like sacrifices in their trim”—this was my favorite part of every show—“And to the fire-eyed-maid-of-smoky-war, all hot and bleeding, WILL WE OFFER THEM!”
Next, I’d walk among my men, jostling their armor, patting them, giving them encouragement. Fear must be killed. What do you kill it with? COURAGE!
Finally, in a bit we came up with that everybody loved, I smacked my main man, Big Sam, hard across the face, and—to the surprise of the audience—he would smack me even harder right back. This would launch me out in an explosion of joyful laughter, I AM ON FIRE! Sweat flew from my cropped hair.
My men loved this kind of sophomoric frat boy high jinks. I loved it too.
“Come, let me taste my horse, who shall bear me like a THUNDERBOLT!” I took a pause and continued in a mock lisp, while playfully checking my nails, “against the bosom of the prince of Wales.”
All my men roared with laughter. It was obvious that the poor prince’s puny pecker was a source of outlandish humor when compared to the weight I was wearing.
“Harry to Harry shall,” I spoke, striking a more serious tone and playing on the irony that my nemesis has the same first name as I, “hot horse to horse, meet and ne’er part till one drop down a CORPSE!”
After that, my handsome men exploded in a raucous cheer. They looked at me with admiring eyes that seemed to say, Now, there’s a stud with some semen in his sack!
Then one of my other minions ran onstage and tried, in his cowardly fashion, to further caution me that the King’s army was now raised to thirty thousand men:
“Forty, let it be! O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness basely were TOO LONG! IF we LIVE, we live to tread on KINGS!”
My men responded with the appropriate roars and grunts of affirmation.
“If die?” I posed the question as if sincere, then answered it, “BRAVE DEATH, when princes die with us!”
With that score settled, I grabbed some lances, maces, axes, and other tools of death and started handing them out to my men.
“SOUND ALL THE LOFTY INSTRUMENTS OF WAR, and by that music let us all embrace.”
We all gave each other deep, manly hugs of war as the drums pounded—and, oh man, J.C. was good; these drums beat your soul. This show was not for amateurs. It needed to be precise, and it was. We were an orchestra in perfect tune. These iPhone-addicted, computer-obsessed, tweeting, porn-hooked, theater-hating teenagers were out there hypnotized. This is who Shakespeare was meant for: not The New York Times! Not intellectuals. Just plain folks. You play Shakespeare’s music right for a real house and that shit goes up all by itself. These kids felt this play like the boom of a spine-cracking orgasm.
I’d rather have gone straight to hell with a broken back than miss this show.
Then, as I wrapped my arms around Big Sam, I said for the entire tristate area to hear, “For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall a second time do such a courtesy.” We knew we might die and we were OK with that. Our cause was just, our balls granite, and our hearts? Right as rain.
“Come, let us take a muster speedily,” I continued, unsheathing both my blades.
Then it was time for my absolute favorite line. So, without further ado, I breathed deep—carrying the oxygen down into the base of my feet—and leapt to the top of a collapsed wooden artillery wagon to address my band of ragged rebels. With the teenagers rioting in blustering envy in front of me, spinning a sword in each hand, the cannons firing red blazes behind me, and the orchestra rhythm section pounding beneath the whole city, I roared, “DOOMSDAY IS NEAR! DIE ALL! DIE MERRILY!”
Then when the puny prince stabbed me in the guts in that Wednesday matinee in front of all those magnificent “real” people, those public school kids of Harlem, the Bronx, and beyond, when that retractable blade popped me right in its designated spot below my solar plexus, I caught hold of my shadow—just for a second—and it hurt me more than any Italian-stallion-fashion-genius who was fucking my wife and building sandcastles with my kids ever could. It hurt me worse than the New York Times theater critic. It hurt me more than the field nurse at Bellevue Hospital. My shadow hurt me with the facts, and indeed—the facts are not always friendly.
