"The Power of Acting" Story#8, class workshop

Anita gazed with bored disappointment at the two eggs on the frying pan. She noted the many bits of shell in the eggs, but had no intention of correcting the sloppy, carless, silly oversight. She glanced out the uninspired 4-pained window at the flat blue sky. The eggs were unspiced, as she wanted them. On a second thought, though, she took up the salt shaker and poured it over the eggs with extreme liberal usage.
“Well, good morning, darling,” Chino mused in a sing-songy voice. He’d said it like he’d said it a thousand times maybe, and she noticed it, though she pretended not to. She glanced at Chino as he sat at the cheap, blue-grey flecked table in the plastic chair, hid hair short and wet. He was short in general, especially in his worn green bathrobe and crumby boxers. He grinned widely at her and settled to read the paper, humming some tune like he was a million dollars.
Anita continued pouring the salt.
She sighed audibly and finally put the shaker down, setting one hand on her hip, the other on the handle of the frying pan, playing with the eggs pointlessly. Then she fiddled with the drawstrings on the black sweat pants, straightened her tank top, and finally sifted through her wavy black hair in obvious listlessness.
Chino was as obviously oblivious as she was obviously listless. “Damn baby,” he said, “that sure was fun last night.”
“Sure was fun,” she repeated to the eggs.
“I’m glad you thought so too, babe,” he remarked through his grin, “’cause it’s my pleasure to take you out.”
“Your pleasure.”
“And it’s my pleasure to buy you somethin’ or other.”
“Your pleasure,” she repeated.
“And,” he laughed like a chump schoolboy, “it’s my pleasure to take you home!”
“It’s your pleasure, and I’m so, so sad your pleasure always comes to an end so soon.” She tossed the eggs up from the pan and smirked as they landed with an audible slap.
There was some laughter. Chino stood from his place and gestured with an open hand. “I really do believe, of course, in that chivalry stuff. I really do!” He faced the empty space in the room, absorbed in thought. “You see, there are certain ways a man— a gentleman, really— can utilize his behavior to impress a woman. Women like you. The man, the men like me, must be agile in his mind, witty with his wallet— the chivalry coming through there, of course, the dinner and that kind of stuff— and, adding to that, to those, the man must… he needs to be, the man…” Chino suddenly looked genuinely embarrassed, like he’d forgotten his train of thought completely.
Anita narrowed her eyes at him for a moment. She cleared her throat a little. Chino forgot what he was getting at. She faced him and smiled. “…that’s when you say, ‘and quick with his form—‘ and I interrupt you and say ‘but not too quick for his own good.’”
The laughter reverberated around the tiny kitchen. Chino flushed red, his face burning. He laughed nervously. “Well uh… what, what, what do you—“
Anita laughed sharply. “I mean I’ve had it with your half-assed dinners and the belching and the crumby jokes, and crumby boxers, and, most of all, your militia sex.”
“Um, militia sex?”
“Yeah. Chino, you’re a boy, but maybe if you find the other minutemen at the border you could come together and make it a goddamn hour, huh? Maybe?”
Laughter sprouted out from the empty space. Anita suddenly seized the handle of the frying pan and flung the eggs at Chino, the runny eggs shooting all over his face, dripping from his chin.
Anita laughed wildly, tossing her hands in the air. Eruptions of laughs and applause sprouted from the darkness before the kitchen here and there, shouts of “you go girl” and “yeah baby” and silly shrieks of prepubescent laughter from the boys pointing at Chinos dripping face, remembering the magazines they’d found hidden in their fathers’ garages. Chino smiled dully, wanting only for the act to end so he could finally stop having his face blasted with egg night after night. He was humiliated by the feminist bantering, but it was a job, none the less, and soon it would all be over anyway and he could get on with his plans.
The red curtains slid together to form a velvety wall between the kitchen and the sound of applause. It opened once again only a moment later, revealing lighted faces, all smiling and clapping. The two actors stepped off the wheeled kitchen set toward the rows of people together, stopped, and bowed with dignity. The curtains slid together once again, this time for the rest of the night, and the actors turned and walked together, away from the curtains, each slackening their shoulders with relief individual in their own minds.

