Spinning Out

by David Stahler Jr.

  No, the problem wasn’t that Stewart wasn’t good. It was that Stewart was too good, that Stewart was always good, was always on. Everyone loved it. Everyone thought it was cool. Not me. I had to live with it.

  By the end of the week, the play was the only thing he talked about. Every morning on the way to school, every afternoon on the way home, and every moment in between—at lunch, in the halls—it was all Man of La Mancha, all the time. Dissecting this or that kid’s performance, analyzing his own performance, speculating on blocking changes Ms. Vale might make, wondering how the sets were going to come together, debating whether we should be working more on choreography—you name it, Stewart obsessed about it. He even roped me into practicing on the weekend, luring me over that Saturday with the promise of dinner, since Ralph was taking my mother out to the Wellboro Diner. I humored him for an hour or so, but he could tell I was getting tired of it toward the end, so he suggested a movie.

  “Not Man of La Mancha,” I said.

  “I know.” He raised his hands. “I’ve got Hamlet.”

  “Hamlet?” I said. “You serious?”

  “Figured I should broaden my theatrical horizons with a little Shakespeare.”

  “Great,” I moaned.

  “Dude, it’s a classic.”

  “It’s fucking boring.”

  “How the hell would you know?”

  “Because I read the goddam thing last year.”

  “Yeah, when?”

  “I was bored one day, so I read it. Some dumbass forgot his copy in the library.”

  “Oh,” Stewart said, crinkling his brow. “I think that was me.”

  We looked at each other and cracked up.

  “Come on,” he said. “Kate Winslet’s in it. You’re always saying how hot she is.”

  “Fine,” I muttered.

  “Hamlet was an actor, you know,” he said as we settled down to watch.

  “Hamlet was crazy.”

  “No, he wasn’t,” Stewart shot back. It was the voice he usually used with his parents when they had their stupid arguments around the supper table. “He was just pretending. Besides, crazy people don’t know they’re crazy. Hamlet wonders if he might be.”

  Was that really true? I saw my father, staring into the bathroom mirror on a hot night in June while I lay sleeping in the next room. I thought I’d gotten the image out of my head, but all of a sudden it was back. To be or not to be. Fucking Hamlet.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I didn’t feel like arguing. “Either way, he ends up dead. That’s all that matters.”

  For the most part, I went along with Stewart’s obsession. I was into the play, too. But after a while, the intensity started to get on my nerves. It made me wonder whether I was committed enough, if I was enjoying the whole “experience” enough. I knew I could never match Stewart, but for some reason I felt like I should. I’d never felt that way before, and it pissed me off.

  A part of me missed our pit stops, our walks on the outer loop, our back-road detours. I missed being stupid and fun. I even tried to get Stewart to partake one afternoon on the way home, producing a joint as we made our way out of town. Stewart always kept the bag, but I’d been able to scrape one together with what was left of my own little stash.

  “Come on, let’s just take a break,” I said. “We’ve been going all week.”

  Stewart did a slight double take at the sight of the joint. He took it from me, brought it to his nose, and gave it a deep sniff before smiling. Then he rolled down the window and tossed it out.

  “Hey! What the hell?”

  “Sorry, old friend. Purity is the name of the game now. I tainted myself for too long. As did you.”

  “Whatever happened to enhancement?”

  “You’re lucky you’ve got me, Frenchy,” he said, ignoring my anger. “We’re on a journey now. Distractions won’t do.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “We wouldn’t want any distractions.”

  During the second week of blocking, he backed off the production talk, only to start a new obsession—Stacey McGovern, a subject even more annoying, if you can believe it.

  We were well into the play and had gotten to the part where Don Quixote attempts to woo Aldonza, whom in his madness he names Dulcinea. But Aldonza has other ideas, at least at first. So, it seemed, did Stacey, who was game enough during the scenes to engage Stewart but broke character as soon as they were done. Stewart, meanwhile, did his best to hold her attention, following her around, striking up conversation, going out of his way to ask her questions. She humored him, for the most part—he’d gotten to be pretty popular with the other actors. But when cast members clustered around him during breaks, she always found an excuse to slip away.

