Traveling Show
By James A. Conan
Copyright ©
2013 James A. Conan
All
Rights Reserved
(Text
subject to change between preview and publication)
Introduction
Ever
have a genuine brush with greatness? I mean, not just meeting someone
by chance and shaking their hand, but to actually have one of your
idols sit down with you and bare his soul? It's not something you can
plan for. It just happens, and the results tend to change the way you
look at the world.
It
was three months ago that I was called to a mansion in the Hollywood
Hills for an interview. I didn't know at the time whom the subject of
the interview would be, but my editor was assured that it would be
worth his while to send somebody. Being new in town and lowest on the
journalistic totem pole, that somebody ended up being me.
Course I didn't just show up, I asked some questions first. This
particular mansion has been the subject of fascination from neighbors
and passers-by for over a year now, since it started showing signs of
life again. It is frequently dark and empty, but never up for sale.
At night, lights can be seen only in several rooms of one wing. The
staff is small, never more than three or four to maintain it, and the
only other people seen coming and going are a concierge medical
staff, who completely refuse to comment. Naturally there were rumors
about to whom the place belonged, but they seemed so far-fetched I
dismissed them as impossible. More fool me.
When
I finally gave up on an afternoon of enquiries and walked into the
unknown, I was met at the front gate by two rather harassed looking
nurses. One snapped at me, “What took you so long? He's been giving
us hell all day, he thought you would be here hours ago.”
I
told them I didn't know who 'he' was, but that I was here now and if
'he' didn't turn out to be worth my time I'd be turning around and
heading home. I wasn't about to blow off a hot date (a lie) to sit
for some nothing interview, no way in hell. They assured me it would
be worth my time, and that the subject of my interview was to be none
other than Gabriel Anthony.
Yes,
the Gabriel Anthony. Stardom incarnate, the very archetype of
fame and fortune.
My
heart skipped a beat. Like the rest of the world I had believed he
was dead. The nurses assured me he wasn't, but that the end wasn't
far off. He had requested a journalistic presence to, as they said
it, set the record straight. I had no idea what exactly they meant by
this. As we walked up that long driveway I was lost in thought about
the magnitude of what lay before me.
Mr.
Anthony is best remembered these days for his charitable work
following the Dead Year. The Seventh Seal tour raised hundreds
of millions of dollars to help those affected by the global outbreak.
His courage, stoicism, and dedication to helping others even in the
hour of his own grievous loss are considered by students of the arts
to be what sealed forever his immortality in our cultural
consciousness.
All
the same, that was just the final act of a monumental career as an
entertainer and businessman, a career that spanned decades, and that
witnessed sweeping, unheard of changes to this country and to the
world. And let us not forget, this man knew Bruckweiler. Peter
Robertson Bruckweiler, so frequently lionized and vilified. It
doesn't matter what view you take of him, you can't deny that the
world we live in is as much the result of his vision as it is of the
combined works of nations or governments. He was the greatest tycoon
who ever lived, an embodiment of the old world who used his abilities
to catapult us toward the new. And of course it was he who discovered
the original stars of the Holotheater, Gabriel Anthony included, so
many years ago.
Think
of it dear reader. Mr. Anthony is one hundred and one years old. When
this man was born, the oceans had only just begun to rise, and had
not yet swallowed so many of the planet's coastal cities. Personal
vehicles were still powered by liquid petroleum, which was somewhat
confusingly called gas. Things we take for granted such as the Lunar
colony and Martian expeditions would have been regarded as wild
flights of fancy, unsustainable, and destined to be carried out only
in some far flung future.
Polygamy
and even homosexual monogamy were not yet legally recognized forms of
marriage throughout much of the world. The military and police forces
of the nations still utilized chemical-combustion firearms as their
primary means of maintaining the peace by force. And of course, most
importantly for our purposes, when people wanted to be entertained by
moving images it was only possible to do so in two dimensions. How
far we have come! Mr. Anthony is by no means the only person
remaining from this bygone age, but he is by far the most
influential. One would be hard pressed to find any man from any era
who had a greater impact on his own culture in his own lifetime. Even
the Bard didn't achieve such fame until after his death.
I
am, of course, too young to have seen Mr. Anthony perform live,
though my mother and father claim to have had the honour three times,
each in Chicago, where the original BroaderVision/Globe Holotheater
Company made it's home for so many years. But, like nearly every
living person of my generation I grew up with him. I saw his recorded
holos, in theaters and at home. As a boy I watched dozens of them,
and since then hundreds. He was nothing if not prolific. My father
used to tell me how fortunate I was, saying that when he was a
younger man you had to get dressed up and go out just to see a
holoplay.
And
so it was with all this very much in my mind that I entered this
decaying mansion, which in my mind had been transformed inside of
five minutes into an altar on which rested a cultural icon like no
other. I was expecting to meet him, to be wowed by his wit, to hear
his life story, and perhaps, if I was very fortunate, to have him
relate a few personal anecdotes about his lifelong friendship and
business dealings with the great Bruckweiler.
