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Inside the Fitzjerald house of Music and Theater, the lights were
dimmed and the stage, with the exception of a solitary chair, was empty. The
one hundred rows of uncomfortable movie-theater style seats were filled by a
limited number of persons, who, by careful examination, were directly
involved with this production. When a spotlight suddenly began to shine in
the direct center of the stage, the murmuring voices of thirty or forty
people came to a sudden hush, and a single man walked toward the light's
bright path and prepared to take a seat on the single chair. He was enveloped
in a 1920's style zoot suit with a fedora hat and cane. The rim of his hat,
in a downward slant, concealed the brilliance of his sharp green eyes. As he
approached center stage he swirled his cane and hummed a line while
skipping to the beat of his quiet tune. Still keeping his face shadowed, he
took a seat on the chair and before opening his mouth to pleasure the waiting
audience with his musical words, swayed his cane from side to side.
In an exaggerated southern drawl, the man began to speak and did so
with the utmost of charm. "Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome. Welcome to my
humble home. I would like to tell to you the story of my life, the strange
occurrences, the bizarre circumstances and the even stranger conclusions. You
see, as a lad I went through some very difficult times, and, as we all
know, difficult times call for desperate measures. The funny things is, after
you act upon your desperation you are left with the same difficult life, a
series of terrible mistakes, and you still don't know what the hell is
happening. There are, of course, those mysterious things in life that save
you from falling deeper into whatever hole you have formed for yourself,
like music for example..." before the words had fully left his mouth another
spotlight, from the same source of the original, shone upon a different part
of the stage. A shimmering blue light hovered above an ancient gramophone and
Mozart's 'Requiem' began to play.
As the actor continued his monologue, an interruption came from the
audience. "That's enough! I've seen enough for today. Francis, darling, you
were magnificent, absolutely magnificent. Everyone I think we owe him a round
of applause," the theater's silence, with the obvious exception of the
directors bellowing voice, was eliminated by the clapping hands of thirty or
forty individuals. "I'm sorry to interrupt you Francis, darling, but I simply
couldn't stand the accent. You still haven't fully 'become one' with your
character and it really shows, but other than that, magnificent." Murmuring
voices again disturbed the golden silence of the theater and our dear
Francis was left on stage lacking the simple, yet forever comforting,
presence of a congratulatory rose.
Francis walked off stage and casually smiled as he passed his fellow
actors, friends, and stage members, accepting friendly smiles, informal
greetings and the tedious conversation that stank of artificiality. After
passing through the ritualistic torture, Francis quickly grabbed his
belongings and walked out the theater door. Neglecting to change from his
theatrical persona, a symbolic action considering the events that follow, he
walked the three lonely blocks to his cozy apartment and instantly collapsed
on his worn and ragged couch. Still wearing the suit that molded his
character so well, the haunting words, 'Become one', continuously echoed in
his thoughts. This was a constant criticism that he received. As he stared
into his favorite painting, Rothko's 'Yellow, Blue on orange', he wondered
how exactly this miraculous transformation would take place and slowly let
his eyes close as his thoughts and questions lured him into a deep sleep.
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