Behind the Curtain

by Jerry Cole

  He was slowly working himself into an anxious spiral when Clay sat down beside him.

  "Did I do all right today?" he asked. "You were fantastic of course. I've been talking to the others, and they say I did pretty good when I wasn't too nervous, but I don't know if they were just being nice."

  "I think you did great," Nick said, carefully looking anywhere but at Clay. "Seriously. Once you get the nerves thing under control I think you'll be fantastic. And with a face like that, soon directors will be lining up to cast you."

  "Ah, I don't think I'd like that," Clay laughed. "I'm pretty sure this'll be my only play."

  "Why do you say that?" Nicholas made the mistake of looking at Clay in surprise and was soon captivated by those eyes again. "You have talent! With a little practice you could be really good!"

  "Well, I don't want to be in anything you aren't in," Clay answered, easy as breathing, and without a hint of self-consciousness. Nick stared at him, awed by his confidence.

  "Walter said I should help coach you outside of rehearsals." The truth spilled out of him without his permission. "To help you get over your stage fright so you can manage in the scenes I'm not in."

  "I guess that would be important," Clay chuckled and shrugged. "I'm not busy tonight, if you're free."

  He smiled and Nicholas felt his heart skip a beat in his chest.

  "Sorry, not tonight," he said. "Maybe tomorrow? I'll text you."

  "Are you sure?" Clay frowned. "You haven't exactly been great about texting the past couple of days."

  Nick was already standing up, stuffing his script in his bag and pulling on his cloak.

  "Don't worry about it," he said as he rushed out, "I'll text you tomorrow. Bye!"

  He was hurrying up the aisle toward the doors before Clay could even respond, rushing out into the blustery winter evening with his heart pounding in his ears. No, he couldn't help coach Clay. Just the thought of being alone with him was making him feel like he was about to have a heart attack. He'd apologize to Walter later. He wasn't sure how he'd explain it to the older man, but he'd figure something out. It was just a crush, he told himself as he hurried to catch a train home. It would go away in a few days. A couple of weeks maybe. He'd just avoid Clay until then. Just avoid his co-star in the play in which he was the lead role.

  Chapter Seven

  Rehearsals were three nights a week for now, while costumes and sets and lighting decisions were taking up most of Walter's time. They would increase in frequency as opening night drew closer, until they were spending every night in the Guignol going through the lines over and over and over...

  In the meantime, Nick only had to avoid Clay three nights a week. For the brief moments when they were on stage together, Nick struggled to control his racing heart, feeling stripped bare under Clay's staring eyes. And then as soon as the work was done he would bolt out of the door at high speed. As a result, he was also avoiding not telling Walter he wasn't coaching the other actor. The result was a lot of empty time to kill while stolidly ignoring the numerous texts he was getting from both of them. He threw himself into work on restoring the theater, first of all, and when he couldn't work on that he was helping with sets and costumes. There was always something to be done when you were working on a play, and Nick kept himself involved in all of it just to make sure he didn't have any free time in which to think about Clay.

  And then Clay, using Nick's own tricks against him, cornered him on the train.

  It was rush hour; the train was packed. Nicholas stood with his back to the wall, and Clay stood in front of him, a hand braced on the side of the train near Nick's head, glaring down at him in clear displeasure.

  "You haven't been answering my texts," he said.

  "Oh, sorry," Nick looked away. "I, uh, lost my phone, so…"

  "You know for an actor you're a shitty liar," Clay cut him off. "Did I do something to offend you? You've been avoiding me since the first day of rehearsals."

  "I haven't—" Nicholas was turning red and not sure where to look. "It wasn't—"

  "Were you really only being friends with me to get me to try out?" Clay asked, his voice quiet and hurt. "So now you're done with me?"

  "No!" Nick said at once, too loud, drawing the attention of the other people on the train as he finally looked Clay in the eye. "Absolutely not!"

  "Well then what the hell is it?" Clay asked, frustrated. "If you don't want to be around me anymore I think I deserve an explanation at least!"

