Edward
The call came this morning. Everything’s in place. The money men, our contracts. All their lawyers have finished the pissing contest and now I can sign. This lifetime’s opportunity. A chance to write something new and get a paycheck. A triumphant return for this beloved and betrayed playwright. Expenses paid in quarterly installments. Twenty percent up front. Back end profit sharing. An opening on Broadway. Thank goodness for foreign investors.
My career’s been neglected recently. Nicked, really. Except by hacks and Internet stalkers. Lord, give me a triumphant return. Name in lights, the whole thing. I even promise to do publicity without complaint. Answer probing, yet insipid questions on talk shows. Pace in green rooms across the globe. And smile, smile, smile.
Anna’s excited for me, such a thoughtful wife. She ordered a special lunch for us, placed in a picnic basket. We’ll go out under our cherry trees, bat away the bees and she’ll feed me a pickle or square of chocolate. Like we used to.
All I know is one of the backers is from Prague; the story has to be set there. And have a part for Anna. A showcase role to please her fans, who are far more numerous than mine.
Much more forward than mine, too. She’s got a box full of love letters, tacky jewelry and even a photograph of some naked sod standing in the snow. In homage to one of her roles, of course.
My fans are more likely to send horrid manuscripts or critical letters. I didn’t quite believe the part where she dies of a broken heart. People don’t do that anymore. Oh, yes. They do. I’ve gotten no pictures of any sort of body parts. No marriage proposals either.
Which leads me to believe men are just dreamers, psychotic and obsessive. If they knew Anna, most likely they would still propose. But they would have to understand her, something I have barely mastered. They would need to become better than me at her emotional shorthand. Know that roses make her think of the tract house where she grew up. Crammed with siblings. Sharing bedrooms, sharing beds. They would have to figure out what it all meant to her.
This money allows me to go on sabbatical. Allows me to go back to writing with the door locked, back to reciting dialogue, plotting the conflicts. Still… Prague? Perhaps a vacation is in order. Luckily, anything can happen in Prague. Revolution. Peace. Assassinations. Weddings.
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Anna
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The Show
General FictionAmerica is fascinated with the cult of celebrity. In the world of theater and film, a public face can hide almost any secret. Yet, what if we could ease inside the minds of four very successful artists as they prepared a new Broadway show for eager...