A team of black clad stagehands trotted from the darkness before them. “You guys were great, great job tonight Angela,” she said, clasping her on the shoulder and continuing on with the other hands to the kitchen set. The mock kitchen rolled away beyond the hanging black sheets of the rear stage. The actors walked alone in the darkness toward the rigging near the side exit and sat in the director style chairs a few feet apart from each other, Angela slouching with relief.
She laughed. “Christ, man, end of the week, huh? You’re happy it’s the end, but then again, you’re drained as fuck. I could use a cold one right now, for sure.”
“That performance was god-awful, it really was. That was hideous.” He shook his head. The stirrings of rage were building in his stomach. He refused to look at Angela.
“Oh come on, Bernardo, seriously man, you need to chill. Whatever. It was a performance. We’re almost done with this garbage anyway.” She reached over to the attaché case on the floor behind her chair, taking out a manuscript. “I mean, look at this shit— have you actually read this shit Bernardo?”
He glanced at her for only a second, refusing to make eye contact.
“This dialogue is phony as hell, it’s garbage,” she continued, “I mean, the first act is ok. This punch line thing at the end is retarded. ‘Witty with his wallet,’ and the form thing, it’s— I’m just stoked to be through with this crap next week.”
“It was probably written quickly,” Bernardo stressed, frustration apparent on his voice.
“It’s probably some hot shot undergrad from some goddamn private school who thinks he’s, you know, he’s some big shot writer or whatever. He’s got some girl fan club who hangs all over him in the cafeteria all the time, and now he knows he can write something, huh?” Angela didn’t notice Bernardo’s apparent withholding of some terrible feeling, something burning. She reached back to her black leather jacket draped over the chair and slipped into it.
“Well, regardless of the quality of the writing, Angela, the performance itself was atrocious.”
“Whatever. Don’t knock yourself, B, shit happens. You forget lines sometimes. Who cares? Those fools don’t know the difference—“
“I care, Angela,” he stood up abruptly, the strain in his voice bringing it higher, “I care. I care about a lot of things and I can’t help it!”
She stared at him, unmoving for a moment. Finally, she smiled. “Seriously. What the fuck is your issue today? Jesus Christ, son, time to uh, I don’t know, try something else.” She laughed and pushed her hair back, shaking her head.
“And another thing!” He shouted. “It wasn’t only me who blew the performance. You go and, you just go and add wherever you see fit, a little bit here and an aside there. No wonder I forgot my lines!”
The smile faded from her face. She sighed impatiently. “Alright, ok, fine. Whatever. Yeah, I was being uh… too dynamic, it fucked you up. Sorry. Let’s go have a drink, how about that?” She put the manuscript back in the attaché case, pulled her keys from her jacket and stood up. “Let’s get your wits together again, okay buddy? You knock a cold one off and—“
“Angela, I’m in love with Maria.”
Angela froze in place. She stared into Bernardo eyes coldly, cutting straight into his brain.
“I can’t help it. I love her. And you,” he pointed , “you’ve toyed with her and mislead her in so many ways unbecoming of a genuine person and adult. You…” his tirade fell off awkwardly, out of steam. He stood panting as if the confrontation was a marathon run.
Angela finally broke her gaze away. She cleared her throat a bit and ran her hands over her eyes warily. She paused, and then said, “all right… so what?”
Bernardo panted, sighed and tisked rapidly, gesticulating idiotically with his hands.