  "It's not like that!" Nicholas tried to assure him, "I'm just...It's just the play. I get really focused, and it's hard for me to think about anything else. I should have answered your texts. I'm sorry."

  Clay's expression softened and he sighed.

  "Sorry for getting up in your business," he said. "I just didn't like feeling like you used me. I could see you were working like crazy on the play and the theater. So if it's just that you get like this during the build up to a performance, that's okay."

  "Thanks..." Nick replied, feeling guilty as hell for lying. The train stopped at Clay's station, but he didn't move.

  "You're missing your stop," Nick pointed out. "Aren't you going to get off?"

  "No," Clay replied casually, "I'm going home with you."

  "What, why?" Nick blurted out, immediately panicking at the thought of Clay being in his apartment.

  "So you can coach me like the director asked you to," he said. "You made a promise. And I need the help, damn it."

  Nick couldn't dissuade him, and he soon found himself trudging up the boardwalk with Clay behind him, buying the ingredients for dinner for two.

  "Wow, you live so close to the beach!" Clay said, awed. "You must be out here every day during the summer, right?"

  "It's about the only time the water is warm enough," Nick replied with a short laugh.

  Nick's apartment was small and a little cluttered, but tidy. Nick found messes distracting but he loved kitschy junk like the leatherette horse he found at the antique mall and jars full of interesting seashells he found on the beach. So he tended to overdo it on “storage solutions.” Floor shelves with slide out cloth containers, over the door pockets for shoes and kitchen utensils, wall shelves, drawers, and boxes. It kept things neat, even if there was enough cheap IKEA in the room to choke a horse. And the stacked shelves made for interesting collections of all his clutter.

  You could cross the living room in three steps, and Nick did so, heading straight for the equally tiny kitchen to get started on dinner. Clay followed and stood in the kitchen doorway for lack of anywhere else to stand, the kitchen being not nearly big enough for both of them.

  "I hope you like seafood alfredo," Nicholas said as he started cleaning shrimp. "Seafood is cheap around here, so I eat it a lot."

  "You're making me dinner?" Clay observed.

  "Well, I'm not going to eat in front of you and let you go hungry." Nicholas stared at the other man, baffled by this basic misunderstanding of his character.

  "Anything I can do to help?" Clay asked, clearly uncomfortable with just standing here while Nick cooked.

  "In a kitchen this size you would only get in the way," Nicholas said bluntly. "Let's get started on your coaching instead, since it's so important. Have you memorized your lines?"

  "Not yet," Clay answered.

  "Get on that," Nicholas warned him, waving a spatula at him as he got his pan ready on the little electric stove. "Walter will start forbidding scripts on the stage soon. Newbie actors tend to get over reliant on it, and it gets in the way of interacting with the other actors and the set."

  "But when I freeze up I forget everything," Clay worried his lower lip with his teeth thinking about it. "If I don't have the script I'll fall apart completely."

  "Then you'll just have to stop freezing up," Nick replied, throwing shrimp into the pan to start searing and getting his pasta on to boil.

  "I can't just stop," Clay leaned against the door frame, a sullen frown on his face. "It isn't that easy. It
's not like I want to do it. It happens out of my control. I see all those people looking at me, and I feel like a deer in headlights. I just want to get out of the way."

  "You don't freeze when you're in a scene with me," Nick pointed out, gathering heavy cream and parmesan from the fridge.

  "That's different," Clay muttered, scratching his head. "When you're on stage, I can't look at anything but you. I forget the audience is there."

  Nick dropped his spatula.

  "And what's so special about me?" he snapped as he snatched it back up. "If you just need someone to focus on anyone would do!"

  "No, you're special," Clay explained and Nick's heart skipped a beat. "It's the way you act. When you're on stage, you fill it completely. And you look at me like there's no one else in the world, like we're alone in a room, talking. It's easy to forget the people watching me when I'm watching you.”

  Nicholas was going to burn his shrimp if this kept up.

  "Go sit down," he said, his voice a little rough. "I'll be out with dinner in a few minutes."

