Beneath The Skin(194)

Shit. I’m getting hard. Not the appropriate reaction I was expecting to have.

Act two tumbles into the second intermission, during which I need to take a serious fucking leak. Since the lighting booth so intelligently empties into the lobby instead of backstage, I slip into the main lobby bathroom around the ten-minute mark, just to give enough of the audience members time to handle their own business before I do mine.

After releasing the Nile river into the farthest urinal, I flush it and push my hands under a running faucet, soaping up and scrubbing harder than necessary, letting out my frustration. I splash water over my face, sighing as the droplets race down to my chin.

When I open my eyes, the man at the other sink is staring at me, his eyebrows lifted searchingly.

Shit. Was he talking to me? “Sorry,” I tell him. “I’m deaf.”

The man seems amused for a moment. He has kind eyes, touched by his smile. Then, to my surprise, he raises his hands: Are you okay?

My unintended bathroom buddy signs. Not what I was expecting.

I sign back: Yeah, fine.

He doesn’t seem convinced. To be fair, I wasn’t very convincing. He signs: How are you liking the show?

I give a shrug: I think it’s good. Then, finding myself oddly at ease with this man suddenly, I add, I’m running the lights up in the booth. I also designed one third of the lighting in the show, though I’m not credited in the program. With half a smile, I shush him and say, “Don’t tell anyone.”

He smiles, impressed: Very nice. Which third?

The one you’re about to see, my hands return. But really, the only actor onstage who’s worth any light is Dessie. She’s the one who plays Emily Webb.

The man’s brow furrows: Why do you say that?

I don’t know what comes over me. This kind-eyed man is suddenly my best friend. He’s “speaking” my language. My chest tightens as I sign: She has so much talent. You don’t know this, but she also sings. And her voice … I can’t hear it, but … I close my eyes, the feelings I had at the Throng surging into my hands, making them move: But I can “hear” it. I see what her songs do to people. She doesn’t get it. My eyes flip open as I keep signing: I’m sorry if I seem a bit messed up about her. We … used to date.

Now, a real smile fills the man’s face. He leans against the sink, studying me as he signs: Used to date?

The sting of bitterness makes itself known in my stomach again: She dumped me. Kinda. Maybe. I’m not sure what we are.

He lifts a fist with the thumb and pinkie pointed out: Why?

I shrug: Because I … didn’t appreciate how amazing she is.

He smirks, giving my words some thought, then signs: Actually, it sounds like you do.

I tap my wrist, the universal—and actual—sign for “time”, then say, “I better get back before someone yells at me. Not that I’ll hear them.”

The man guffaws so loud, I swear I feel the vibrations through my feet. He nods curtly as I hold the door open, letting him out first.

The lonesomeness of the lighting booth swallows me whole again after that short interaction in the bathroom with Captain Kind-Eyes. I breathe a deep, despondent sigh before I settle back into my chair.

The little red cue light blinks just in time.

I lift the lights into the third and final act—a sobering departure from the first two. Nine years have passed now, and the townsfolk gather for a funeral.

Emily’s funeral.

Desdemona appears onstage near a spread of stark-looking chairs, in which are seated other characters from the show who have passed away, including Eric’s character, Simon Stimson, who hung himself. I can’t even follow her lines in the script, too glued to the sight of her onstage as she watches her own funeral, George crying over her grave.

She isn’t ready to join the dead. Dessie, with hope stinging her eyes, begs the Stage Manager to relive one day of her life. When her wish is granted, she quickly comes to regret it as the day speeds by too fast, none of its precious moments able to be held on to. Forlorn, she asks if any of the living really know what a gift each moment of their lives is.

I stare at her on that bleak stage standing in a pool of blue, chilly light, wondering if I know what a gift each moment spent with her was before I lost it all.

I don’t appreciate how amazing she is.

Then she surrenders, taking the one empty seat among the dead, the chair that was waiting for her all along. I drain all the saturation from her side of the stage—my brilliant lighting contribution—as the faces of the dead wash over in colorlessness.

I suck in a jagged breath of air, biting on my fist as I watch the third act draw to its sullen end.

How can she not see how beautiful she is?