Last Act (Story)

Hours before the second run of his premiere play, Last Act, Michael sat in his apartment snorting heroin through a split McDonald’s straw. The occasion was a mystery, as he wasn’t celebrity or bemoaning a recent change in his circumstances. Michael was simply doing something he liked; although the thought hovered in the back of his mind—a persistent shift in conscience, if you will, whenever he got fucked up—that maybe genetics were at fault. Mom, though strongly opposed to use of intoxicants in general, had struck an unlikely compromise with prescription medication. Of course, Uncle practically died an alcoholic even though the family maintains that the cause of death is a mystery. But, Michael figured, he had at least this going for him: he had finally taken an important step towards a long and fruitful career in the theatre, dubious though its accolades may be. And he recognized this simple truism from experience. The play concerns a homeless junky who struggles to nurture his addiction and an abandoned infant one stormy night. The public, following in tow of televised criticism, was divided. Some venues opted to cancel scheduled performances because of protests (primarily from Christian groups) and wanton boycotts of already struggling businesses. (Patrons do call the theatre the “glorious cripple,” after all.) But Michael had the unusual distinction of being edgy and controversial which, in university speaking-engagements alone, graced him with the finances to buy a new car. Pretty soon he planned on moving to a flat, alone, and establishing himself as a professional writer. For the moment, however, he contented himself by rocking on the legs of the unvarnished chair in the dining area, feeling cold and weightless, as if a gentle gust could precariously knock him off balance and he’d disappear into thin air. His vision was hazy, and his perception of colors and lights shifted with an almost watercolor, undulating ripple.

As Michael floated in this wave of sensation, the apartment door opened and Ben, the roommate, appeared in the kitchen.

“What’s up with you?” Ben said, sliding his keys across the marble counter-top.

“Nothing. Just thinking.” Michael said.

“Well, when are you taking off?” Ben said.

“For…” Michael said.

Ben shrugged his brow. “The premiere, dumbass.”

“Oh, in an hour or so,” Michael said, his eyes glossy with chemical relief.

“Well, let me know when you decide to head off. I’m going to get ready,” Ben said, disappearing down the corridor.

Michael leaned forward and made the chair stationary. He drummed his fingers on the table and, standing up, decided he would at least shave for this thing. He had meant to shave earlier but something in the mirror, his reflection, really, sickened him to the core. He recognized the eyes—they were his—but not the frame from which they stared back at him. That man looked deranged, a patina of crusty heroin still decorating his left nostril. He turned the faucet off and left the bathroom. His spirits were renewed now with enthusiasm; however, when he reached for the bathroom doorknob, his foot hesitated at the door. A familiar nausea stirred in the pit of his stomach and he turned running to his bedroom, where he crossed the threshold and hastily locked the door behind him. Was he being chased? He felt he was; but he didn’t know by what or whom. He walked to his writing desk and opened a grainy envelope of heroin. With a pen cap, he scooped up four small gooey lumps and siphoned the powder (and he got this shit on the cheap, lucky to find a generous dealer). His head crooked back in euphoria and, with it, his body, as he collapsed on the bed like an embattled wall of bricks. He lay on his back and starred at the ceiling, the stucco whirling, not the ceiling fan. Then, the words: “I’ve finally made it” left his lips in a dry rattle; and the flow of thoughts—similar in texture to the lights and colors he’d perceived earlier—combined in an explosive kaleidoscopic intellectual complex so that Michael  felt his body whirling now, the room, the universe, too; yet it was all the product of a self-fulfilling prophecy made flesh in the mirror, that he saw the composite rotting vestiges of his identity, laced with cheap thread, threadbare, and it almost had to happen (no?) since he had lived the damned thing in order for the damned thing to exist. Or so it seemed now as the mist began to cloud his eyes; the play was an epitaph for the story he was. And it was ending quickly.

Not long after closing his eyes, Michael began to hear distant voices beyond the bedroom door. They were cheering. Curious, he stood up and stumbled towards the source. The voices rose in volume—whistling and clapping now—and he opened the door onto a well-lit stage. He reeled backwards when a stage light caught his gaze. A silhouetted mass of people stood in ovation. Michael took a bow and drew final breath.

(c) 2013