The Theater

I'm alone in the theater. Dim lights shine on the stage, illuminating a single stool, convenient for stand up comedy, holding a glass of water, or supporting a guitar player. The electric hum of generators and halogen bulbs provide a pleasant white noise as I look around. Blue, the theater is very blue. Not metaphorically, literally... like an interior designer ran amok with too much sky blue paint and floral print.

But I can hear myself think. I haven't been able to for the longest time. The pubs, the coffee houses, the apartments, the very streets twist and sway, keeping a beat, singing a song, debating some question or arguing with passersby. I've found the one building in town that, maybe, just maybe, is content keeping itself to itself. He's in his golden years... wearing on into the years where gray hairs start sprouting out of unsightly places. He bears it well though... he's been painted blue after all.

Horrid cracks have formed in the roof of the cave-like auditorium; white plywood holds it in place. Stitches to hold a massive cut on one's head in place, keeping it from growing any larger.

A sprightly young man walks in to the theater, toting a beaten guitar. He grins at me like a boy who's just found 20 dollars on the street. "Wanna hear a song?" his whiley face lights up when he sees me. Preferring to keep the silence I've just found, I reply: "No thanks."

He grins wider, if such a thing were even possible. "Well, I'm gonna play anyway." He rushes to the stage: "Man, it's been so long since I've been on a stage." He's a kid on Christmas, smiling through the botched cords. He apologizes for his rusty fingers, I tell him not to worry. I discouraged him once, I'll be more genial from now on.

With each new song he tries, his confidence grows and his fingers start to fly. Maybe the theater will remember this story too. Maybe it will tell it to others. Or maybe... maybe it only shared it with me.