  Stewart, unfortunately, refused to see it. All the way home, he’d chatter on about how beautiful she was, how delicate. Like a rose. A rose! Apparently roses have perfect asses, too, from the way he talked. I couldn’t argue with him there, but then he’d go on about how in love they were, how their passion for the stage united them, how maybe they would go to the same college, maybe both be actors, blah, blah, blah. I kept my mouth shut at first, but after a few days of that bullshit I couldn’t help myself.

  “Dude, she isn’t into you,” I snapped as we headed over the bridge and started up the Heights.

  He scrunched up his face, then shook his head a little.

  “Trust me. She isn’t.”

  “A noble jest. But I know for a fact she is.”

  “No, she isn’t,” I insisted. Normally I’d just roll over with a “whatever,” but for some reason I suddenly couldn’t let him get away with it. “She walks away whenever you come over. And she doesn’t laugh very much at your jokes. Sorry, dude.”

  “She’s just being Aldonza,” Stewart said. “You know how the wench plays hard to get. But in the end, she can’t help being charmed by Don Quixote.”

  “I’m not talking about the play, Stewart. I’m talking about real life.”

  “I know,” he said, drawing out his words. “But there are things you don’t notice. She has confessed her love for me more than once this week.”

  “She has? When?”

  “There are secret looks, ones that only we share. I know she cares.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You just don’t understand women, Frenchy. When’s the last time you had a girlfriend, anyway?”

  “Eighth grade. Same as you, asshole.”

  “Well, maybe it’s your time too. What about Kaela? You two have been hanging out quite a bit.” He flashed me a quick grin.

  “She’s cute,” I admitted.

  “She is,” he said, adding, “Of course, she’s no Dulcinea.”

  “Yeah, well, neither is Stacey.”

  “Not yet,” Stewart whispered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It took a few days, but as the third and final week of blocking rolled around, Stewart finally cooled on the whole Stacey business. Whether I’d managed to talk some sense into him or he’d decided to keep his infatuation to himself, I had no idea. Frankly, I didn’t give a shit. It was just nice not having to listen to him carry on like some pathetic horndog.

  But then other things started happening. Weird things.

  On Tuesday, Stewart stopped in the middle of a scene. At first, I thought he’d forgotten his line.

  “ ‘The Enchanter may confuse the outcome, but the effort remains sublime!’ ” I whispered, prompting him from the script.

  He didn’t answer. He just looked around, kind of dazed.

  “Stewart?” Ms. Vale asked. Everyone was starting to glance at one another.

  He snapped his head up. “What about costumes? We need costumes, don’t we?”

  There were a few snickers. Stacey McGovern gave a disgusted sigh.

  “Well, Stewart,” Ms. Vale explained, “we don’t really worry about those until we get closer to the actual performance.”

  “It’s called dress rehearsal,” Quentin shouted. More laughter.


  Ms. Vale whipped her hand up for silence. The laughter stopped.

  She brought both hands up to her head, the tips of her delicate fingers spread out, disappearing into her hair so that it was pushed back a little. She was thinking. She always did that when she was thinking.

  “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a few props, I suppose,” she finally said. “In fact, it can be quite helpful during blocking.”

  Stacey and Quentin gave each other an eye roll.

  “Props?” Stewart said. He paused for a moment, then slipped right back into the scene. We moved along. It was forgotten.

  Until the next day’s rehearsal, that is, when Stewart came into the auditorium with a duffel bag. He dropped it at the foot of the stage and began rummaging through it while the rest of us shot the shit, waiting for Ms. Vale. When I looked back, Stewart had a cloak draped around his shoulders, a silver mixing bowl on his head, and a set of fake glasses with a huge nose and mustache attached. Everyone laughed. I tried to, but I couldn’t. They all thought Stewart was joking, but I could see his eyes behind those glasses, and I could tell he wasn’t laughing either.