The Prince stabbed me in the belly, and to my total and complete disbelief, the audience spontaneously, jubilantly cheered. Before I could even launch into my final O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth speech, the entire house erupted in a full thirty-seconds-long spontaneous frenzy of applause.
They hated me.
They loved Prince Hal.
They were glad I was dead.
I couldn’t believe it. They cheered him through my whole death soliloquy. They didn’t listen to a word. They clamored with joy once again when my tearstained, boil-less, bloody body hit the dirt.
I lay on the ground, the steroids still pumping through my vocal cords and my abdomen still strapped tight. The audience adored Prince Hal. They were honoring him for his conquest, lauding his actions, and proud of him for destroying me.
All this time, I’d thought they loved me. All this time, I’d been misguided. Suddenly, I could hear how gloriously Prince Hal spoke the text. He was no punk; his voice was eloquent. His gestures were humble. You could intuit from his speech that he was a good person; you could also tell he was a great actor. The guy brought a packed lunch with a banana and a peanut butter sandwich to rehearsal every day, for fuck’s sake—of course he was the good guy.
Virgil’s voice as Falstaff then came into focus above me, and his sound was clear, and ringing. His phrases seemed to corral the audience the way the oldest and strongest whale might sing to a pod of young calves. His voice was a magnet, impossible not to follow. Both funny and touching, Virgil could move you while you were laughing. He wasn’t a stuck-up, self-involved diva—he was simply more talented and harder working than any of the rest of the ensemble.
Also, my understudy, Scotty, was speaking above me; he had a short scene with Virgil. He was good. He even got a couple laughs. Why hadn’t I let him go on for me? I’m sick. In more ways than one.
I lay on floor dead, like a sack of sand.
So, I’m the “BAD GUY,” huh? I asked myself. Holy Great Mother of God! I don’t want to be the Bad Guy. I want to be the hero. I would do absolutely anything for these people, but they detest me and applaud my death.
“Well, now you know!” Edward the King said to me as I walked offstage at the act break.
My cast mates were standing around idle in the halls, watching me shuffle back to my dressing room. Ezekiel stood in our doorway with a heretofore unseen look of warmth and comradeship on his face. Everyone was studying me, wondering how I was taking it. Their sympathy made my experience worse. Scotty seemed to shrug, I told you so. The King smiled at me and recited:
“Know who said that?” he asked.
“No,’’ I answered.
“Mr. W. H. Auden.” He smiled. “Not such a dimwit after all, is he?”
* * *
—
When the show ended, my underwear was stained red from the blood oozing from my bandages. I walked onstage for the curtain call and was promptly and joyously booed by my beloved, authentic, salt-of-the-earth public high school friends. It was undeniable, a spontaneous jubilant chorus of “BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO” rose from the house as I took my bow. My arms hung limp from my sides. I looked over at the shape I had thought might have been my wife, but it was just an English teacher. My head hung low. I was not in danger of upstaging Prince Hal by leaping offstage anymore.
I had seen my shadow and knew my shape.
* * *
—
As I was walking out of my dressing room after the matinee, hoping to grab a bite and a cigarette, the King signaled to me. “When I
did my first play with J.C., we were the only two Americans at the RSC in London. J.C. was assisting the great Sir James Hall and I was playing the male ingénue in Shrew,” he said, locking his dressing room door behind him. “Anyway, that’s not the point—the point is there was a little boy in the show—about eight or nine, and every night at curtain call, he would do this elaborate, intricate, absolutely ridiculous bow.” Other actors were streaming out of the theater ahead of us. We only had an hour and a half between shows. Everybody was rushing to get dinner and a nap, but the King moved slowly down the hallway with his deliberate gait.
