To Be Me

I've read as many of Kurt Vonnegut's short stories as I can get my hands on and I've always really liked the stories he wrote about the obssesive High School band leader.

So I had an idea about a High School drama teacher and decided to sort of try out the tone I thought his stories had. I don't think I captured his tone, but I certainly found a tone of my own.

I suppose it's redundant to say I like this story. I like most of the stories I post. I should note when I don't like one.

I hope whoever reads this, enjoys it.

James Hemlock could not see the world through normal eyes. Everything to him was seen through the lens of a stage drama. When entering a grocery store, his head would tell him that he must enter through the doors stage right, find his vegetables with conviction and exit stage left. Any exchanges he had with the grocers or the checkers or the bagboys was instantly translated into a page of script in his head.

Bearing in mind that he would always appear much more eloquent in his head than in reality, a typical scene in a grocery store would look like this:

The curtain rises.

A grocery store.

Enter HEMLOCK, a successful stage actor and teacher, to buy his weekly allotment of food. He is dashing and walks with a disarming swagger. He’s blonde with a red beard and penetrating gray eyes.

After making his vegetable selections, he moves upstage to speak with the CHECK-OUT GIRL.

Hemlock: ‘Tis a wonderously beautiful day for shopping? ‘Tisn’t it?

Checker: ‘Tis Master Hemlock. ‘Tis.

Hemlock: ‘Tis indeed. And how have you been, Madame Grocer?

Checker: Better times have I seen, good sir, to be sure. If you could spare a farthing, life’s dull ache might be relieved for the price of booze to fill my gullet.

Hemlock: Indeed, poor girl…

Hemlock reaches into his wallet and hands the starving wino of a check-out girl a ten dollar bill.

Checker: Oh, but kind sir, your kindness is too much. I could not consent to a gift as much as this…

Hemlock. Never fear, poor girl. I’ve more where that came from. So, take it and I bid you good day. I shall return for more sweet-meats and greens as soon as my supplies have run dry.

Hemlock exits stage left.

Curtain closes.

This is just how he saw things. Sadly, he was neither rich nor a terribly talented actor. To be honest, he’d never even spoken to the check out girls, although there were times he wanted to. The only place he was comfortable was on stage and in his classroom.

Most of the time, the two were the same. James Hemlock was a high school drama teacher.

Those who can’t do, teach.

School began for him every day at 8:00 am and his first two classes were Introduction to Theatre. Every morning he would don a new hat and deliver a short monologue from a play to the students each morning. Sometimes, it might be Hamlet’s soliloquy and he would wear a foppish period hat with a feather in it. Other times he would do a scene from Neil Simon. It was always a favorite of the kids to see him do scenes from The Odd Couple, watching Hemlock’s posture and mannerisms change in a blink from Felix to Oscar and back again. He’d even take a baseball cap on and off, on and off, in time with his character changes. Oscar would wear the cap, Felix would not.

Once, he even came to school in a ripped undershirt and did that marvelous scene from A Streetcar Named Desire.

Stella!

His next four periods were Intermediate Drama, where he would direct groups of four students in scenes of his choosing. Many a night would he spend, formulating the groups based on physical appearance and ability and choose scenes suited perfectly for the talents of each group. He felt it always helped the kids to be playing roles they could fit into easily. Otherwise they would just get frustrated. His last period of the day was perhaps his favorite, though. It was Advanced Drama. Only a select group of students got into it and they were chosen based on a very strict audition process. Hemlock treated this coveted group as though they were his personal acting troupe.

Each year, the students of his troupe would stage a play for the entire student body. This year, Hemlock had chosen Shakespeare’s The Life and Death of King Richard III. He picked this particular material because he felt that this years troupe was head and shoulders above any other year he had.

The first show would commence at an assembly that day after school. The rest of the faculty would see that Hemlock’s Drama class was the best class offered at the school, perhaps the district. Hemlock always thought this before a performance.

By God, it would be beautiful.

