Flowers of Dionysus

By Ty Unglebower

Before giving up the stage for good, a disillusioned amateur actor joins a friend's troubled summer production, during which he and some of his cast mates experience odd encounters and supernatural phenomenon that will challenge their views of theatre and of themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Unglebower
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393579793

Ty Unglebower

Ty is a freelance writer, actor, and occasional poet who, according to his official tagline, generally seeks to "shift the everyday a few inches."

Book preview

MATT BLACKWELL

ALMOST TWO YEARS NOW, Matt told his friend Frieda, who sat across the table from him at the café. He didn't tell her, however, that he'd avoided theater on purpose for that time.

Frieda, about ten years his senior but still able to pull off the hipster look in her 40's, (complete with bandana and sandals) gasped.

Matt! Has it really been that long? What was your last show?

Arsenic, over at the Blue Lamp, he said, referring to a community dinner theater production of Arsenic and Old Lace in a nearby city. That experience, filled with prima donnas, crying children of employees and the faint smell of broccoli had clenched his decision to be done with community theater once and for all. College plus eleven years was enough.

Who directed? Frieda asked.

Virgil.

At the sound of the name, Frieda buried her face in her hands, pretending to cover a weary laugh.

He was desperate, Matt said, shrugging. What can I say?

Frieda laughed freely now, and sipped her iced tea before saying, Well, he's moved to Guam or something now, so he can't be the reason you've been gone this long.

Hardly, Matt said, but didn't elaborate. He wasn't ready to make any announcement.

I shouldn't mock the poor old man, Frieda said. The truth is, I'm a bit desperate myself. That's why I asked you to meet me here.

Matt had suspected this. He'd heard through the grapevine she might be directing this year.

How so? he asked.

Frieda took off her bandana and placed it on the table next to her half-eaten watercress salad. She tucked her hair behind her ear.

I need your help, Matt, she said. Someone I cast in a medium sized role left me on the very first day before the read through. No calls. He comes in that day in person, hands me the script and says, 'I'm gonna have to bail.'

Matt shook his head and set his jaw. Jackass. I hate when people do that.

I know you didn't audition, and I know your work's been piling up at that non-profit, but could you possibly step in for me? The show's already got a ton of problems, and I know I could count on you not to be one of them.

What is it again? Bright, something?

Brighter Paths. Some playwright did his own take on Greek tragedy in the 19th century. Public domain so it's free, and I can spruce it up however I want. She looked at the ceiling and mouthed Thank you, god.

He'd always believed Frieda was better on stage as an actress or off stage as a producer than she was as a director. Her shows were not the tidiest of experiences when she took the director's chair.

He bought some time by sipping his tea. He used to love shows, having caught the acting bug back in college. Acting still had its moments, and everyone always raved about his performances. But the thought of memorizing lines and dealing with divas, cluttered back stages, commuting, and the long evenings almost gave him heartburn.

Marcus is stage manager, Frieda said, somehow anticipating his next question.

Is he? He considered Marcus one of his best friends in the area. Haven't seen him in months. He'll keep things straight.

Yes, and I need all the help I can get. So many teenagers in this one.

Frieda was not helping her cause. Matt hadn't even liked teenagers when he was one.

Where is it? he asked her.

The LDP.

Matt smiled. I do like that place. Haven't been in a show there for, I guess four years now. Didn't they get a new president recently?

Interim, Frieda exclaimed. Heaven forbid Archibald LeMay were to get the full time job. She pretended to spit over her shoulder.

Archibald LeMay? Matt asked with a laugh. That's a real human being?

Oh he's real, Frieda said, Human being, not so sure. Condescending. Demanding. Micromanages everything. Bill was still president when I agreed to take this show.

Then why is he the interim?

The board of directors appointed him for six months. He's been a citizen liaison member or something like that. Some kind of number crunching genius, from what I hear.  Doesn't like the summer shows, but we're still up for now. What do you say?

He'd known nobody longer in the local community theater scene than Frieda. She'd given him his first post-college role, supported his other endeavors, even helped him find his job. Few people were more helpful to him, and here she was in need of something he hadn't the slightest desire to provide. His life had been notably free of extra stress since he'd closed Arsenic and Old Lace. Freer evenings, money saved on gas, not having to deal with idiots outside of work.

