Painted on the side of the building–and repainted, every letter, just last year, Paul Levine would point out- the sign read The Fieldstone Theater, Classic and Original plays.
Since Paul had joined the theater, they had done Oklahoma three times, Damn Yankees five, Cats twice, a horrible original romantic comedy that Gordon Modley’s cousin wrote, The Merry Wives of Windsor, The Man Who Came to Dinner, The Iceman Cometh twice, somehow managed to ruin Glengarry Glen Ross and stage a slightly less disastrous Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.
Paul had submitted dozens of his plays for consideration, only to have Gordon tell him “It’s lovely, but no.”
Paul asked Gordon, point-blank, holding a black marker in his hand, ready to circle the Original on the picture of the theater in Gordon’s office, “When are we going to do an original play again, Gordon?”
“Audiences struggle with work that hasn’t been proven,” Gordon said, and while there was some truth to that, Gordon’s cousin’s sniveling, trope-ridden snoozefest, in Paul’sopinion, was not a good barometer.
Paul had the Q word on his lips but had no idea what else he’d do for fun in this barren and frigid Upper Peninsula town, so he swallowed it and walked home.
Called his sister to vent.
After Susie listened to him bitch about Gordon, subzero temperatures, Gordon some more, the emotionless dweebs who ruined his favorite Mamet play, she said “Jackson wants to talk.”
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