The bell rang and the Advanced Drama class took their seats and Hemlock couldn’t be happier. As he scanned the room to be sure all were present and accounted for, he noticed a face missing from his usual seating arrangement.

Panic hit him in the face like a splash of ice water.

“Richard… Where’s Richard? Hemlock asked the class, his voice bleating with worry, his face creasing with dread.

“I don’t think he’s coming today, Mr. Hemlock,” The student playing the Archbishop of York offered.

‘Richard’ was actually the part a young boy of seventeen was playing. His real name was Cody, but that fact always managed to escape Hemlock. To Hemlock, he was at all times Richard the Duke of Gloster and future King of England. It was quite frustrating to be known as the part he played instead of as himself.

“Not coming? The show starts in an hour!” Hemlock was beside himself, pacing, wondering what he could possibly do.

King Edward the Fourth chimed in, “I just don’t think he wants to do it anymore.”

“Not want to do it anymore?! What choice does he have? The show must go on…the show must go on!” Hemlock was gesturing widely with his hands as though he were delivering a fiery monologue on stage, “What right does he have? What does he think he’s doing? There are fourteen hundred students at this school, four hundred of which are coming to see Richard III today. What do we tell them? That the King didn’t feel like it?”

His face was boiling red with sweat and worry. He didn’t realize he was wringing his striped neck-tie in clenched fists…

The Sheriff of Wiltshire interjected into the scene: “He’s still here, you could go talk to him.”

“Here? At the school?” Hemlock’s eyebrows arched with exaggerated surprise, as though he was acting for the back row. “Why didn’t anyone say so? Where is he?”

The Sheriff continued, “Last I heard, he was in the dark room at the photo lab…”

The Duke of Clarence asked what he was doing there, but Hemlock was out of the room so quickly he never heard the answer.

Within moments Hemlock found himself in the light-tight tube of an entrance to the schools dark room. He slid the door around, revealing Cody, bathing photos in chemicals and eerie red light. Cody’s brown hair looked black in the red light. His head hunched slightly at the shoulders.

“Richard…” Hemlock began, but was quickly cut off.

“My name isn’t Richard.”

“It is today, by God.”

“I can’t do it, Mr. Hemlock.”

“Yes you can. There are four-hundred students coming into that theatre expecting The Life and Death of Richard III, by God, you’ve got to give it to them. You owe it to them.”

“I don’t owe them anything.”

“Why don’t you?”

“I’d rather be me than Richard III.”

“But wouldn’t have to be him for long.”

“Listen Mr. Hemlock, I’d love to help out, but I did a lot of thinking and I decided with wasn’t for me. I’m sorry.”

Carefully and with a large pair of tweezers, Cody lifted his photographs out of the chemicals and hung them each to dry by a clothespin on a string across the length of the dark room. Hemlock was only able to brood, stroking his whiskers.

After a few moments of awkward stalemate, Hemlock broke the silence coolly and calmly, “I’ll buy you a brand new camera.”

“You’d buy me a brand new camera if I went on today?”

“Yes.”

“Never. I won’t be bought, Mr. Hemlock.”

“You could think of it as a gift of appreciation.”

“I couldn’t.”

Defeated, Hemlock took a breath and let out his next statement with a crushing degree of solemnity, “You know I’ll have to fail you.”

“You’ll do what you have to. Believe me, I didn’t come to this decision lightly.”

“You’re just being fickle, my boy. The show must go on.”

“With all due respect, sir, the show will have to go on without me.”

“How can you say that? How can so carelessly throw away both your grade and classmates to the wolves?”

Hemlock’s posture was sagging more and more with each bout of pleading. Cody’s shoulders straightened and his head, for the first time Hemlock had ever seen, held high.

With much care and deliberation, Cody began to speak in a rich and soothing timbre, “I don’t want to be anyone else anymore, Mr. Hemlock. I’m finally proud to be me. No longer do I need to play the part of another, I can finally play my own part on the stage of this eath. I don’t want to be Richard II or the Duke of Gloster or Felix Unger or John Procter or Lenny or Petruchio or anyone. I’m finally happy to be just me.”