“Nobody had taught the boy this absurd bow. It was just his childish idea of how an actor should behave. He would doff his cap and curtsy, bending the top of his head almost all the way to the ground, his leg sliding out awkwardly.” The King did an arthritic version of the bow. “The first time he did it the audience leapt to their feet with a genuine outpouring of affection. And our director rushed backstage and whispered to the company and the kid’s parents to never mention this bow to the boy—to please ‘let it be.’ It was innocent, magical, and the truest moment we had in the production.” We continued out of the theater. “And nobody ever did mention the bow to the boy, and every night, we received a huge boost to our ovation, despite terrible reviews, and an otherwise worthless production. Do you see my point?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
We were standing still now, just inside the back door of the theater. The cold street waited for us outside.
“The absolute genius of your Hotspur has been that you’ve had no inkling that the audience loathes your character. You’ve obviously never seen the play or read much about it because you attacked this role as if Hotspur was Abraham Lincoln, and it has been glorious fun to watch. You never apologized or tried to be likable. You never even doubted the intrinsic goodness of a bloodthirsty traitor. Granted, much like the boy I mention, it was genius born out of ignorance, but genius nonetheless. And tonight, you will face the real test. Can you continue on despite your education?”
“Great,” I answered, still holding my hurting gut. “I can’t wait.” I opened the door for the King.
“Neither can I.” He smiled, and strode into the chaos of Broadway.
* * *
—
In front of the stage door, there was a line of students waiting to get on their bus. I promptly turned around and went back inside before one of them could clock me.
I hated those fucking kids.
When did I become the bad guy? When I was a kid everyone liked me. When did I go wrong? Maybe it was one year earlier, on my thirty-second birthday. We were in L.A. My wife was recording an album there and we had temporarily moved the whole family to the West Coast. The recording was a very “demanding” one for my wife—meaning she was taking dance lessons, boxing to get in shape for the video, learning to ride a motorcycle, swimming in a tank with sharks, just a ton of superstar jerk-off crap to get ready for a new record launch. Plus, her manager wanted her in the “best shape of her life,” so there was a jockstrap-wearing trainer at the house 24/7, meals being delivered, and masseuses coming by our bedroom. The Polish cinematographer for the videos said she had bags under her eyes, so the kids needed to be kept away from her during the night for her to get more sleep. We had a staff of like twenty-seven nannies to help constantly with the kids, too. If you were an unemployed actor-househusband, it was a home that made you want to take a snub-nosed .38 and blow out the back of your head. I had nothing to do but take care of the kids and there were real employees to do that. I was useless and borderline catatonic. I went to the gym, took the kids to the beach when the nannies had lunch, smoked a lot of cigarettes, played the piano, brought the kids to the set for a “mommy power lunch,” and went on so-called meetings.
The day of my thirty-second birthday, we had a birthday lunch at the studio with the kids, and then when Mary got off work, we were supposed to go out to dinner with a couple of good friends of mine who were in town from New York. Well, a peculiar thing happened that afternoon. As I went for a walk around the RCA recording studios parking lot, where my wife was overseeing the backing vocals, I saw the most pristine rose red ’68 Shelby Cobra I had ever come across—outside of a magazine. Now, anybody who knows me knows this is my dream car. It’s a lot like the Mustang Steve McQueen drives in Bullitt, but cooler. More horsepower. I went over to check it out. This machine was straight out of the factory. It was hell-bent for leather. I mean the radio, the stitched seats, the cigarette lighter—every detail was cherry. Shit, this baby had a 440 under the hood and only twelve hundred miles on it. It was a work of art, more sexual than Marilyn Monroe in black lace panties holding a bazooka. Then I saw the license plate was from a nearby dealership. This car had been purchased today. The sales slip was on the dash. I walked over to one of the driver guys working on Mary’s crew and asked what the story was with this Cobra—was it for a video or what? Quickly, the transpo guy got all squirrelly and strange, saying no, it wasn’t for the video, and he didn’t know whom it belonged to—he had never seen it before.