From
him I would get all this and more. His attitudes were irascible, his
claims occasionally outlandish, and his forms and methods of speech,
well... unique. Let's go with that. The final result is this volume
which you are about to read. I have no doubt it will be the
culmination of my career. More than that, it was something entirely
unexpected. It seems Mr. Anthony dabbled in far more than just the
business of entertainment during his time in the spotlight. I can't
claim to have been able to verify everything he told me-I'll leave
that to the scholarly types who enjoy that sort of thing-but if even
half of it is true it may cause us to need to revisit what we think
we know about the history of the twenty-first century.
Traveling
Show
Hell, where were we?
Call the damn nurse would you pal? It’s that buzzer there. And none
of that Mr. Anthony shit. It’s Gabe kid, just Gabe. What's that you
say? Not to my public, or the Academy? The Academy? Hah! Screw 'em.
We should never have cut a deal with those fossils. I knew it’d
save em but I didn't want it to...is this their final revenge?
Sending you here to quiz me on my past as I die? Don’t look at me
like that, those cute little nurses I hired may keep me doped to the
nines but I still know what’s coming. A week, maybe two, then cue
the final curtain. And that doctor. Quack! Natural causes, what does
he know? Essentially told me I’m lying here dying of absolutely
nothing! Hell, where were we?
Right,
you're with the Associated Press aren't you? Good. I'm glad you came
even if it took you a while. The world thinks I'm already dead and
that I have been for some time. Need to set the record straight on a
few things before that actually happens. Why haven't I been seen for
all these years? I think you know the answer. That's right. Mrs.
Anthony.
Even
decades later it still hurts fresh. After what we did, what we went
through together... I didn’t want to be me without her. I took a
new name, wandered the world for a spell and saw a few things and
places I’d always put off seeing. It helped a little, but then this
came along. End of the line. That’s why you’re here pal. Because
there’s one more thing I’ve been putting off. One more thing I
promised her when she was dying.
What
did I promise her? The truth. The woman had an obsession with it at
the end. Made me swear. Said she didn’t know if we’d meet up in
any afterlife or not, but she wanted a clean conscience. I know you
don't get my meaning, just be patient. What I'm getting at here is
there’s a lot that people don’t know. About how we got our start.
Me, her, old Doc Nandrihar, and, of course, Peter Robertson
Bruckweiler.
Who's
this Doctor Nandrihar you ask? Exactly my point. You and a few
billion others have grown up with Holotech and the Immersion Field
and all the other inventions they spawned, and you don’t even know
the name of the man who created it. I don’t think anyone ever even
asked. Dr. Yusef Nandrihar, remember that name, because if there were
any justice in this world you’d be in awe of him when you heard it.
The
real history of our industry has been swept aside. All the key
players dead now except for me. None of it ever got written down.
After we co-opted the Academy when old P.R. finally cashed in his
chips it all kind of got glossed over. No one wanted to remember the
hard times. No one even asked us. What ended up being called the
Renaissance of Live Theater was depicted as a phenomenon with no past
and a rosy future even while we were still smoothing out the ugly
wrinkles.
I
was twenty eight when I first heard the word Holotheater, and from
Bruckweiler himself. Of course I thought he was full of shit when I
met him, I had no idea who he was...”
Big
Break
Where
do I start? The beginning obviously, but what constitutes the
beginning of a story like this? The day I was born? The little town
where I grew up and went to school? The day I came home to my mom
crying her eyes out at the kitchen table and she told me dad was
dead? I won't say it's not important stuff, it sure as hell meant a
lot to me, but it's not what I called you here for. I suppose I
should at least say a bit about how I got into acting.
I
never really fit in at school. I didn't have many friends. I was
always lost in old books or a play or a black and white movie or
something. A peculiar fetish of mine, I admit. I'd still rather spend
the day with a good book than with most of the people I know. Maybe
that's because most of the really interesting ones are dead. Anyway,
I was a word nerd from the get go. Pat Sandhurst, a name you should
recognize and another lifelong friend, once put on his best bumpkin
accent and described me as 'that hillbilly what swallowed a
thesaurus.'
I've
since decided I want that carved on my tombstone.
I
always wanted to be a star. The American dream right? Though there
was a time in my teenage years when I considered applying my love of
words and dialogue in another direction and becoming a writer. Of
course back then no one made any serious money off writing, not
unless you wrote about teenage wizards overcoming adversity or the
morose goddamn love lives of sparkly vampires so fuck it, acting it
was. Gripping conversation between two or more intelligent characters
was a precious commodity in real life, so I went to drama school in
the hopes of finding it on the stage or the screen, preferably the
latter. I had some success and people told me I was good looking so
soon enough it was on to Hollyweird to try my luck. It didn't go so
well at first. I suppose that's where our story really begins.
Beverly
Hills was still where the famous congregated back then. I was
outclassed in that club and I knew it, all those A-listers and poor
me so far down on the food chain. But an actor in need must schmooze;
it’s a part of the culture. That much we would never change.
