Christopher Boucher - Golden Delicious

“That’s not the line, Terry,” said Eric, looking down at his script.

“Reset the vultures!” shouted the stage manager, an easychair named Carol.

The trombone stood up, stumbled, made a terrible honking sound, and fell down on the boat.

“Whoa!” shouted a sandbag from the wings.

The trombone was shaking on the floor of the theater.

“Terry?” shouted the Community Theater.

We all ran out on stage. The Community Theater called the ParamediCones, but by the time they got there the old trombone was gone.

I went to the trombone’s funeral along with other people from the cast and crew. It was really sad. “You probably think you know everything about my father,” said Terry’s daughter at the pulpit. “But he was more than just a successful actor. Do you know, for example, that he was an inventor?”

Some people smiled through tears; others looked miffed.

“That he invented the Morp, for example?”

And there, in the corner, was a morp — one of the original prototypes.

The Mothers did a formation flyover and the bessoffs led the procession into the graveyard. “Let his body bring apples,” said the bessoffs in unison, and they lowered his body into the ground.

Rehearsals resumed two days later. That afternoon, I was in the vom fixing one of the scrolls when Eric called me over to the orchestra pit. He looked at me cemeterily and then leaned forward and said, “We need an Old Man.”

My eyebrows wormed.

“Any interest?”

“Me?” I said.

“You’re the oldest one here,” he said.

“No, I’m not,” I said. “Almost everyone here is older than me.”

“How old are you?” said the wig.

“I’m sixteen,” I said.

Wig stood up. “Haw,” he said.

I stared at him.

His head haunted forward. “You’re sixt een ?” he whispered.

“My birthday was in April,” I said.

“Jesus, ,” he said. “I thought you were fifty. At least! Sixty, maybe.”

“No,” I said. “I’m a junior at Appleseed High.”

“But — because you’re — wow.” Wig put his hands on his hips. “Well,” he said, “Do you want to be the Old Man?”

“You mean act ?” one of my thoughts said.

“On the stage?” another thought said.

My face must have changed because the wig said, “It’s a very minor role.”

So I took the part, wore the dead man’s clothes, stood on the deck of the falseboat, and looked out into the sea. “Fish?” I shouted. “In space?” Then I cast my fake fishing rod out into the real water. On cue, the lead fish down below looked at the hook and primrosed to the crowd.

It was my first taste of performance, of standing in front of people as someone not myself, of playing a role. I loved it. I thought maybe I could do this, make a career out of it — be a minor character: the ugly one in the background; the non-hero, the shithead — one of those corner-warts that make the beautiful look more beautiful!

I was so proud of my performance, of the fact that I — me! Not the Auctioneer, but me! — had an actual role in a play, that I asked my Dad if he’d come see the last show. He said he would if he could get off work, but he didn’t make it. By then he was working at Muir Drop and in meaning-debt to some pretty imposing banks. He prayed to me that he was sorry, and I prayed back that I understood.

That night after the show there was a party at the deadgroves. I didn’t plan on going — I’d never been invited to a party before, and I didn’t know exactly how they worked. I was unlocking my bike from the rack, though, when the theater pulled up beside me in a night-blue Jeep.

Scene: Bike racks. A Jeep drives up. The window rolls down to reveal the COMMUNITY THEATER driving and the CHORUS in the backseat .

COMMUNITY THEATER

Hey, !

continues unlocking his bike .

COMMUNITY THEATER

You need a ride?

Me?

COMMUNITY THEATER

You’re going to the party, aren’t you?

( Turning to face her .) I was just going to head home.

COMMUNITY THEATER

You should go!

CHORUS ( from the backseat of the Jeep )

Come on, !

I’ve got my bike, though.

COMMUNITY THEATER

No problem. Get in and I’ll drop you back here afterward.

gets in the Jeep. The Jeep drives off the pagestage .

We drove out to the deadgroves, me in the passenger seat and the Chorus — a singular mass with twelve sets of torsos, arms, shoulders, necks, and heads — in the backseat. The Community Theater lit a cigarette and blew smoke out the window. The Chorus tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around. “Really great job, . You were awesome as the Old Man.”

“Thanks,” I said. I remember that moment — the thrill in my chest. On my way to an actual party ! And then, to make things even better, the UCs’ “Paying Customers” came on the radio. After my sister left for auction school, I raided her tape collection. Whenever I missed her or felt lonely, I’d pick out one of her tapes — the UCs, usually — and listen to it on my orange headphones.

“Nice,” I said now. “I love this song.”

The Community Theater looked over at me and smirked. “You don’t know this song ,” she said.

“ ’Course I do,” I said. “This is my favorite band.”

“Who is it?” asked the Chorus.

“I want to see if knows,” said the Community Theater.

“It’s the Ulcerative Colitises,” I said. “The album Tenesmus .”

“What’s the name of the song?”

“ ‘The Bathroom Is for Paying Customers Only,’ ” I said. “Fourth song on side A.”

The theater looked at me. “Wow,” she said. “I’m impressed.”

When we reached the deadgroves, the theater parked and we stepped out into the night. Most of the cast and crew was there, standing around a bonfire, and someone had brought a keg.

The wig’s wife, Ellen, gave me a hug — it had been so long since I’d hugged anyone — and told me that she hoped I’d work with them again in the future. Then the theater walked up to me and handed me a red plastic cup.

Scene: The deadgroves

COMMUNITY THEATER

Here.

looks into the cup, then takes a sip .

COMMUNITY THEATER

So how do you know the UCs?

Best band in Appleseed! Their zitherer, Oppenhowser? Is — like — the shit.

COMMUNITY THEATER

How about Yosa Ron?

She’s good.

COMMUNITY THEATER

Good? She’s the best hurdy-gurdy player in the history of—