  Clay obeyed with a shrug and went to wait on the couch in the living room while Nick finished making the alfredo. He was a little calmer when he came out a little later holding two plates of pasta covered in alfredo sauce and stuffed with fresh shrimp and crab meat.

  "So, you're relying on me too much." Nicholas sat down beside Clay, handing him the plate. "You need to learn to shut things out for yourself rather than depending on me to keep your attention."

  "Easier said than done," Clay replied, taking the plate and popping a shrimp into his mouth. He hummed in approval and dug in. "This is good."

  "Thanks. I think the trick is we need to figure out what you're so afraid of," Nick said between bites. "If we figure out why you're freezing and put that to bed you'll be fine."

  "Well I don't know why," Clay shrugged, shoveling more pasta into his mouth. "It just happens. Always has."

  "What was the first time?" Nick asked, figuring childhood trauma wasn't a hard guess.

  Clay grimaced.

  "Church nativity play," he muttered. "I was supposed to be the angel that announces the pregnancy to Mary and Joseph. Except I just stood there and stared at them instead. I was six."

  "Anything in particular cause you to freeze up?" Nicholas leaned closer, curious. "Can you remember what you were thinking?"

  "Just that I didn't want to be there," Clay laughed. "I don't know. My family was in the front row, and I guess I didn't want to let them down. But whenever I tried to think of what I was supposed to say my head would just go blank. So I started crying and the youth pastor came and got me off the stage."

  "But you tried again in high school, right?" Nicholas said, remembering something he'd said earlier.

  "And in middle school," Clay confirmed, setting his plate down on the coffee table. "Pretty much the same thing happened, minus the crying. Even if it was only a small part, even if I didn't have lines. I'd freeze up as soon as I felt all those eyes on me. There's no cause, I figure. It's just how I am. Never figured it was a bad thing to not be good at acting before, but I never wanted to act before. I still don't know if I care about it that much, but I want to do well in this one play at least, since people are relying on me."

  "How half-hearted," Nicholas scolded. "You can't become a great actor for just one play. You can't become good at this at all if you don't like acting. If you want to be good you have to love what you're doing. You have to love the play and the character and just being on stage. If it doesn't make you happy, the audience will be able to tell. So get over that, first of all."

  "Then maybe I had better quit now," Clay looked down at his lap in dismay.

  For a moment Nick was tempted to encourage him to quit. If he were gone then Nick could stop worrying about avoiding him and this crush would go away. But he couldn't bring himself to do it. He knew Clay could be great, could make this play great. He couldn't live with himself if he ruined the Green Carnation's chance at redemption.

  "No, you're not quitting," Nicholas said firmly. "We're going to help you get over this and you're going to become a great damn actor, all right? Or at least a passably good one."

  "So you're going to help me after all?" Clay smiled at Nicholas like Nick was throwing him a life raft at sea.

  "Of course I am," Nick ignored the burning in his cheeks. "Now shut up and eat your pasta. Then we'll go over lines."

  They didn't make much progress that night, at least in Nick's opinion, but he supposed it was better than nothing. At least they were resolved now. For the sake of Walter and the play, Nick would try to help Clay pull it together.

  Clay stayed the night sleeping on Nick's couch, and as he lay in bed Nicholas couldn't stop thinking about the other man. Everything from the lightest brush of Clay's hand against his own to the flash of those gorgeous brown eyes seemed burned permanently into Nick's memory.

  “When you're on stage I can't look at anyone but you.” He remembered Clay's words and his skin tingled like fingers were grazing it, "You look at me like there's no one else in the world."

  Was he that obvious? He buried his face in his pillow in shame. What would Clay think if he knew Nick had thought the exact same thing about the way Clay looked at him? Why did Clay look at him like that? Was there a chance the man might feel the same way Nicholas did? His heart hammered faster even considering it. There was no way. Not a chance in the world someone that beautiful and sweet would be interested in guys. Let alone a guy like Nick. He knew he wasn't anything special to look at, and he didn't have much of anything going for him. No money, no real job or prospects. He just wanted to keep acting, and at his current level that didn't even make him enough to support himself on.