I
was sitting with two jokers I told myself were friends and
colleagues. This was a lie. I suppose we just drew comfort from being
in the same situation and knowing it. We had all come to Hollywood
with big ambitions and had them shipwrecked. Together we clung to
that wreckage, but not one of us would have hesitated to kick the
others to the sharks if it meant jump-starting his own career.
Devon
Jefferson was best described as a surfer dude. His mother had been
wealthy and had raised him up and down the west coast, even Hawaii.
At some point she had decided that his tanned complexion, good looks,
and athletic build made him an ideal candidate for stardom. She paid
top dollar to pack him off to several drama schools, got him in a few
commercials, and finally sent him to Hollywood to try and break into
movies. None of this saved him from being talentless, and he knew it.
He was lost in that place and time. It's odd that I remember him so
well, I knew him only briefly. But he was there that night.
Michael
Graham at least had a skill set, though it wasn’t one I liked. He
was a geek, a little bit in real life and often professionally.
Someone needed a geek for an episode or two of your favorite sitcom,
Mike usually got the call. This would have been bearable except at
the time he considered himself a method actor. He would be “on”
for days at a time, usually speaking nasally, twitching sporadically,
and referencing physicists and philosophers I’d never heard of. One
day he drastically changed his skill set, and many suffered for it.
But I'm jumping ahead.
As
for me, I was a red herring. No, really. See, back then there were
more crime shows on TV than even I bothered to count. Look closely
and you may notice that in several of them the murder victim’s
husband, the shady drug dealer, the office manager who was having an
affair and so on were just me with changes in hair, make up, all
that. At the time it was my dearest ambition to move up to playing
the murderers.
I
sipped a double gin martini and bitched. “This place sucks.”
“This
is where the big fish hang out” said Devon.
“Yeah”
said Mike, “I see 'em. But what the press releases and reviews
about this place don’t say is that it is in fact two clubs. There’s
one for the real actors and their guests in back, one for us up here
by the door. I came to do some major-league elbow rubbing, not sit
here with you guys while that infomercial food processor selling
jackoff is over there with three porn-stars laughing at us.”
We
turned our heads and caught a glimpse of a trademarked smile and a
friendly wave. The girls giggled and the smile broadened. I resolved
to get very, very drunk that night.
Around
martini number three he walked in. He was led to the back room but
paused and glanced at our table and his eyes lingered on me. It was
just a second before it was over and he was gone. I was only
interested because I knew the name of everyone else I’d seen get
ushered into the back room, but not him. After another drink I let
curiosity get the better of me and asked the bouncer.
He told me to
piss off. I was feeling bold and more than a little desperate for
something to happen that night so I whipped out a fifty. “Just a
name?”
He
looked at me cockeyed and took my money. “Pete Bruckweiler.”
“Who?”
“The richest man you’ve never heard of.” And he left it at that.
So I was out fifty bucks
for no useful info, and kept right on drinking. And so it was that I
found myself outside just after two am, around the back, violently
heaving the contents of my stomach into a dumpster. Gin is a sneaky
bitch. I had put away another four without standing back up and when
I finally did so to leave I found my stomach wasn’t up for it. A
man should never be at odds with his own guts on the subject of
directionality, but there I was. And I wasn't alone.
“The richest man you’ve never heard of.” And he left it at that.
“You
okay there? Sounded like something dying.”
I
coughed and spun around. At the mouth of the alley was Bruckweiler,
but I had to wait for my eyes to come back into focus to be sure.
“Yeah, yeah, fine. Just had too much to drink.”
“I
sort of figured that. Hey did I see you in the bar earlier?”
I
tried to think of something clever to say but instead I hiccoughed.
“I’ll take that as a yes. You’re Gabriel Anthony aren’t you?”
That
really took me by surprise, I almost felt sober again. "You know
who I am? I mean actually? I mean, you didn’t just say ‘that guy
from the cop show’ or anything. You know my name?”
“Is
that so unusual? Maybe to you it is. I’ve been watching a lot of TV
lately. I recognized you. Haven’t seen you on anything new in a few
months.”
“I
haven’t been on anything in a few months.”
There was silence for a
moment, and he was clearly sizing me up. “You need a ride?”
I
thought the proposition might come with strings, but I was in no
position to refuse. Driving was clearly out. Not being a native of LA
I defied custom and refused to drive drunk. A quick search of my
wallet revealed insufficient funds for cab fare back across town.
Still, I was wary. “I don’t normally take rides from strangers
Mr. Bruckweiler.”
“So
you know my name too?”
“Just
your name and that you’re supposed to have some bank, that’s all
I heard.”
He
laughed. “True enough, but I assure you that’s the least
interesting thing about me. C’mon.” Without waiting for a yes or
a no he grabbed me by the arm and steered me out of the alley. I
decided to go with it.
