Dead in Real Life

"Have you ever been shot before?" he asked, trembling.
"Yes," Shrader said. "Twice."
"What does it feel like?" he asked.
"Well if it doesn't kill you right off, it hurts like hell," Shrader said. "Worst pain imaginable. But I'm sure you can't feel it if you die right away. And if you hold still for him, you'll die right away."
"You're just saying that," he said.
"Your right," Shrader said. "I love getting shot."
Shrader took a couple of steps away. The man reeked of tequila. Shrader's own light haze of gin was unsettled by the odor. He avoided turning his back with the grace of a professional. Never let them see the back of you, he thought. How many years since he learned that?
"I'm not going to let you do it," the man said. "I'm not going to let you bastards take me!"
"You don't really have much of a choice in the matter," Shrader replied. "It's either his gun or my knife. And I should say, no one ever gets stabbed and dies right away."
Shrader could see the man screwing up his courage. He telegraphed it in a way that was so transparent as to be ludicrous. Me thirty years ago, Schrader thought. He drew his knife slowly, and held it so they could see it. Make sure they can see it, he remembered. Help them connect the dots.
"I'll take my chances!" the man bellowed. He ran for the door. Shrader caught him in one arm, but he was going to fast. The two men stumbled, and almost fell off entirely. The man swung weakly at Shrader who punched a quick left to the man's gut. The man hopped a little as Shrader made contact. Shrader threw his right arm back. The knife glinted in the lights. Make sure they can see. He swung his arm downward. The knife swept in a low arc. The man hopped again. He screamed a long, loud, terrible scream, and he crumpled to the stage.
Schrader was shaking. It was as if he had been sleep-walking through it, and had only been woken by the scream. It was louder and so much more awful than James had rehearsed it. For the first time, he was grateful for what would come next. He walked downstage, slumped into a chair, lit a cigarette, and gazed over the audience. There wasn't a sound in the house. He gave a quick and nervous smile, something he'd never done in rehearsal. His red-soaked right hand was shaking. He allowed himself a nervous laugh. There wasn't a sound from the audience, not a single cough.
Damien Tangen had played this role for ten months before tonight. Every night that Damien had played this scene, the audience coughed when he lit the cigarette. The director had insisted there be a long pause here, and Damien had eaten it up, but you could tell that the audience wasn't with him. They coughed as soon as they saw smoke. But Damien was gone. Off to open another show, maybe something on Broadway proper. And here was poor old Jim Schrader, shaking like he'd just murdered a man, and the audience was entirely his.
A small trickle of red liquid inched past Schrader's chair and began dripping off the stage.
"Done already?" came a voice behind him.
"Don't touch him!" Schrader yelled, spinning around. It was the right line, but he was so genuinely startled, he hadn't actually remembered it. His mouth had done all the work. "He's mine, Wolf. Don't touch him."
She lowered her glasses and raised her eyebrows. "He wasn't supposed to be yours," she said. "He was supposed to belong to Bear."
"Bear got the other two tonight. This one wouldn't wait. This one belongs to Fox."
"Have it your own way, Foxy." she said. "Only let me have what he's got."
"Wait," he said. "I get his gadgets. He's got one of those fancy phones, and once Bear's had his say, I probably won't get paid a cent for this one."
"Gadgets, really? At your age?"
"To each their own," Schrader said stepping over the bloody figure lying on the floor. As drunk as he was, James played a better corpse than he had a man.
"Hmph," she said. "Wallets and rings for me; the simple life."
Schrader crouched down, retrieved his knife, wiped it on James' coat, and put it away.James had crumpled into a ball and fallen with his back to the audience. This obscured his breathing, and hid the large plastic blood bag. Something was wrong. Shrader went through James' pockets methodically. James didn't smile or whisper "fuck you" as he had during all the rehearsals. He wasn't even making faces. Shrader retrieved the iPhone from the inside breast pocket where it had always been, and then stopped cold. Something was very wrong. The world darkened. There was a faint ringing sound in his ears. Shrader's mind receded like a runway dropping away from an airplane.

Through the gin, his muscles did what they were trained to do.

"There she is," he said, standing up. "The fancy phone. Have you seen these?" It's not so bad, he thought. It can't be like that. But the bag. This sort of thing doesn't happen. But the bag was full.

"I can't work the damned things," said wolf. "If it were up to me, I'd still have my rotary."

He tried to get the picture out of his mind, but it sat there fat and obvious. The large plastic bag of stage blood was full, and James was empty. Shrader stepped over the stream of blood -- it's real blood! -- and walked back to the chair.

"My turn," Wolf said.

"He's all yours, deary," he said. Idiot! Why did you say that?