Damn her, he thought as he finished off his tea. And damn his own sense of loyalty.

Three weeks later, he wasn't enjoying the current rehearsal any more than he'd enjoyed the first, or any of the others since he'd agreed to join the cast.

He felt nothing like an ancient Greek general. Being only five-eight and of medium build, he didn't feel he looked commanding enough. And wasn't thirty-three too old to play a general in Ancient Greece?

Why had he agreed to this again?

He hadn't even laughed in weeks. That, however, was about to change.

A lanky high school senior (whose name Matt had never remembered) fumbled his way through the role of King of Athens. As Matt waited for his cue his eye caught movement in the curtain just behind His Majesty. A small, round face popped out between the break in the curtains. Bright green eyes darted back and forth.

Tanya Hayes. She played a sort of Chorus in the show, along with a group of snooty young dancers she led. Matt had only spoken to her a handful of times since rehearsals began. She seemed much nicer than the other dancers, though.

The king continued to drag his way through his interminable speech. Yet all Matt could think of was that disembodied face floating in the middle of a black curtain. For some reason her darting green eyes had stopped moving and were now trained on him.

He tried to concentrate on performing, and on the king who now needed help with pronouncing another word in his speech.

How did this guy get a lead?

Against his better judgment Matt glanced at the curtain again. The cheeks on Tanya's already cherubic face were now filled with air, like a blowfish. Then her face vanished behind the curtain.

He was off book now, no longer in need of his script. Yet at that moment, he wouldn't have been able to call up his line for a million dollars. In time gone by, he would have rather been beaten with a roll of gaffers tape than break character on stage, even during rehearsal. But by this point in his life, and in this play, he failed to stay focused on the moment. Tanya's face was too ridiculous.

He dropped all pretenses and laughed. He apologized to Frieda. I didn't have it together, he confessed.

No, forget about it, hun, Frieda told him. I think we’ve done all we can, today. I was actually gonna stop soon.

Frieda wrapped her arms around the back of her head, and called everybody out on stage. The cast of 15 or so filed in from all directions.

Great run today, guys, she said in a tone not unlike a Sesame Street character might use when a child counted to five on her own for the first time. She went on.

Didn’t get through the whole act, I know, but it’s picking up. Getting faster. I love what some of you guys are doing.

She continued with her characteristic broad (and, Matt thought, undeserved) praise of the mediocre rehearsal before dismissing the whole group until the following morning.

He went backstage and walked into The Funnel. This was just a small hallway that led from backstage to the green room on one end, and out into the house of the theater on the other. Decades previous somebody had written The Funnel in blue paint near the top of one of the hallway's cinderblock walls. The graffiti remained, and the hallway had its name.

Matt headed for the green room, where actors waited between scenes. It was a spacious but messy room. Beyond the green room, another door to another hallway. This one held the modest dressing rooms, but had no goofy nickname.

The cast wasn't wearing their simple, all-black costumes yet. Matt however had staked out a place in the men’s dressing room anyway to try to find some solitude before each rehearsal, a vestige of a time when all this had meant far more to him.

The room was small, but adequate, like everything was at the Little Dionysus Playhouse. Though the name made it sound like a tiny black box theater, the LDP, as most called it, was a medium sized venue. 250 total seats. Lighting booth, small workshop.

He collected his belongings from the dressing room, and reentered the green room.

I’m out, he called over his shoulder to anyone listening. A smattering of half-hearted farewells met his ear as he made his way back through The Funnel.

Most days he would have exited the building right from the green room. That's where the back door was, which led directly into the adjacent gravel public parking lot he normally used. Today, however, he'd parked on the street in front of the theater, so he left through the lobby.

A typical lobby. Reception desk built into the wall. Restrooms for patrons on either side of the room. Posters of previous shows. Cracked, but well painted plaster walls. Bulletin board with upcoming events. Large, browning and under-watered fern in the corner where local artists used to showcase their work. Interim-President LeMay had suspended the practice for some reason.