He
turned back out into the street and I followed. His car confirmed he
was loaded. I mean, I was living in LA then and went to the studios a
lot and I saw some fine limos day to day, but this thing looked like
it could beat a shuttle into orbit. I climbed into the back beside
him. I gave him my address and to my surprise he neither laughed nor
cringed. He nodded, his driver took off, and in the light of the
car’s spectacular interior I got my first good look at this man
Bruckweiler. A man who in Los Angeles offered or rather insisted on
giving rides to strangers, but didn’t strike me as a perv or any of
the other sundry varieties of nutcase. Live there (or in any major
city) long enough and you develop a sixth sense for that sort of
thing. Stranger still he knew my name and work and seemed interested
in me as an actor. I think that’s what made me go with him without
a fight. It was an odd, exciting thing to be recognized that way for
the first time.
But the man himself looked pretty normal then, which I remember because it was
in sharp contrast to the car. He wore simple blue jeans with a dark
blue/grey sweater under a black jacket. His hair was a deliberately
unruly, dirty blond mop, the kind of do that comes from spending
money to look like you just don’t care. Everything on him was
expensive but not too flashy.
My
host in this rolling palace pressed a button and out of the arm rest
between us emerged a mini-bar. He surveyed it, then took a look at
me. “Just water for the first one I think, huh Mr. Anthony?”
“Suits
me.”
He
took two glasses and turned a small tap, filling them with cold
water. The car must have had a cooler full of spring water built in
somewhere. It cleared my head considerably and I thanked him. “So,
you make friends with every out-of-work actor you find puking behind
a bar?”
“Only
the ones I think have talent. Like I said, I’ve been watching a lot
of TV. You may as well know that I’m in the process of casting for
a project of my own.”
I
was suddenly wide awake, wondering what he’d hit me with. I looked
at him and figured artsy, independent film, maybe even biopic. I had
no idea. All I cared about was that he actually wanted to talk
business and that my slump might be over.
He
stared me straight in the eye. “Ever do any live theater?”
My
heart sank. “Well yes, but not professionally. It was the ‘Friends,
Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears’ type back in college.”
“But
you do have experience? No stage fright? Remembered all your lines
and everything?”
“Well
as Mark Antony I was no Brando but it went over okay, no screw-ups.”
“Good.
And you’re not currently under contract?”
I
actually laughed. “No. Even if I were I doubt it would be an issue.
My gigs usually last less than a week.”
At
this point he turned away from me and drew a briefcase from under the
seat. From it he removed a tablet computer. As he tapped away at it
he said. “Mr. Anthony I was frequenting that establishment and
others like it for one simple reason. I was looking for you. Or
failing that, people like you.”
“People
who’d had a few too many and were out back vom—“
“No,
no. Up and comers. Young actors and actresses who have potential that
hasn’t been recognized by the big studios. I’ve signed a few so
far but most aren’t bold enough to leave what they know for another
medium. How 'bout you?”
“I
told you I’m not really a stage performer.”
He
got a wild look in his eyes. “And I’m telling you that this isn’t
like any other stage performance you’ve ever seen or heard of.”
“What
exactly is this project?”
“I’m
afraid that’s privileged information for now. Here, take a look at
this.” He handed me the tablet, on the screen was a contract with
my name typed in. “I’ll save you the boring legal bits. This says
that you have the option of coming and ‘auditioning’ so to speak
for my new production. If you like what you see you can stay on at
the salary promised you in the contract. If not you can pack up and
leave and you get nothing. Either way, the contract includes a strict
confidentiality agreement. I have a great deal of money and many
important trade secrets mixed up in this, and I have to protect my
investment.”
It
sounded weird to me, but the number on the bottom line clinched it.
It contained several more zeroes than I was used to seeing on
contracts. The magnitude of what I was being offered finally hit me.
It was a three year deal with an annual payoff of—Christ Almighty!
I would pretend to hold out longer for the sake of form, but I had
already made up my mind to take the gig. “Sure, I’ll play along.
When can I come and see this...whatever it is?”
“Tomorrow.
You mind if I put you up in a hotel? I want to get at you first
thing, time is money.”
I
said sure and he took the tablet back and gave his driver a new
address. Then he surprised me again. “May as well relax.” At this
he hit a button on the screen and a flat-screen rose from the
seat-back in front of us. On the digital menu was a list of my
episodes.
We
spent the rest of the drive watching and commenting, and I was
relieved that Bruckweiler actually seemed to know what he was talking
about. Strange I should be so at ease when you consider he had more
or less been stalking me. And for that matter had sort of abducted
me. But I was flattered nonetheless. To be honest the whole thing
still felt unreal at that point.
The
hotel was plush, and Bruckweiler showed me to a suite. My jaw went
slack when he opened the door. It was bigger than my apartment and
the amount spent on furniture could have bought half my block. He saw
this and laughed. “Don’t worry about the bill, I own the place.
Get some sleep. I’ll have room service bring you breakfast and a
contract in the morning.”