  I hurried over and grabbed the fake glasses off his face. “What’s with the Groucho Marx bullshit?”

  He snatched them right back. “It’s for Don Quixote,” he said, putting them back on. I suddenly remembered how, in the movie, Cervantes wears a fake nose, beard, and wig to play the part of Don Quixote before the prisoners at the trial.

  “It’s just temporary,” he added. “I’ll get the real stuff later.”

  “Yeah, well, it looks stupid. And so does that fucking bowl on top of your head.”

  “It’s supposed to be a helmet. I am a knight, after all.”

  “Yeah, I know what it’s supposed to be, but it still looks dumb. And you’re not a knight.”

  “Come on, Frenchy, lighten up,” Quentin said. He’d been eavesdropping.

  “Yeah, Frenchy, lighten up,” Stewart said.

  I turned to glare at Quentin, who had a big smirk on his face.

  “Actually,” Stewart went on, “I brought some stuff for you too, Frenchy.” He went back to digging through his bag.

  “No thanks,” I said, and walked away. I didn’t want to see what he might pull out.

  Ms. Vale showed up, and we all mounted the stage. She stopped short at the sight of Stewart, then let out a snort of laughter, high and nervous, like a bird in a pet store. Stewart shifted uneasily.

  “That’s quite a look,” she said.

  “Props,” Stewart said.

  “Indeed,” Ms. Vale replied, then clapped her hands. “All right, everyone, let’s get going.”

  We didn’t get far before a few of the kids started cracking up. We started over, then it happened again. Stewart reciting his lines in that getup killed the magic. He just looked silly. And the more serious he got—the more dramatic he got—the sillier he looked, and the more people laughed.

  I could tell he was getting frustrated. And he wasn’t the only one.

  “Hey!” I hollered, turning to a pair of extras after, like, the fifth time. “Shut the fuck up! We’re trying to work here.”

  They shrank back, cringing as if I were going to hit them or something. Too much for the theater crowd, I guess.

  “Frenchy!” Ms. Vale warned.

  “Yeah, sorry.” I looked down at the stage, too scared to see whether she was glaring at me.

  “Okay, Stewart,” Ms. Vale said. “Time to lose the costume.”

  “But they’re my props,” he insisted.

  She arched an eyebrow.

  I came over and gave him a slap on the back. “Come on, man. There’ll be plenty of chances for this shit later. Please, Stewart.”

  He sighed, removing first the bowl from his head and then the glasses, which rattled as he dropped them into the bowl. We all watched him quietly.

  “Can I keep the cloak at least?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  He hopped down off the stage and tossed the bowl and glasses into the duffel bag. Ms. Vale had turned back to us and begun issuing new orders when Stewart interrupted her.

  “Ms. Vale, how about a sword?”

  “Excuse me?” She seemed more confused than annoyed, but I could feel my stomach start to clench.

  “You know, as a prop. I mean, every knight needs a sword, right?”

  “I suppose,” she conceded. “We can get a foil for you tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “Great!” he said. Then he turned back to the duffel bag.

  Oh no, I thought. I knew what was coming.

  Sure enough, out came the cane. “Ms. Vale, how about this?” he asked. “Can I use this just for today?”

  Ms. Vale hesitated. “Sure,” she said at last. Now she was getting annoyed.

  Stewart hopped back up onto the stage. “Too bad you didn’t bring yours,” he said, coming over to stand beside me. “Frenchy’s got one too,” he announced to the group before turning and giving me a quick wink. I stared down at the stage. It was the only place I dared look. For the rest of the rehearsal I had to listen to the click-click of the cane as he turned the handle’s safety release off and on. Knowing what was inside the sheath made me shiver.

  “What the fuck was that?” I said on the way home.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That bullshit with the sword. I kept waiting for you to whip it out and stab someone.”

  Stewart laughed. “Don’t be silly, Sancho. There are no villains on our stage. We’re all in it together.”

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “I still don’t like it.”

  “Well, what do you think I got them for? They’re for Sancho and Don. I expect you to bring yours tomorrow.”