That guy was a terrible liar—it was obvious he was hiding something. Why? That’s when the thought arrived. Oh my God, my beautiful, glorious, kind wife KNOWS I want this car more than anything in the world, but that I would never buy it for myself because it’s just too damn expensive to enjoy. She’s realized what a difficult time I’ve been having and wanted to do something AMAZING for me, so she bought me this sassy ’68 mint-condition Shelby Cobra just to say, “Hey, I get it. You’ve been making a lot of sacrifices for this family. Thank you, and you are loved. I realize you’ve felt castrated, so, for your birthday, I symbolically am giving you back your—let’s face it—rather large dick.”
I felt so understood. She knew my masculinity had been suffering with how unnecessary I had become; she understood that sometimes a man just has to be a man. And while she shouldn’t have spent all that money, it was out of love, so I forgave her. I sat at lunch with the kids, giddy with anticipation. When is she going to do it? When will she give it to me? Oh, every time she went to the bathroom or an AD came over to us…I thought, This is the moment. Be cool. Act like you don’t know. But then lunch was over and she hadn’t given me the car. Now, I wasn’t so sure. Her driver took me and the kids home and my wife said she would see me for dinner around seven.
“Cool,” I said.
* * *
—
I asked the driver, Steve, as we left, “Hey, did you see that Shelby Cobra?”
“No,’’ he said, fighting back a grin. His expression was priceless. I knew it. Fuck, that car was mine. She was probably going to drive the Cobra home so we could roll out to dinner in style. Seven o’clock spun around and she called: The video shoot was running late. Would I mind if Steve brought me out to set? That way we could leave straight from work and save the time and not be too late meeting our friends for my birthday dinner.
“No problem,” I said. I knew what it was…I’d been worrying about this: The Cobra was a stick and Mary can’t drive stick—so I was sure they were bringing me out there so I could drive the Cobra out to dinner. This is smart of them, I thought. While I was waiting, I called a buddy and I told him all about my new Cobra. I wanted him to know what a badass, awesome chick Mary was. “I mean, come on,” I told him, “that’s a great wife!”
“Fuck, I’m so jealous!” my friend screamed into the phone. It felt so good to hear him say that. I just smiled. I wasn’t going to gloat; that’s not me.
As we pulled into RCA, I tried to relax. I knew it would be important to Mary that this be a surprise and wanted to fake it well…to sell it. When I got there, they were still caught up working and an assistant told me we’d be out of there right away. Everyone seemed to know it was my birthday and they were on high alert to get her out ASAP. I casually looked around for my Cobra. It had been moved. Hmmm, I thought, I w
onder how they’re going to do this.
Quickly, she was finished, and hustled to get out of her costume. Then, before I knew it, Steve was driving us to dinner. This part I couldn’t figure out. Why was she not giving me the car right away? She wasn’t carrying any other presents…I still felt very confident that the Cobra was coming, but why this elaborate charade? Then she gave me the clue…
“I think Steve should wait for us outside the restaurant and drive us home. He doesn’t mind…that way we can drink all we want.”
“OK, as long as Steve doesn’t mind,” I said, nodding to good old Steve. Smart. Don’t want to drink and drive our first night with the Cobra. Very cagey. Thorough. Sometimes my wife impressed me. The sparkling red rocket would be at home when we arrived. She was probably going to give me the keys at dinner. That was it. That was a great idea. I took a deep breath.
We sat down for our meal and it all collapsed. My wife was speaking with this superior tone she would sometimes get when she’d been in the studio too long or had been interviewed too much—she talked two decibels too loud, as if all of us were trying to write down everything she was saying. She pontificated endlessly, pointing constantly, about the genius of her record producer. She still had on 10 million pounds of makeup and it made her look scary. Then one of my pals, who was Jewish, started talking about his trip to Israel and how meaningful and enlightening it had proved for him and his family. My big-shot, know-it-all wife used this moment as a launchpad for her opinions on Palestinian rights. She prattled on, patronizing my silent friend as if he were a warmongering Zionist. It was beyond exhausting and tense. Never once did the subject of the Cobra come up. They brought out a cake and my friends gave me some presents. I opened them all gratefully. Then, my wife pulled from her purse her present. I listened for the jingle-jangle of keys, but there was only silence.