  But Clay's words stuck with him, ringing in his ears all night, even through his dreams.

  Chapter Eight

  "Have you seen the posters?" Walter asked him excitedly. "I had them posted everywhere. Come look, come look!"

  They stood in the lobby of the Guignol near the still unraised chandelier, waiting for everyone to arrive for rehearsal. Walter pulled him over to the ticket counter, where he spread out the posters proudly. He'd clearly gone all out on them, full color and glossy. He was as serious about making this the Green Carnation's come back as Nicholas was. The costume department rushed to produce the costumes for Cyrano, Christian, and Roxanne as quickly as possible for the promotional material. The costumes were unfinished, mostly nonexistent from the waist down and held together with safety pins, but it was enough for the shoulder up busts featured on the posters.

  "The Green Carnation presents Cyrano de Bergerac" the headline said, and under it Nicholas in a six-inch prosthetic nose, gazing down it nobly from beneath a fine hat with a giant white plume. Other posters showed Clay in a white collar, golden hair swept back in sculpted curls, or Charlotte Underwood, who they'd cast as Roxanne, her hair a mountain of pale blonde ringlets studded with flowers, her bare shoulders wreathed with a translucent white shawl, because that was all the costume department had managed so far of her elaborate dress. Clay's was the most striking in Nick's opinion. His solemn yet hopeful gaze and the way the light shone on his hair gave him an almost angelic air. He was something divine, the ideal beautiful hero. That face was certain to bring people in.

  "They look amazing," Nicholas said honestly, taking one of the posters of Clay. "Have you got the rest of the media up?"

  "As much as I could," Walter shrugged. "Mostly, we have these posters and some internet ads. We couldn't afford very much else."

  "We've still got plenty of time," Nicholas reassured him. "We'll keep fundraising and paper the town with ads right before the show. We'll make this work. Heck, just the posters should get us some attention, right? Who could resist that face?"

  He held Clay's poster up next to his face, then brightened as he saw the other man coming through the door.

  "Clay, come here!" he called. "The posters are in!"

  "Oh, wow!" Clay rushed over to look,
staring at them with his eyes dazzled and his mouth open. "They look incredible! I thought we were struggling for funding. How did you afford them?"

  "By spending most of our advertising budget on them," Walter replied. "One expensive, professional looking poster will do the work of a hundred lackluster flyers and newspaper spots. Now, hopefully we will be able to do more later, but for now I figured it was better to have one really good poster, passively implying our prestige and production values are much higher than they are."

  "Sounds like a plan," Clay agreed. "Sizzle sells the steak and all that. But are you sure you're happy with this picture, Nick? You kind of look like a cartoon villain."

  "It's the nose," Nick shrugged. "All cartoon villains are some combination of effeminate and foreign with a big nose. Unless they're female, in which case they're sluts and foreign with a big nose."

  Clay frowned, opening his mouth to argue, then paused as he considered it. There was silence for a moment as they saw him tallying up all the villains he could remember in his mind.

  "Well damn," he said at last. "You might be right. Why is that?"

  "Simple," Nick shrugged. "Because the sensibilities of western animation are shaped by the mindset of pre-World War II America. The character designers of those days put in the traits of things they found unsettling or loathsome—gay men, promiscuous women, Jews, immigrants—because that made the villain eviler or frightening to them. The generations after put those traits in because 'that's just what villains are supposed to look like.' And in doing so, consciously or not, they demonize those traits for the people who came after them, who will grow up thinking big noses and effeminate behavior is synonymous with evil."

  "Well shit," Clay ran a hand through his hair, a bit boggled. "I guess that makes sense. But still, doesn't that mean people will assume Cyrano is the villain?"

  "People who don't know the story, surely," Walter agreed. "It'll be a surprise. The novelty of surprise can do a lot to improve people's opinions of a play."

  "I'll just feel kind of bad for you," Clay said to Nicholas, still holding his poster. "Not being recognized as the hero. It's kind of unfair."