Deadly Dues Read Online Free Page B

ten years ago when he was the assistant stage manager on the worst Medea of all time. Unfortunately, I was playing Medea in this wreck of a production. No matter how bad I was, when the rest of the cast refused to meet my eye, when the reviews begged for my assassination at the earliest possible moment, when even Tallulah, my goldfish at the time, turned her tail on me and became very interested in the sludge at the bottom of the goldfish bowl when I came home, Bent was kind. When the rest of the world seemed to believe that I should be shot on sight because I was a Bad Actor, Bent would greet me with a smile. He would get me coffee. He would compliment me on little moments in my universally scorned performance. I knew I was a lousy Medea, but I still had to climb onstage every night and try to find a way to fix it and be a Better Actor. I was too young for the role, and my dimples didn’t help, but I tried.
    Bent gave me the strength to walk out of the wings and onto the stage night after night. I have never forgotten it. It was kindness to an artist in defeat. The sort of kindness that keeps the blackest of demons away in the dark hours of the sleepless nights when one relives every mean-spirited comment, every slash of wit, every suppressed laugh when one enters a room.
    Being an actor is great—when you are in a hit show or film, when you are acclaimed, when you are lucky enough to get a great review, when people recognize you and fall all over you. It is not great when you become the laugh of the month, for all the wrong reasons, and only your best friends still call. And when they do, they bumble around, not knowing what to say. (Note to friends of actors: the best thing to say in these situations is, “You are talented and you can get past this, and don’t read any more reviews, by the way.”)
    Bent was never a best friend, but he got me through Medea . A year later, when Bow Wow happened, and the great dramatic actress who was spat on in the streets became the highly paid dog-food shill who was drooled on in the streets (unfortunately, mostly by dogs), I remembered, and recommended Bent to the production house as a dialogue coach. It wasn’t just out of gratitude. Bent had great ability as a teacher. His caustic personality totally undermined him in any direct creative situation. But in a teaching situation, he was able to distance himself. He was perceptive and thoughtful. He connected with his students, which was so weird, considering that he was unconnected in real life. He got results. And he managed to demonstrate the same amazing kindness he had shown to me.
    â€œThis is what we are going to do,” hissed Bent, in a not-so-kind mode.
    We looked at him expectantly.
    â€œWe are going to go home. Tomorrow morning we will rise and shine, and read the papers, and be incredibly shocked at the news of Stan’s descent into the next world.”
    We still looked at him expectantly.
    There was a further hopeful pause.
    â€œThat’s it?” said Geoff.
    â€œYes!” hissed Bent so violently that we all shrank backward into the booth, plastering ourselves against the battered leather to escape the “s” sound in the word.
    I sort of wondered who he thought was going to discover the body and report it before the morning papers were delivered, but I wasn’t inclined to argue.

A Dark and Stormy Night
    Gretchen was uncharacteristically silent on the drive home. She lived in the house her parents had left her, a decaying mansion in the upscale Glenwood community, which emanated the scent of old money.
    Back in the good old days of Doggie Doggie Bow Wow, I had picked up the tab for all of us a good part of the time. Geoff had been in a slump. And Pete had been working with a co-op theatre, which was good for the soul, but meaningless to the bank balance. Then Geoff had scored the lead in a TV movie, and he had shared the hospitality with me for a while. When Pete’s