Marcelle is attractive.
Marcelle is a football player.
Marcelle is cliché.
Marcelle is a wolf in sheep clothing.
Marcelle is a Christmas fanatic.
Marcelle is just downright annoying.
Matthew Griffin is a certified theatre geek/video game nerd. And...
Clyde: no, you're not! Santa is the only one who can deliver presents!
Willie: no, only a Claus can deliver presents. And that's a Claus.❞
Fred Claus
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Matthew is slowly losing his shit.
First of all: there's a strange knot in his stomach, as if he's expecting something to happen, but he has no idea what. Even the simplest task feels like a mountain to climb, his hair doesn't want to tame, his shirt is wrinkled in the corner. Secondly: there's a gut wrenching amount of anticipation growing in his throat, like a cancerous lump, slowly obstructing his airway to nothing but whistles. Thirdly: his day has started bumpily. Very bumpily.
He decides to check downstairs for life and death.
The stairway creaks and gives beneath his weight, groaning and complaining at each step he takes down. His hand runs down the sandpaper wall to secure his balance, like a guide dog. The first thing Matthew notes of the kitchen, is the empty food cartons lying on top of the trashcan. His mother is a woman of order and to have the cheap containers on display, to have the trashcan stuffed, is beyond his grasp. The second thing he notices is a thick mist of silence hanging on the counters, drawing life from the house.
He wants to follow his gut to the source of the problem, but it's difficult when your gut is speaking in terms you cannot understand. Does he need probiotics? Did he eat something bad? He hasn't even eaten today, it's far too early, his stomach is still waking up. Is he missing an important date, a birthday, an appointment?
A fresh pot of coffee is brewed on the counter and he doesn't hesitate to pour himself a cup. He feels too bitter to drown the coffee in a diabetic's worth of sugar. Then he realizes, with coffee and anxiety hand in hand as if it goes together like a cigarette and whiskey, why he feels anxious: tonight in the debut of the play.
He worked on this play for far too long, spending too much time in all the small detail. He collected two hours of sleep last night, just to assure that each speck of paint is delivered to the correct centimeter. He stayed up to assure that every ray of light is used to its utmost power—he knows the importance of lighting. He strayed behind the rest, fixing the reserved seats, fixing duct tape to the stage to freshen a mind.
"G'mornin' Matt," his mother chimes from the back door, pulling it shut behind her. Both her hands are wrapped up in a thick cover of gloves and clutched between her crabby fingers are a few twigs of herbs she's been growing herself. Her time is divided between him, close family, the Grey family and growing her own herb garden. [The garden brings a new stench of veganism and earth into the house.]