He
closed the door and I was alone. I was tired, but couldn’t shake
the feeling that if I went to bed I’d wake up in a gutter somewhere
with this all having been some strange martini-nightmare. If you've
never had one you can't know my fear. Still, a check of my luxurious
surroundings and the age old pinch test confirmed I was awake and
presumably still checked into reality. I resigned myself to fate,
stripped to my boxers, and flopped into a bed with about as much
square footage as the custom limo that had brought me there. I think
I was out in seconds.
Of
course it only felt like seconds until I was back up again. The
wake-up call was gentle at least, and
someone had collected and washed my clothes. They sat on the bottom
of a metal cart beside my bed, and on top of the cart were eggs,
bacon, toast, coffee, orange juice, and a contract. Pete Bruckweiler
did not waste time. I read the contract over as I got dressed. ‘The
undersigned will be employed for such and such a length of time and
is entitled to such and such benefits if employed by
BroaderVision/Globe, a subsidiary of The Bruckweiler Group. The
undersigned is required to work at such dates and times as specified
in section x, please see section y for yada yada yada.
It
took twenty minutes of going through such crap before I was
reasonably sure I wasn’t being screwed. I remembered the night
before pretty well, I just wanted to make sure I had all the right
boxes checked. I was proceeding with caution, having heard stories
from people at my level of contracts signed in haste that had led to
their involvement in all sorts of shady crap. A desperate actor had
to read the fine print back then or he’d find himself signed up
without his knowledge or consent for God knows what. Testimonials on
infomercials, pyramid schemes, maybe even a recruiter for some
science fiction inspired religion of the rich, famous, and
brain-dead.
But
this deal seemed to be on the level. I signed and got on with
breakfast. Exactly half an hour after I’d been woken Bruckweiler
came for me himself. He took the contract happily and slid it into
his briefcase. He was more nervous now, brusque, not as friendly as
the night before and said little to me on the drive. It was obvious
to me by the direction we took that we weren’t headed for studio
country. Our destination turned out to be a nondescript warehouse
amidst a sea of nondescript warehouses, remarkable only for the fleet
of eighteen wheelers parked outside. Bruckweiler could read my
expression. “Don’t worry Mr. Anthony, just a part of keeping this
a secret until our debut.”
The
inside of the warehouse wasn’t much more encouraging. All I saw
were stacks and stacks of boxes, but Bruckweiler seemed to know where
he was going. I followed him through a door and down a staircase.
There was another door waiting for us, and this one had an honest to
God retinal scanner built into the lock. I walked behind Bruckweiler
through that second door and entered another world.
The basement was two
rooms connected by one door, more like a hatch really. The one we
stood in looked like a laboratory crossed with an editing studio and
shot forward in time a few centuries.
But
it wasn’t the consoles and their screens that really got my
attention. It wasn’t even the things that looked like giant propane
tanks and dominated one side of the room. It was the people. Four in
lab coats, and twelve wearing what I thought at the time were green
morph-suits. And then there was the other room. A big empty metal
space with lights on the floor, vents in the walls, and a giant
curved viewing window by the door/hatch.
Bruckweiler
called over one of the lab coats, a short, olive-skinned man.
“Gabriel Anthony, meet Dr. Yusef Nandrihar. Gabe is our newest
acquisition. Everything on schedule?”
“Preparing
for a rehearsal now. I take it Mr. Anthony would like to observe?”
“I
wouldn’t mind, but would someone please tell me what the hell all
this is?”
The
doctor gave me a sympathetic look and turned to Bruckweiler. “Peter,
have you Shanghaied this young man without any details at all? We've
discussed this, you can’t keep doing it.”
“And
you know that if I tell them straight most of them don’t believe
me. They need to see it up close to get the feel. Either way, I don’t
think Mr. Anthony minded his accommodations. We’ve wasted enough
time Yusef, get 'em in there and fire it up.”
Nandrihar
stared at me with amused resignation. “I don’t know why I bother.
Alright. Young man, Mr. Bruckweiler here has no doubt swept you up by
showing you a large number on a piece of paper and promising you a
part in a bold new medium, yes?”
“That’s
about the size of it, yeah.”
“Then
come and watch with me, it should explain a few things.”
“A
little Shakespeare for our friend Yusef.”
“Very
well.”
The
suited figures opened the hatch and gave us thumbs up before going
through. Once it was sealed Nandrihar started giving instructions to
his team, stationed at the consoles behind us.
“Begin
saturation.”
There
was a whir to my left as a machine on top of the giant tanks powered
up. The sealed room in front of me began to fill up with gas. It
wasn’t like smoke or exhaust or anything, it shone. A cloud of
silver mist engulfed the suited figures, but none seemed bothered.
This was the peak of my confusion.
“Okay...that
was interesting. I still don’t see...”
“Wait”
said Bruckweiler “it hasn’t even started yet.”
Nandrihar
said “Shut off the vents, energize” and the show got going.
The
lights on the floor grew brighter and the gas began to swirl around
them, faster every second. Finally the gas was spinning so fast that
it appeared as four solid cylinders grouped around the lights.