The speech floored Hemlock.

Never had a student ever so passionately delivered such a beautiful and rousing improvised monologue. Cody’s refusal today became all the more bitter to Hemlock, now that he’d seen what the boy was really capable of.

“Richard… Cody. Your eloquence is impressive for one so young and your conviction is admirable. You could be the greatest Richard to ever grace the stage of East Shore High School.”

Cody remained unconvinced.

Hemlock hadn’t noticed that in his begging, he’d actually dropped to his knees, pleading before the boy as a murderer would plead before God in a church for forgiveness.

“Was it me? Did I do something wrong? Is that why you’re behaving this way?”
After a brief pause, Hemlock repeated, “Was it me?”

Cody started his reply with a deep breath that filled his chest and Hemlock realized it was no longer a boy he was pleading with, but a man, “It was you, Mr. Hemlock, but that’s not a bad thing.”

“Not a bad thing? You’re going to ruin the production.” Then, under his breath, “…not a bad thing…”

“Mr. Hemlock, before I took your drama courses, I didn’t know who I was or what I should be. You helped me try out so many different sorts of people that I could be to the point where I finally realized who am and who I want to be. I’ve tortured myself in rehearsals playing that crooked hunchback. Until I came to know that being someone else was my season of discontent. You’ve made me, me and for that, I thank you, but I can’t go on that stage as anyone but myself.”

“But don’t you see, you’ve got to. I’m glad you’ve found yourself and it seems as though the real you is an amazing and eloquent orator that could rival Lincoln, but you must get on that stage. As Richard.”

“You’ll just have to find someone else.”

“There is no one else. You’re Richard.”

“You know the part.”

“Me?

“Why not? You know the part. And you care about the show. I’m not going on, but if the show must go on, you’ll just have to do it yourself.”

Hemlock stroked his beard once more, trying to think of a reason why he couldn’t.

“Why not?” Cody asked again.

“It wouldn’t do…I…” Hemlock couldn’t think of a single satisfying reason why he couldn’t do it. “I just can’t.”

“Being other people on stage, that’s you. That’s who you are.”

Hemlock stood up. Slowly, his posture inflated back to its proper stature like a helium balloon. “It is me.”

“It is, Mr. Hemlock. It really is.”

“If I do it, I’m still going to be forced to fail you, you understand.”

Cody nodded, “I’ve made my choice and I’m willing to accept the consequences.”

“I suppose you’ll make a fine man, Cody.”

“Thank you for saying, sir.”

“You’re that rare breed of boy, rarer these days: well-read, well-spoken, respectful to his elders, even in defiance and you have wisdom beyond your years. I ought to be proud if I’m partly responsible for this mess you’re causing.”

Hemlock firmly grasped Cody’s shoulder with one hand and with his other shook Cody’s hand.

“I’m sure you’ll manage, Mr. Hemlock. It’ll certainly be a pleasure seeing you on stage.”

“You’re still coming to the show?”

“I’ll be there with my camera. Taking pictures of people doing things they love is what I like to do.”

The Curtain Rises,

London. A Street.

Enter Gloster (Hemlock.)

Gloster. Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by the sun of York;
And all the clouds that lower’d upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruised arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang’d to merry meetings,
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visaged waar hath smooth’d his wrinkled front;
And now,—instead of mounting barbed steeds
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,--
He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.
But I,--that am not shap’d for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deform’d, unfinished, sent before my time
Into this breathing world scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;--
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun,
And descant on mine own deformity;
And therefore,--since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,--
I am determined to prove a villain…

And so on…

…the curtain falls…

From the wings, Cody snapped black and white photographs of Hemlock plotting to take the British throne. He’d never before or since taken photographs of a man so passionate in a rut of mediocrity.

But that mediocrity was enough for a high school stage in a small town.

Hemlock took a bow with a wide grin on his face.

Applause, applause, applause.

It felt to both Cody and Hemlock that they were applauding not the play, but those players that had learned their role on the world’s stage, and that made them both happy.