He glanced at Wolf as she walked to the body. The lights glinted off her glasses as she crouched and went through the same pockets he had just searched. He held his breath. Time stopped. It's not my fault, he thought. That asshole is as drunk as a lord. He forgot to wear the protective vest. It's not my fault he forgot to wear the vest. It's not murder if it's not my fault.

Someone in the audience coughed. Shrader glanced back again and saw Wolf stand again, a wallet and a ring in her hand. She hadn't screamed. The bag was full. She'd been right there, but she hadn't screamed. She caught Shrader's eyes and gave the queerest smile. He had never seen her smile like that before. It was devious. Their conspiracy was born in that smile.



His dread vanished, and he felt a rush of frantic energy.

"Good night, Fox," she said.

"You're not staying then?" he said.

"Oh heavens no. I don't want to be here when Bear shows up. Hell I don't want to be here when Rabbit shows up."

The stagehands rattled some boxes off left.

"Speak of the devil," she said.

"Is he still in here?" Rabbit asked, running in and pretending to be winded. "Because if he's not still-- Geez, he's dead!"

"That's usually what happens when we're done with them," Shrader said. Wolf slowly stepped out where Rabbit had stepped in. Out of the lights, she becaume Beatrice again. Beautiful Beatrice, star of the stage past her prime. Beatrice who had not screamed. Beatrice who had smiled.

"...supposed to be done with him yet," came the end of Rabbit's line. "We're supposed to hold him till Bear comes to do him."

"He was a runner," Shrader said. "Didn't want to wait for Bear."

"Geez, Foxy, what are we supposed..." Rabbit continued. Rabbit was safe. At no point in the next four minutes and fifty-two seconds during which he was on stage did he ever get close to James. Bear was the problem. Shrader spat his line in response to something Rabbit had said. It was insane. Finally in performance he had achieved what he never could despite all his preparation. He was actually afraid of Bear's entrance. But he wouldn't be here for it. He feigned disinterest as he talked with Rabbit, as he had done every night. But instead of absently playing with Fox's new "fancy phone", Shrader dialed frantically at the thing. Web browser. Taxi listings. Online booking. Wait outside the theatre. Keep the engine running. Big tip.

"...think we should at least clean up the mess?" said Rabbit.

"Don't get your hopes up," said Shrader giving his practiced look. "Wolf already got his wallet."

"Geez!" said Rabbit. I never liked this play anyway, thought Fox. Whoever says 'geez' anymore? His finger moved quickly. Web browser. Plane tickets. Mexico City. No flights until midnight. I have to get off this stage. Plane tickets. Tijuana. No flights tonight. Dammit. Plane tickets. Matamoros. 11:30. There was nothing before then. Rabbit pranced the stage, speaking his monologue and gesticulating wildly. There were only two minutes and five seconds left from the beginning of that monologue to Bear's entrance. Something had to be done. Matamoros. 11:30. He couldn't get off the stage, but he couldn't let Bear enter. Bear couldn't be allowed to play the scene and lift James' corpse like he did every night, because tonight it was actually James' corpse and not James' pus-filled, swaggering, overindulgent, woman-chasing body. It's not murder to get a guy drunk. It's not murder to try to get a guy fired. It's not murder just because I wanted him dead.

"That's the difference between you and me, Rabbit," Shrader said. "Give it time, though. Another thirty years in this business will dry you up faster than it did me."
"Screw you, Fox," said Rabbit. Matamoros, Mexico. 11:30. One-way ticket. Wait. She had smiled at him. She knew. He had done it for her, and she knew. It's not murder just because he deserved it. Two one-way tickets. Could he chance a message?

"Look, I'm getting out of here," said Rabbit. "You can tell..." He couldn't do it alone. She was his accomplice now. She hadn't screamed. There were no alarms. She was in this with him. She wanted it that way. He typed in her cell number as he'd memorized it from the call sheet. You. Me. Airplane to Mexico. Cab in the alley. No curtain call. Send.

The message was on its way, and so was Rabbit. Shrader remembered he was supposed to stop feigning interest in the phone. He slipped it in his pocket as Bear entered stage left.

At six-foot-two, Marcus Brenberg was an impressive man. With a team of experts in hair, makeup, and costume, Bear was almost cartoonishly intimidating.

He can't have the body, Shrader thought. "You can't have the body," Shrader said.

"The hell I can't," boomed Bear's voice.

This ends with him taking the body, but he can't have it. "It's my kill, and I intend to be paid for it."

"That wasn't the plan, little Fox. You were supposed to hold him," Bear said.

"He wouldn't be held," Shrader said. "And the contract is very clear."

"The contract is a piece of paper," said Bear. "And what's paper among men?"

Shrader glanced at the shining trail of blood on the stage. I can't change the scene, he thought. The problem wasn't with Bear, but with Marcus. If anyone else in this sorry excuse for a cast had played Bear, it wouldn't have mattered. But save Shrader and Beatrice, Marcus was the only professional in the bunch. If Shrader started changing the scene, if he added dialogue, Marcus would be professional. He'd say the scene's pivotal line and exit as quickly as possible to minimize the damage. Exit with the body.