Nandrihar gave another
order. “Polarize.” I stood there slack-jawed as it all began to
take shape. The gas expanded as a solid wall, right up to the viewing
window, and then melted away like fog to set the scene. As if from
the window of a plane, I saw Athens laid out in front of me. Not that
I'd ever been, but who doesn't know the Parthenon? It wasn't flat on
the screen, but as if I was moving toward it, into it. The forced
shift in perspective was jarring once I realized what I was seeing.
The window so large and precisely curved that I felt like I could
fall into the image. I quickly realized it was designed that way.
The
scene shifted again, and it was one I recognized. The ducal palace,
the lover’s argument, it was A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
but a richer set I’d never laid eyes on. The room wasn’t big
enough to accommodate the scale of it. All I could manage to get out
was “How?”
Nandrihar
smiled and Bruckweiler broke out laughing. “Didn’t I tell you it
was like nothing you’d seen before? Welcome to the world’s first
holotheater Mr. Anthony. Yusef, shift the scene, show off a bit.”
“Anything
in particular?”
“Something
a little more modern I think. Gimme Guys and Dolls.”
Nandrihar made a few
adjustments at the console in front of us and Athens was gone. It was
replaced by Damon Runyon’s New York, a bustling place filled with
singing gamblers, strong-arm cops, and neurotic frails. This time the
players weren't cut off mid-sentence before the first scene was done.
We watched awhile in silence until “Adelaide’s Refrain” was
over, then Bruckweiler ordered it shut down. The scene suddenly fell
apart, buildings, cars, people, all bursting into puffs of gas.
Nandrihar gave another order and the gas was sucked back up through
the vents. Only the green suited figures remained. They took a bow,
the floor lights cut out, and they made for the hatch.
“Wanna
try it?” said Bruckweiler, knowing full well the answer.
I
still didn’t know just what I’d seen, but I knew I wanted in more
than anything I’d ever wanted in my life. It put me in mind of how
those old vaudeville types must have felt when the first movies got
rolling.
“Couldn’t
live with myself if I didn’t, but you still have some explaining to
do. I just saw complete sets that looked as big as their real world
equivalents pop up out of nowhere. I need to know a little more
before I step into that gas.”
Nandrihar
answered first. “It's not gas, it's plasma, saturated with a
colloidal system of metallic particulates.”
Bruckweiler
quickly added, “And that is proprietary information which you are
to keep to yourself.”
I
raised my hands in mock surrender “I’m not even sure what the Doc
just said.”
“Are
you familiar with the Tyndall Effect regarding light scattering by
colloids or particles in fine suspension? How about Rayleigh
scattering, the elastic scattering of electromagnetic radiation by
particles of smaller wavelengths? Perhaps the Rayleigh law concerning
the behaviour of ferromagnetic materials?” The look on my face told
it all. “How about the old scientific debate over whether light is
wave or particle my young friend?”
“That
I remember. From high school science.”
Nandrihar
gave a sigh. “Then we can be thankful that your education was not a
complete waste of time and public money. I doubt a few details would
ruin our secret Peter.”
“Fine,
fine, fill him in. Loosely.”
“We'd
better get him suited; it’ll be easier if he sees it from the
inside.”
I
was led over to a workbench beside a row of lockers. Two of
Nandrihar’s assistants told me to sit down. One gave me a pill. “Just a muscle relaxant” he said “helps on your first time in,
before you get used to it.” The other pulled a green suit from one
of the lockers and told me to strip down and put it on. As I did I
realized a few things. The material was skin tight but thick. What I
had thought was simply a grid pattern in the fabric was instead a
mesh of fiber-optics. On closer inspection each small wire was lined
with tiny antennae, and inside the face mask were goggles. I knew I
looked ridiculous, but from my professional standpoint that wasn’t
exactly a new feeling. Better to look like an idiot trying something
new than stay stuck in my old rut.
The
two lab coats motioned me back to Nandrihar, and he started to give
me a briefing.
“You
are about to enter what we call a Nandrihar-Rayleigh Immersion Field.
Of course the term itself is something of a misnomer, it’s not
really a field, more of a—“
“Time
is money Yusef,” said Bruckweiler from across the room.
“Right
Peter. So safety first. You may feel some slight discomfort when we
energize but I assure you it is quite harmless as long as you stay in
your protective gear. Do not attempt to remove the suit under any
circumstances. Direct exposure to the energized particle suspension
will cause minor burns almost immediately. We theorize that exposure
to a max burst when we shift scenes would cause spontaneous ignition
of the dermis, your outer layer of skin. We don’t want that now do
we?”
I
shook my head, suddenly terrified at what I’d gotten myself into,
but I was reassured by the green-suited figures on the other side of
the room. They’d just been through this thing and were standing
there jawing, the way actors and extras always do between takes.
“And
remember Mr. Anthony, everything you see in there is an illusion
propped up by colloidal-conductive electromagnetism. If you bump too
hard into a wall or any other temporary construct it will appear to
us on the outside to disintegrate. So be careful or you may mess up
the set and cause us to need to reboot the whole thing.”
