The Astonishing Life of August March
Page 22
Finally, after what seemed like decades, the theater was finished. It was a glorious building; an homage to the Scarsenguard, yet improving upon many of the old theater’s faults. August spent entire days wandering down the narrow hallways, sitting in all the seats, carving out an hour to simply experience each dressing room. He adored the place.
But it needed a name.
Throughout the construction process, August thought he’d simply call it the Scarsenguard, but once the theater was finished, that didn’t feel right. This wasn’t the Scarsenguard; it was someplace new. It had its own distinct personality, and it felt like an insult both to the original theater and to this virgin venue to simply recycle an old name. August would install a plaque chronicling the history of the Scarsenguard, but its name was officially retired. So what to call his new mecca?
It was fashionable to coin a theater after a famous playwright or actor, so of course, Sir Reginald Percyfoot sprang to mind. The Percyfoot did indeed have a fine ring to it, and would have undoubtedly been a wonderful name, but after a few rereleases of his films over in London, Sir Reginald was having a bit of a comeback in his homeland. There was already some sort of new acting award called the Percyfoot, an honor, August thought, Sir Reginald would’ve despised. How could anyone possibly give away an award for something so subjective as acting? A scholarship in his name had been instituted, another dagger in the side of the late Percyfoot, as he’d hated universities and most sorts of formal education. There was a garden in one of London’s larger parks that held his name, along with a sandwich in one of Percyfoot’s favorite pubs, the latter being the only recognition Sir Reginald would’ve cared for. Still, one man can’t have everything, so the Percyfoot wouldn’t do for the new theater.
And then it came to him. A play was not simply the person who wrote it or directed it or the cast who brought it to life every night. Hundreds of people made a production run smoothly. Stage managers, of course, but so many others. Lighting designers, makeup artists, technicians, stagehands, costume designers, electricians, dressers, conductors, wig makers, sound designers, dialect coaches.
And laundresses.
August’s theater was christened the Butler, taking its name from the employee who’d put more hours into the Scarsenguard than any other: Miss Eugenia Butler. The sign that spelled out her name in lights was installed, and one abysmally cold December evening, switched on for all West Forty-Third to see. The Butler, bright as Broadway itself. August was covered in goose bumps. He thought Miss Butler would’ve liked it. He even thought she might’ve been proud. August was proud of himself, at least. And that was enough.
* * *
It was April, and the Butler’s inaugural production was up and running. King Lear. It had to be Lear. For one, August wanted to honor Sir Reginald in some way, and his portrayal of Lear, the one that had enchanted August so as a boy of six, was still the finest interpretation of the character he’d ever seen, so it was only fitting that the first play running at the Butler would tip its hat to Sir Reginald. Second, it was August’s favorite, and since he was the one who would direct, he got to choose whatever damn play he wanted.
If the producers of the production were wary at having an untested first-time director at the helm, they needn’t have been. The reviews were in and positively glowing. All the principal actors came away with fine notices, something they swore they cared nothing about, but every critic unanimously agreed that August’s direction was the true star.
A few months into the run, while the simulated storm raged below onstage, August sat in the small office tucked away on the topmost floor of the Butler, poring over some new scripts. Lear wouldn’t run forever, and he wanted the Butler’s next play to be an original piece. If the theatre was to survive, it would need to cultivate new talent, and August, being in a position of financial security, intended to be on the forefront of fresh artistic development. The problem was, most everything was terrible. Currently he was reading a play penned by none other than Vivian Fair, the actress who had kissed August once at the Backstage Bistro. Now that she could no longer conceivably play ingenues or sexpots, Miss Fair, desperate to cling to her fading celebrity, had taken up writing. As with most people who suddenly decide to take up writing, the results were disastrous. August tossed the script aside. Had he known that Vivian Fair was his birth mother, he might’ve given the script a second glance, but probably not; it was complete and utter shit. Leaning back in his chair, drained, August massaged his tired eyes.
Who would’ve ever thought that this would be his life? A precocious orphan. A homeless criminal. A recalcitrant schoolboy. A petty thief. How had this jumbled equation produced a shrewd and reserved theater owner?
Did he yearn for the adventures of his past, for the carefree conduct of the wanderer? Sometimes. But life was confusing. August had always tottered on the edge of disaster, flirted with the fringes of society. True, Willington with its ivy and stone had been the very picture of elitist conformity, but it had wanted him gone, had accepted him only obligatorily, and was happy to see the back of him. And even now, the most stable he’d ever been, with a job and a home and a team of employees, August was finding that he was a hard man to know. Opinionated, stubborn, verbose, critical, distrustful. He’d go out with the cast after the show and feel disconnected. They’d talk of their hometowns or their colleges or their husbands or wives or sisters or cousins. Everyone was associated with someone else, threads stretching across time and space, a tangled web of connectivity. Yet August was so singular, a solitary pin on a map.