"You can't. Have. The body," Fox said.

"You're trying my patience," Bear said. "Maybe you think you're old enough you don't have to listen to your betters."

I'm trapped, Shrader thought. I'm trapped in this horrible, stupid, third-rate play, and the only way I'll get out is in manacles, and at my age I'll die in prison, and I knew my career was over ten years ago, but I had to go on because I'd never BEEN anybody. He was shaking. And it's NOT MURDER!, he thought. Not in real life.

With that, and with all all of the frustration and adrenaline and chutzpah he could muster, Shrader clocked Bear in the jaw right where it curved up to meet the ear. Many in the audience gasped audibly. One shot. One chance to get out of here a free man. If Bear fell, he could finish the scene -- finish the show -- without anyone else ever touching James. But Bear did not fall. Instead, he slowly turned his head back to Shrader and blinked. Shrader's mouth fell open. Bear inhaled deeply, leaned forward, and laughed.

Marcus Heberg, the large, youg, studious, and consummate professional actor made the strongest choice he could think of and committed his whole body to it. He laughed uproariously. He laughed like a man who had just discovered all of humour. Something buzzed silently in Shraders pocket. Bear -- still laughing -- swept a long arm out and motioned toward the body. Shrader walked quickly over to it, bent and lifted James in a fireman's carry, careful not to burst the bag. He walked off the stage, and into the darkness. He walked to the back wall where the actors' sofa sat. He pulled it forward with one foot, deposited James behind it, and pushed it back again. Then he hurried back onstage. Bear was still laughing when he arrived. He looked at Shrader -- who was covered in blood -- chuckled twice more, and hit him on the side of the head with his open palm. Shrader fell to the stage, and -- laughing still -- Bear exited.

Shrader dragged himself up, and slumped once more into the downstage chair. He rubbed his temple. He was supposed to light another cigarette once Bear left, but instead he retrieved the iPhone. It had a message. "Re: Me. You. Airplane." Still rubbing his head, he thumbed the screen. The message was one word: "Darling."

The rest of the show was a dream, a waking dream. Shrader gave the last best performance of his life. He infused every word with his very soul. The mediocre script, and lackluster supporting cast seemed to absorb his energy. The audience seemed rivited. It was the perfect night. And as the lights went down the final time, and the audience cheered, Shrader bid farewell to theatre, and finally escaped the stage. Beatrice stood in the wings. She'd changed out of costume, and was holding Shrader's gym bag. Out of those glasses and makeup, she was radiantly beautiful. He caught her wrist and hurried her to the back door near the couch. Neither of them looked at it. The cab was waiting out back just as he had planned, and they sped away to the airport.

"This is so romantic," was the only thing Beatrice said. Shrader struggled to change shirts in the taxi. Even if no one discovered the body before their flight took off, there wasn't any way he could get through airport security looking like he was covered in blood. Actually covered in blood, he corrected himself.

He couldn't believe how easy it was. Print tickets at the booth. Find the terminal. Board the plane. Two for Mexico. His career was over. His life had changed irrevocably. But he had a beautiful, sophisticated woman of his own age and experience, and before them lay an adventure that could go on forever. Once the plane started toward its runway, he finally felt safe enough to speak. "I can't believe you came with me," he said.

"How could I not?" she asked. "You're my hero."

"I didn't mean it," he said. "It was a dirty thing, and I didn't mean to do it."

"What are you talking about?" she asked. "I remember hearing about you doing the exact same thing to Marty MacCullen in 1982."

"I've never done anything like this," he said, taken aback.

"Nonsense," she said. "Marty had been taking unoffered liberties with the leading lady of whatever little comedy you boys were in, so you took him out and drank him under the table just before performance. Just like tonight. I heard it straight from Miranda Deitrich."

"I never killed Marty MacCullen," he said.

"Oh but you did," she said. "He was fired the next day, and as far as I know never got into anything again."

"But James--"

"Oh, I'm not worried about James. He made it as far as he had to. I pity my understudy, though."

"Understudy?"

"Yours too. James will be hell to work with these few days we're absconding with each other. You know I've always wanted to do this with you? But I never imagined you'd be so bold!"

"Beatrice, did you look at James tonight?" he said.

"Well of course I looked at him," she said, smiling that same beguiling smile. "But heaven knows I can't see a thing in those glasses especially under those lights. Still I could smell the man a mile away." She wrinkled her nose, in a manner far too cute for her age. Then she leaned forward and whispered, "I wish he would just drop dead while we were gone. Do you ever think that sort of thing could happen?"

Shrader watched out the window. "No it couldn't happen," he said as the runway dropped away. "Not in real life."