Bruckweiler chimed in
again “which during performances will be an absolute no-no. It
would ruin the show.”
“Are
you ready Mr. Anthony?”
“As
ready as I’ll ever be,” I said through the suits mouth-speaker
“what’s the scene?”
Bruckweiler
rubbed the stubble on his chin in thought, “Well, last night you
told me about your previous experience in live theater so why not
give that a try. Julius Caesar, Yusef. You did finish
programming all the Shakespearean construct-runs, didn’t you?”
“Of
course, I got them done last week.”
“Then
get 'em in there and let’s hit it.”
The
other green-suited figures accepted me without comment as I joined
them in going through the hatch. One to my left, anonymous in name
and age but clearly female in build patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t
worry, it’s different inside,” she pointed at our eyewear, hers
and then mine. “The goggles block certain wavelengths, keep things
in perspective.” I couldn't place it at the time but her voice
sounded vaguely familiar.
We
entered and the hatch sealed shut behind us. I heard Nandrihar giving
orders through the earpiece in my mask, and the room began to fill
with the gas (or plasma or colloid or whatever).
The
sight of those solid walls of spinning particles that had been
amazing through the glass was hair-raising on the inside. It looked
like a tornado but generated no wind, and just as I was starting to
get used to this it exploded at us. I cringed but the others were
clearly old hands and didn’t react. When I opened my eyes I saw
things from behind the scenes, and my jaw dropped inside my mask.
At
first my fellow green suits were visible only as electric outlines.
All else was total darkness. A look down at my own arms told me I was
the same to them, and that the outlines I was seeing were a series of
miniscule lights coming from the grid lining of our suits. Slowly,
clouds of the gas became visible around us, seemingly attracted to
our suit grids as well as to the lights on the floor. The same woman
came over to me. “Pretty cool huh?”
“It’s
incredible.”
“You
think so? Watch this.”
From
the floor lights shot arcs of energy, the same electric-looking
strands that surrounded our bodies, splitting the darkness as they
went. Thousands of them arched, spun, shot, and twisted around the
room until the picture they formed began to be recognizable. I
realized after a few seconds that the same thing was happening to me.
Tiny little streams of energy shot from the lit points on my suit
grid, forming a web around me that trapped the particles in the room.
In another second I realized that a mask of this energy was forming
around my face, and that my body was wearing a roman toga of the same
luminescence. I moved and the illusion moved with me.
Around
me the scene was almost constructed. The lines of energy had drawn a
three-dimensional image. The Roman Senate, the houses and walls of
the ancient city, the scaffolds and the statues. They were all there,
and thanks to a trick of perspective they were all big as life, but
what got my attention were the people. I suppose I’d known the
crowds I’d seen from the outside in the last two productions
weren’t real, that only the characters with speaking roles were
live actors. Seeing all of it from the inside positively kicked my
ass.
There
I was on the platform, Marc Antony, with the mob at my feet, only
these Romans were constructs of well-nuanced light, just like my
costume and even my character’s face. In my ear there was a
soundtrack playing, light background music, the murmur of a crowd.
Then Bruckweiler cut in. “What are you waiting for man? Caesar is
dead and Brutus has handed you the floor, turn them to your will!”
That
snapped me out it. I took centre stage. It was a strange feeling. I
was standing on what I knew was a flat, solid floor in an empty
basement room. Yet, looking down my eyes told me that I was high up
above the heads of the crowd, peering out on Rome and speaking from
the steps of the Senate to exact revenge on the conspirators. And
still more phenomenal is that, thanks to Nandrihar’s creation, what
to me inside was a series of electric outlines in the haze appeared
as a living, moving image to those without. I was inspired, and the
years since I’d learned the lines melted away. I raised my arms to
the crowd as regally as I could and began the speech.
“Friends,
Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest
(For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men)
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious.
If it were so, it was a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Caesar answered it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest
(For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men)
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill;
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse.
Was
this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.”
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him?
O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.”
A
murmur of approval ran through the faux crowd, with my fellow actors
supplying their lines from the script to my earpiece. They were
invisible to me. At the time I figured they were simply ducking out
of sight, but afterwards I learned they were standing right next to
me. The same effect that turned me into a noble Roman was reversed to
block them from the visual spectrum altogether.
I
went on, telling them how Caesar had left all he had to the people of
Rome, dwelling on the envy felt by the conspirators. When I came to
the end the mob was in frenzy for Brutus and Cassius’ blood, and I
realized I was sweating. My heart was pounding, my armpits were
soaked, and I wanted a glass of water very badly, but I’d done it.
Rome was in front of me, big and real as ever, and it was mine. It
was an intoxicating feeling, even then. That first time, in that
little rehearsal studio, I was hooked. I’d been told it was fake.
Hell, I could see it was fake. But (as someone who's profession up to
then mostly took place in front of the green screen) it still felt
more real than anything I’d ever been in. I knew at that moment I’d
found a calling.