Would he change it if he could? Be raised under the watchful eye of a doting family, carefully cultivated for a safe and respectable existence? Of course not. August’s experience had made him who he was. He didn’t yearn for an easy life. There was no easy life. Of course there were pleasures along the way, enormous joys and great stretches of genuine happiness, but survival was a struggle, and he was grateful he’d learned that young. August liked the man he’d become. The path he’d walked wasn’t straight by any stretch of the imagination, but it had been his path, goddammit. His own. His life.
At times, however, it could be lonely. How to associate? How to relate? To fasten? To join?
August tried to read another play, but found he was too exhausted. He was packing up his bag, thinking he’d catch a second wind at home and peruse at least the first act of something, when his office phone rang.
An operator chattered, “Mr. August March, you have a long-distance call. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes,” August replied, confused.
The call was connected.
“I have an idea,” said the voice on the other end of the line, a voice he hadn’t heard for far too long.
Life swelled into August, barbed and sweet, and he gulped it down, thirsty for more.
“Tell me everything.”
Acknowledgments
This is surreal.
Thank you to my entire family, especially the readers. Mom (Nancy Jackson), the teacher; Dad (John Jackson), the collector; Mammam (Lou James), the librarian; Grandpa (Jim James), the editor; Sissy (Celia Brewer), the witty scribe; and, most important, my sister, Amy Jo Jackson, who was my first reader and is the world’s greatest living actress—no hyperbole, full stop. You all instilled in me a zealous passion for the written word and I am forever grateful and indebted.
To my agent, Byrd Leavell, for being a champion of this book and for holding my hand throughout the process. I couldn’t have asked for a better guide. Also, you have an incredible name.
To my editor, Sara Nelson. I grovel. You’re obviously a literary icon, but you’re also a gay icon, and that’s the highest praise I can give. Having a drink with you in a little SoHo restaurant on a rainy November evening made me feel like Truman Capote. Thank you for your brilliant work, insight, and support. I am truly so humbled.
To Mary Pender, Meredith Miller, Dan Milaschewski, and everyone else at UTA for all their hard work.
To Fred Hashagen and Kirsten Ames for your doggedness, encouragement, and for picking up the bills at restaurants I could never afford.
To my husband, Michael Sullivan. I can’t think of adequate words to describe you, so these will have to do: You are my favorite part of life.
To Isaac Oliver and Sophie Santos for the “writer-business-talks” at Julius’.
To the many friends who read a draft or offered encouragement along the way: Josh Sharp, Jeff Ronan, Jo Firestone, Bowen Yang, Peter Kelley, Grace Leeson, Nate Dern, Caitlin Burke, Ashley Kielian Shinick, Ryan Jones, Blake Daniel, Betsy Cowie, Jeff Jablonksi. There are hundreds more, but I thank you all for your lovely minds, your kind words, and for making the world a more entertaining place to inhabit.
And a gigantic, red-carpet, billion-dollar thank-you to Langan Kingsley, who not only gave her perceptive thoughts, but also line-edited a disastrous early draft for free? Truly, the queen stays queen.
To the New York City comedy community, particularly the LGBTQ+ branch, thank you for being the funniest, most persevering, inspiring group of artists I have ever had the pleasure of working with. Even though most of you have insufferable online presences, I am so honored to be counted among your number. I love you all, you’re creative behemoths that have made me both a better artist and person.
And finally, to Mrs. Sandy Thompson, my fifth-grade teacher who let a precocious child read his paraphrased Goosebumps novel aloud in class. I won’t say you created a monster, but you certainly opened the cage and let one loose. Thank you so very much.
About the Author
Aaron Jackson is a writer and comedian. With Josh Sharp, he optioned and adapted a screenplay of their stage musical F*cking Identical Twins, which is currently in development with Chernin Entertainment. He was recently a cast member on Comedy Central’s The Opposition with Jordan Klepper, and has also appeared on Broad City, The Detour, Crashing, The National Lampoon Radio Hour, and Funny or Die’s Jared and Ivanka, a series he also co-wrote. He lives in New York City.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
the astonishing life of august march. Copyright © 2020 by Aaron Jackson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover images © Ariel Skelley/Getty Images (curtains); © alphaspirit/Shutterstock (curtains); © polygraphus/Shutterstock (type); © Harry Kasyanov/Shutterstock (ornaments)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition APRIL 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-293939-5
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-293938-8
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