Most distinctive in the LDP lobby were the two large oil paintings that hung on wall on either side of the glass front doors. The one on the left was of the man that founded the company, 60 years previous. The painting on the right was of Dionysus, Greek God of Theater and the source of the playhouse's name. For Matt, and for most visitors it was by far the more interesting of the two paintings, despite its obvious age.

The god reclined against a large boulder. He wore strapped sandals and a long white robe open at the top, a wreath of ivy on his head of jet-black hair. In one hand he held a goblet. In the other, a ribbon from which hung the two masks of theater. Matt snapped a goofy salute at the painting on his way out as he always did since the very first time he exited the building years ago.

Fifteen minutes later Matt sat in his car on the highway, crawling toward home. Weekend traffic on Route 43 was always the worst.

Forty minutes later, Matt found a flyer lodged illegally into his mailbox outside of his apartment door.

Tonight Only: Shakespeare Al-Fresco Presents:

Twelfth Night, a Comedy of Identity. 7:00PM-City Park

Admission is Free!

The flyer had a cartoon Shakespeare sitting at a café table, reading a menu.

A free Shakespearean show within walking distance of his apartment was hard to turn down, even if it was only Twelfth Night, a play he’d never liked.

He checked the clock. 5:00 PM. His dinner would take an hour to prepare at least, even with his culinary skill. He set off to work right away, reviewing the plot to Twelfth Night in his head as he did so.

TANYA HAYES

She was smiling to herself as she entered the tiny dressing room, her small troupe of dancers right behind her as always.

It wasn't as though she'd set out to make Matt Blackwell laugh during rehearsal that day. She didn't even realize they were running a scene when she'd done it. But once she had caught Matt's eye, she decided to have some fun, so long as Frieda didn't notice. And she rarely noticed such things.

As soon as Matt laughed, she made a beeline for backstage, stifling her own laugh the entire time. So quick was her exit that her fellow dancing chorus members, who hung on her every word and movement, thought they'd missed a cue. They rushed in all directions getting ready to enter. She quieted them and told them everything was fine just as the director had called everyone into the house to end rehearsal.

Now she hung up her black costume shirt. Only she and the other dancers had worn any costumes yet. They wanted to get used to what they would be dancing in as soon as possible. (She had done it, so naturally the other dancers had also.) They were all in high school, only two or three years younger than her in some cases, but sometimes they treated her like an ancient master.

How come we never get to do all of the dances in one night? whined one of the dancers. How are we supposed to get used to things if we're never out there?

I didn’t know acting could take so long to get right, an older girl named Melissa said. She looked at Tanya. Can’t we have separate rehearsals just for the dancing, and singing?

I could ask Frieda, Tanya told them.

No, Melissa said, I mean with just you. Couldn’t we come in here one night without all the actors and run some of the moves?

I don’t think the space is open for just us, Tanya said. But I’ll ask.

Hey, let’s all go to the Grill House, Melissa said. I’m really starved, and I think Martin works tonight.

You’ll have to count me out of this one, Tanya said. I’ve got a lesson I have to give this evening.

All the girls frowned a bit.

Well, the next time you have no lessons, okay? Melissa pleaded.

Yes, Tanya told them. Rain check.

This placated the young women and they bid Tanya goodbye, cell phones open and texting invitations to the Grill House before they were even out of the tiny room.

Tanya sighed, smiled, and grabbed her bag from the floor, placing it on the counter in front of her. A piece of paper fluttered out as she did so. She was so tired. She'd pick it up in a moment.

Out came her cell phone, and keys. In went her extra bottle of water, her watch, her uneaten bag of banana chips, and her tiny bronze Buddha statue, which she rubbed on the belly before dropping inside the bag. Then she leaned to pick up the paper.

Bouvier Conservatory of Dance Application for Employment.

She gritted her teeth. Just then the door to the dressing room burst open. She jumped, and dropped the application back on the floor.

All set?

In the doorway stood a skinny, wavy haired young man in black clothes, including a beat-up old fedora that had belonged to her grandfather. This was her younger brother, Kurt, the show's lighting technician.

What is wrong with you? she asked. You scared the hell out of me. And naked people might have been in here, you know. Can’t you knock?

Kurt shrugged. I’ve seen naked girls before.

He hadn't, and she knew it.

Whatever, Tanya said, grabbing the application again and shoving it into her bag.