As
soon as I’d finished, Nandrihar shut it down and the world
dissolved around me. The other green suits emerged from puffs of the
gas and started to applaud. Bruckweiler’s voice boomed in my
earpiece.
“Way
to go kid, you fucking nailed it! I thought you said you hadn’t
done that since college?”
“What
can I say, I was in the zone. I suppose once I learn lines I never
really forget them. I just need the right incentive to remember. I
saw the crowd and it all came back.”
The
gas was sucked back into the vents and we all filed back through the
hatch. The other actors took off their masks and for the first time I
saw their faces. All were around my age and regarded me with
sceptical approval. Except for one, the woman who’d spoken to me
before, I put her at twenty five and soon learned that I was off by
only two years. She came up and gave me her hand. “Hannah Girard.”
“Gabriel
Anthony.” I wish I could say it was love at first sight. It wasn't.
I'd met her briefly about a year before. We did a scene in an office
building set for Skulls or
Criminal Brains or one
of those awful samey cop dramas that dominated the airwaves in the
2010's. My character had handed her character a file folder on screen
and that had been it. I had kicked myself for a week for not asking
her name and number when I had the chance. She didn't show it at the
time, but she recognized me that day too.
“You
really remember all those lines from college?”
“My
final year, rehearsed for two months. Before today I would’ve sworn
I’d forgotten” I pointed a finger at my temple “but I guess
they were rattling around up there somewhere.”
“So
Bruckweiler and the Doc didn't tell you about the scroll-script
function in the goggles?”
“What?”
She fitted the goggles
back down over my eyes and flipped a small switch I hadn't noticed
was there. Lines of text from the monologue I'd just recited moved
across the top of my field of vision.
“He
must have left that bit out to test you. He did the same to me when I
auditioned. I don't like it myself, hard to sound natural when you're
reading off a screen. You really weren't using it?”
“I
didn't know it was there. All from memory, I swear.”
She
smiled and brushed a strand of dirty-blond hair from her face.
“Impressive” she said still holding my hand, in a voice that
held promises of encounters yet to come. Her fingers brushed along my
wrist and I felt my pulse quicken.
“Handsome,
talented, and modest too. Glad to have you around Gabe. Welcome to
the BroaderVision/Globe Holotheater Company” she said, and kissed
me on the mouth, teasing me with just a hint of tongue. A chorus of
whistles and catcalls from the others behind us told me I’d been
accepted.
FIN
That’s
right son. That's how I got to know her. And Peter. So, anyway,
Bruckweiler called a halt for the day and threw me a wicked welcome
to the show bash. That was where I got acquainted for the first time
with a few future big names who had also been wearing green suits.
Pat Sandhurst was one, a lifelong friend. Pat never seemed to age
much. Looked the same back then when he was young, gangly and
freckled. But that voice, hell, gave me the creeps when he did it.
Deep, booming, sinister. I knew then he’d be playing most of the
villains. Lily Bennett was there too, smiles over ice. Never did like
that bitch. There was Vincent Kwong, the youngest of us, he’s still
around today. Must be what, ninety-five? Just him and me left of the
old troupe now...
Yes
I know, I know. This must all be very confusing for you.
Bruckweiler's own biography said that it was Hannah and I he signed
up first as the stars and that the rest came later. Why the bullshit?
A perfectly reasonable question.
Remember
when I said I was nobody in Hollywood? Well, Hannah was too. The
others were less than nobody. I was still swept up in the wonder of
the thing, but it started to hit me at that welcome party.
Bruckweiler hadn’t found actors, he'd found drama students with no
actual work experience. Hannah and I were the prestige players in
that little company. We were the ones who’d actually made a living
at acting before, meager as it was. Even then Pete had a penchant for
exaggeration.
Yeah yeah, sure, you can
say it like that if you want. He bold face lied to us in order to
sign us up. He was the boss, it was his job. But there was another
reason he put us under the spotlight, center-stage at the expense of
the rest. All the others were good actors, and in the new medium
would become great. The reason they hadn’t been before is that they
weren’t what you’d call “screen pretty.” Some were downright ugly. In the holotheater
that didn’t matter. Sometimes our characters were made to resemble
us, but an actor hardly ever wore his own face anyway. Also made race
irrelevant, if the voice fit the character you had the part. None of
that Tropic Thunder blackface shit. You don't follow me? That's
probably for the best.
So
why bother using us as poster boy and girl to sell the thing? I guess
you wouldn't get it. These days no one cares what a holoactor
actually looks like. But we were still moving away from the old
medium back then, and looks did matter, especially at the beginning.
After that first night in Frisco, Pete, Hannah, and I were dodging
paparazzi for weeks. But I’m getting ahead of myself. That first
show, I guess that’s when it really hit me I’d been hired as a
salesman as much as anything else. Of course I was too busy to worry
about it then what with rehearsals and press and all the VIP’s to
shake hands with. Bruckweiler really pulled out all the stops on that
one.
TO
BE CONTINUED in Traveling Show. Full version available this September.