“So fucking what, Bernardo? Huh?” She took some steps toward him, uncomfortably close. “I’ve known the girl for a long time— a lot longer than you have. I don’t really think you get it. Just ‘cause you don’t get our relationship, and ‘cause you had some wet dream about her ass lately doesn’t mean you can—“
“Damn it, no, it isn’t like that! I really love her! And I’ve talked to her about it, about my feelings inside, how I’ve been touched, and I want to marry her, and I want to give—“
“For fuckssake, Bernardo, seriously!” She put her hand in his face, turned and fell back into her chair. “I seriously don’t need this shit right now, I really don’t, all this emotional baggage and, and,” she raised her voice mockingly, “’oh my god, oh my god, I love your girlfriend, I’m gonna marry your girlfriend ‘cause I’m hot for her ass—‘ what the hell are you thinking? This is so typical, huh?” Her fingers massaged her pulsing temples. The veins in her neck protruded with anger.
Bernardo felt another surge of defiance. He shouted shrilly, “I have more of a right than you do, Angela! I can’t help it! This is natural! This—“
This time, her stare was sharp enough to pop him. He stopped the second she looked at him and turned away in shame.
“What’s that supposed to mean, huh? Hmm?” She stood slowly, walking toward him with the asphyxiating tension flooding all around her. She stopped right next to him, the warmth of her breath swirling in around his cheeks. It smelt faintly of chocolate and rum but mostly of cigarettes. “I asked you a question. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bernardo stood heavy with paralysis. He couldn’t, though he tried, lift his eyes to meet hers.
Angela finally tisked herself, waved him away, and sat back down in her chair. She crossed her legs and pulled a cigarette from the pack in her jacket pocket, pinching it between her lips.
“You’re not allowed to smoke in here.”
“Can you really stop me, Benny?” She found the Zippo in her jacket, clicked it open and lit up, inhaling slowly and exhaling through her nose, the smoke swirling all around them, clear in the shaft of stage light above. The smoke lent her a terrifying authority, and though she was tough, she held herself with the grace and strong elegance Bernardo lacked that made her infinitely more intimidating. “So, what are you gonna to do about this whole thing, huh?”

Bernardo retreated and surrendered to his deepest thoughts. What could he do? Though his feelings were strong, Angela was stronger in all respects. And they were together, and he knew in reality that he couldn’t change Maria’s mind. What could he do?

His body suddenly gushed with desperation. He must stop thinking. He must act. He lowered his eyes to Angela, his brow casting shadows from the shaft of light over his eyes. He spoke slowly. “Angela… you know… there is only one way this can end.”
She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.
Suddely, Bernardo ripped the switchblade from his back pocket, clicking it open. “There can only be one of us. You can’t have her! You can’t!”
Angela leapt from her chair, toppling it. “Are you out of your fucking mind?!”
He crept foreword, Angela backing slowly. “No, I’m not, Angela. It’s clear, it’s all clear to me now. You see, I’ve known it for a long time. Love conquers all… and now… it will conquer you.”
“This isn’t real.”
“Oh, but it is… it is!” He leapt forward, grunting, slashing with the blade, Angela recoiling. He swung again, inches from her shoulder as she jumped back, her arms out and ready. He dashed forward and jabbed with a yell, and she sidestepped, seizing his arm and thrusting her heal into his gut with full force.
Bernardo toppled backwards with a wheezing groan, the wind leaving him. He panted and slouched but held the knife out.
Angela let the jacket slide off her shoulders, tossing it away. She fell into stance, one leg back, her hands in fists, arms cocked low. She bounced loosely, alternating weight from side to side. “You want to fight me, then lets go you fucking putty son of a bitch!”
Bernardo exploded foreword in rage, shouting hoarsely. He threw his body into one single thrust, Angela side stepped to his left and landed a hook, his head jerking and his body flinging around, the knife following and slicing across her side.
She yelped and jumped back. The tank top reddened. She fingered the burning, bloody gash, glaring hatefully at Bernardo. She gritted her teeth and, with both hands, ripped the tank top off, the black sports bra appearing. Bernardo reflexively glanced at her chest.
Angela tossed the ripped top into his face, hopping foreword, knocking his arm and the knife aside with her forearm. She pounded his face rapidly, jabbing right, left, then reeling back and springing her right into an uppercut, his nose exploding with a sickening snap, the knife flying. He reeled in agony, hollering, tumbling back into cabinets besides the ropey light rigging. They popped as he bounced off, stage weapons and tools pouring out around him as he limply collapsed to the floor.