  “Blow me.”

  This time he laughed.

  The next day Ms. Vale dug up an old foil—you know, one of those Three Musketeers–type jobs—from the props room. Stewart seemed satisfied and threw himself back into the play with the usual intensity. It didn’t bother me as much at this point. I’d gotten sort of used to it. Besides, we were all working furiously to complete the blocking. It was really getting tough now—we were starting to do longer run-throughs (stumble-throughs, Ms. Vale called them) at the beginning of every rehearsal of scenes we’d blocked out the day before and were moving closer to the day when everyone had to be “off-book,” with all lines memorized. I was pretty sure I knew mine, but I was scared to let go of the script. It was like having a little security blanket tucked in my pocket. Stewart, of course, didn’t care. He’d been off-book since the first week. Next to him, we all looked like dummies. There he’d be, buzzing along, and it would come to one of us and we’d have to pause to find our place, or we’d stumble with a line, and then Ms. Vale would interrupt with a direction, and sometimes we’d have to start over.

  Stewart took it in stride at first, but as the week went on, he grew more and more impatient with everyone. All it was going to take was one major screwup to make him lose it completely.

  Unfortunately, that screwup turned out to be me.

  I knew it was going to be one of those days the moment I opened the door and got into Stewart’s car. Glancing over, I did a double take at the sight of the strange old man behind the wheel.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “Look at you.”

  “Morning, Sancho,” the figure replied. “And a fine morning it is indeed.”

  It was Stewart’s voice, but the man speaking didn’t look like Stewart at all. He looked just like Don Quixote, the one I’d seen in the movie and in all the pictures Stewart was steadily accumulating on the walls of both his rooms. He had it down perfect—the wig, the mustache and beard, a prosthetic nose and set of ancient teeth, even the crazy eyebrows. And then there were the clothes—a beat-up-looking set of old armor, complete with battered helmet, leggings, tunic, and cloak. Topping it all off was a sword—not the chintzy foil Ms. Vale had given him or his cane sword but a real-life broadsword. The kind a knight would carry.

&
nbsp; “How the hell did you do that?” I asked. “I mean, where did you get all that crap?”

  “It’s called the Internet, Sancho,” he replied, his voice all nasal and lispy-sounding with the fake nose and teeth.

  “Must’ve taken forever,” I said, peering around to inspect the perfectly blended prosthetics.

  “Three hours. So where’s your costume?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It’s Halloween, Sancho. Where’s your spirit, old friend?”

  It was actually the day before Halloween, but the school was celebrating today since tomorrow was a Saturday. I’d forgotten all about it. Not that it mattered, since I never dressed up on “Halloween Day.” Stewart always did. Usually his outfits were these dorky little hippie statements—“social consciousness–raising costumes,” he called them. One year he dressed up as a walking recycling bin, though by fourth period the other kids had thrown so much shit in his costume that he was forced to abandon it. Last year he dressed up as a corpse wrapped in the Iraqi flag. That went over great. I usually avoided Stewart on Halloween Day.

  “My spirit? Guess I’m saving it for the stage.”

  “Good idea,” Stewart said, nodding grimly. “We need every bit we can muster.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know, Stewart. You’ve got enough for all of us.”

  He shook his head and frowned. “If only that were true. But I can’t do it alone. I can’t carry the entire burden. I need you to help me, Sancho. Otherwise, we’ll never make it.”

  “You need to fucking relax. That’s what you need to do.”

  Stewart slammed on the brakes. I hadn’t put my seat belt on yet, so I nearly went through the goddam windshield.

  “Jesus Christ!” I shouted, sinking back into the seat. Shaking, I reached for the seat belt and put it on as fast as I could. The Volvo just sat there, right smack in the middle of the road. Looking out the window, I saw the pull-off where we took our pit stops. The leaves had all fallen from the maples so that I could see the field beyond and even make out the wind towers in the distance, intersecting the spreading limbs.

  “How dare you make light of the production,” he fumed, drops of spittle flying out onto the steering wheel. He wouldn’t look at me.