A single headlight car hit the pothole first, then the puddle. Other way around and Tortz would have been soaked.
The rain is so damn cold it should have just been snow.
Tortz regripped his black plastic bag holding his 40 ouncer of high altitude malt liquor and the shrink wrapped three for $6.99 porno mags. One was always weird fetishes, like girls with eye anomalies or grannies. Not his thing, but what could you expect?
Tullamore's ashes were packed in three old plastic film canisters in his breast pocket. He hadn’t had the guts to go to the beach, used the rain as an excuse, went to Vaneys, drank Kesslers and coke.
There was a light in the window of the old building where Derek and Lardo used to make O rings six days a week.
A car from behind caught the puddle just right and Tortz stumble-dove out of the way of the splash, his left shoulder cracking the small window of the building.
Tortz checked his Irish Setter's ashes. The tops were still secure. Thought about opening the forty.
The window was a jagged crack, but not a shatter.
A handpainted sign said “Molecule Theater Company”. There were two cars in the small gravel lot.
Tortz figured he'd apologize rather than get chased down or have them give the security camera tape to the cops. He might still have a warrant from that miniature golf thing. Wasn’t sure.
He walked in through a short hallway. Didn’t want to call out. He did a play in high school once. One line. He had sweated through his wardrobe shirt until he blurted his one line.
Soft music played over speakers Tortz couldn’t see. A table held a cardboard box with a slit at the top with a small sign that said: Honor System. Pay What You Can. Thank You.
Every letter had been written in three colors, each one a shadow of the previous.
Someone had taken great care in making that sign.
What did people call it? Artistic vision? Something like that.
Tortz shoved 4 crumpled bills in the box, impulsively. He couldn’t prove he did it if they asked him about the window. He doubted 8 bucks would cover it, but that's what he had.
Three people walked in behind Tortz.
Nice overcoats. Fancy umbrellas. Jewelry. He stepped back out of the way.
The man at the lead shoved three 100 bills in the box.
Tortz took another step back. He smelled something on them. Excitement? Yes, something like that. They were excited.
He looked around for someone, anyone, to tell he accidentally cracked the window and that he was very sorry and didn’t mean to cause trouble.
The house lights dimmed. This was when Tortz started to sweat during his one play. He was too cold to sweat now.
A voice from backstage said “ everyone please be seated and turn off your cell phones”.
Everyone was Tortz and the three nicely dressed people. At least 30 seats, the rest of the slightly dusty room, was empty.
Tortz took one of them, near the back, away from the gabardine and monogrammed umbrellas.
Eerie music began to play. Loud enough that Tortz could crack his beer unselfconsciously.
He’d tell them about the window after the show. He hoped he could make the beer last.
A tennis ball bounced onto the stage. Tortz wondered if it was an accident.
A woman in a black bodysuit followed it, caught it on a bounce, spoke to it as if it were a dragonfly she had caught in a net.
She spoke about freedom, and perception, then danced and moved props and spoke more and sang.
Less than five minutes in, Trotz was hopelessly lost.
The warm was good.
The performer was attractive and had a great voice.
But Trotz might as well have been at NASA mission control.
Didn’t understand some of the words he heard or how she got from one point to the next.
She was passionate about it though, sweating and trembling, singing, even screaming.
Trotz didn’t know how long the performance was, just that he had finished his forty ouncer.
Minutes later, the woman did a somersault holding a mannequin head and the flashing orange light from a construction barricade.
She stood, spun and bowed. The stage lights dimmed. She trotted backstage and a small curtain dropped.
The man who put the bills in the box stood and applauded like someone had won an Olympic gold medal. The women with him rose too, clapping heartily.
Trotz got to his feet awkwardly and applauded with them.
The performer bounced out on to the stage and took a bow, blowing kisses.
She ran backstage once again and appeared with a lap dog, a little black thing with some white streaks. A mutt.
She bowed with the dog in her arms.
The three people continued to applaud so Trotz did too.
The empty seats made him sad. The woman performed the show like the whole world was watching, then brought her dog out so the little mutt could see the world as well.
Smiling beautifully, she walked out into the theater seats and hugged the three nicely dressed people.
“ Thanks so much, Dad,” she said to the man.
She hugged the other two women around the neck.
Trotz bent and picked up his black plastic bag with the nudie mags and the empty bottle.
As he rose, the performer over toward him.
Trotz began to sweat like he had to perform.
He became acutely aware of the cracked window he had forgotten about, the magazines, the stench of beer.
She draped her arms around Trotz like he was an old friend. Her dog, at her heels, barked for the first time.
“ Thank you for coming to my show,” she said, and her eyes made Trotz feel like he was the president of a small country. “ It means the world to me that you’re here. Thank you.”
***
Photo by Keagan Henman
Sometimes a so-so day turns out pretty well. Nice piece.
Unexpectedly sweet.