Angela snatched up the bloody knife and stood, panting and drenched in sweat. Suddenly, out from the darkness, a woman in a black evening gown came foreword in shock. Her blond hair was cascading over fair, innocent features. “My god… Angela, what’s happened— are you alright?!” She strongly resembled Rebecca Luker from the Mary Poppins revival on Broadway.
“Maria!” Angela cooed. “I’m so glad to see you. I’m ok… he attacked me… he told me he loves you.”
“I know he does, Angela,” she smiled in relief, stepping foreword, “but he doesn’t matter. You’re the only one for me, you’re the only—“
In an instant, Bernardo, drenched in blood and sweat, shot up from the props, grabbing Maria by an arm. He brought her close, holding a drill to her delicate neck. He backed up against the rigging.
“Bernardo, no! Stop it now!”
Maria quivered in his grip, “please, no, don’t do this—“
“Bernardo, come on,” Angela pleaded, “you don’t have to do this!”
He shook his head, smiling sickly. “But I must… I must. Goodbye my darling, my angel.”
Angela glanced at the rigging. The lights hung above Bernardo and Maria.
Bernardo pulled the trigger, the drill whining, and began pushing his hand to her neck. She screamed in terror.
“Jump!” Angela caught the blade of the knife in the air and flung it at the rigging, the blade spinning relentlessly toward the handle. Maria dove foreword just as the knife severed the ropes, the tension snapping, and Bernardo looked up in horror as the spotlights hurtled toward him. His despairing scream ceased as they crushed his skull, exploding in a shower of sparks, and his body crumpled like paper.
Angela rushed to Maria on the floor. She knelt beside her. “Are you ok?”
Maria looked up into her eyes delicately, slipping her hands in hers and around her shoulders. Angela lifted her up, gazing hopefully into Maria’s eyes. She ran a finger over her lips. Slowly, quivering, they came together, their kiss tender, their hearts racing, and the kiss began to race with their aching hearts and bodies, hot with passion.

The lights came up suddenly and the darkness lifted in the theater. Thunderous applause echoed across the stage, dimmed only for a few moments with the closing of the red curtains. They opened again and the two actors, leaving their embrace save for joined hands, rushed forward toward the audience, their hands in the air. Waves of tuxedos and evening gowns rose and cheered wildly, opening night now coming to an amazing climax. The cast rushed forward behind the two women, and together, hand in hand, all bowed with dignity for the audience. It was a triumph of modernism; a play within a play.
Suddenly, behind them, insatiable screaming erupted. “Oh my god, oh my god, he’s really dead!”
The actors and crew turned to George, crushed beneath the real stage lights. He was, in fact, really dead, withered and deflated, his brains scattered on the twisted metal. The drunken stagehands the night before failed to prepare the prop rigging and lights. The cheering slowly tapered and was replaced with shrieks as the crew ran franticly and directionless, demanding for a doctor, demanding answers, demanding—

“Bernardo!” Angela yelled from her chair. She dropped the cigarette butt on the floor and crushed it beneath her shoe. “What the hell man, Jesus, you’re just staring off into space and shit. What’s going on?”
“Oh…” he flushed with embarrassment. “I’m afraid I was lost in my head. I was just thinking of what to do.”
“Okay… whatever. Look,” she stood and sighed. “I know it sucks. It sucks a lot. I’ve been in your situation, I know, okay? You know, you just need to remember that shit your dad tells you or whatever, ‘there’s other fish in the sea.’ I mean she’s a good looking girl and everything, she’s a hot and pretty funny, but she’s not your type I don’t think.”
Bernardo laughed genuinely, the tension melting away. “Yeah, well, yeah I suppose. Maybe it wouldn’t work.”
“Yeah, no, it might not work, B. But look, no hard feelings, alright?” She clapped his shoulder. “Hey, I still like you. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink and shit, and we’ll shoot the shit, huh?”