Please, T, Kurt replied, I saw everyone come out. I knew nobody was dressing in here. What do you take me for?

You really wanna know?

Kurt backed out of the dressing room and into the tiny hallway as Tanya stepped out, swinging her bag in circles over her head, passing near Kurt's face each time.

T, come on, he said with a whimper. He flailed his arms in an awkward attempt to knock her bag away. Buddhists can’t commit violence.

I’m not an official Buddhist, you know that, right? So I have no qualms about kicking your ass.

Kurt swatted at the bag again. Tanya just laughed and with her free hand, flipped the fedora off of her brother’s head.

Let’s get home so I can get ready to teach my lesson, she said.

The siblings made their way out of the building via the green room exit, and crunched across the gravel parking lot, kicking up dust into the arid summer air with every step. Beads of sweat began to form on Tanya’s forehead before they even reached the car.

What’s up with you sticking your head out in that one scene? he asked her.

She laughed. I thought we were on a break.

You broke Matt's concentration.

He had it coming, she said. He's too serious, sometimes. I don’t know. He was there, and I went for it.

Kurt shook his head. What would your little dancer minions have said if they had seen that?

He probably could have used a laugh right about then, don’t you think? she asked as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

He has been a bit down, he said. He pulled his door shut.

I think we all have been. The show's not exactly progressing.

Tanya looked behind her, clicked her blinker and eased into the street.

But most of the time you're just dancing, Kurt said.

I have lines, Tanya said. I’m the Chorus, after all. And for the last time, it’s not just dancing. It’s hard work, and it’s art.

Sorry, he said. But you know what I meant, anyway.

I suppose.

A few silent minutes later they crossed the bridge out of town into a more rural area. She loosened her grip on the wheel. Me and the girls might get together and work out some stuff. But Frieda just can’t seem to make up her mind. I love her to death, but...

Too many cooks, Kurt observed.

It was a metaphor he had misunderstood since he was a child, and she never bothered to correct him anymore.

Exactly, she said. Too many cooks. And speaking of which, what is dad making tonight?

Kurt shrugged and put his hand out the window, letting the wind blow it up and down, something else he had done since he was a baby. Tanya smiled at that, as they wound their way through the country lanes of their part of the county.

MATT BLACKWELL

Out in what would be deep right field of the city's softball diamond, Matt fumbled with his faulty lawn chair.

About 40 people were already there when he arrived. Each had their own lawn chairs, blankets, or cushions. Some just sat in the prickly grass that the city mowed only on occasion. The portable stage was sitting on top of what would be the pitcher's mound.

The set up impressed Matt. From what he could tell, the portable performance space was only a bit smaller than that of the LDP. An elaborate set of walls, doors and faux windows wrapped around the back of the stage, providing the all-purpose set. Dividers masked backstage quite well, though from his vantage point he'd be able to catch glimpses of actors walking backstage.

A medium-sized tent with technical crew and equipment stood several yards behind him. The sound system was minimal but the lights were impressive.  Two 15 foot tall poles with about 12 instruments on each. He wondered what sort of field day Kurt Hayes would have with those.

You seem to know what you’re looking at, a craggy voice said from behind him. Matt looked up and to his annoyance an elderly couple with lawn chairs was approaching to sit just to his left.

He managed a smile. Impressive set-up.

Have you ever seen this group's performances before?

No, I haven't.

My husband and I, she gestured toward an old bald man talking on a cell phone, saw their production of Much Ado About Nothing last year. It was a treat.

Matt swallowed the awkward feeling building in his chest and clenched his fists hidden deep inside his pants pockets.

Well, I hope this show will be just as much of a treat for us here this evening, he told her.

As the woman unfolded her chair, she asked Matt, Do you ever do any theater?

I do. He knew as soon as the words left his mouth that he had made a fatal mistake. It was so automatic to respond to that question in the affirmative that he never even thought about it.

Well, then, you're an expert aren’t you? she asked. This was one of about five pat responses Matt had received when he mentioned his theater experience. Before he could deny particular expertise, the old lady asked him if he were in any shows now.

I'm doing a summer show at the Little Dionysus Playhouse.

You know, I have never been there. I don’t get around as much as I used to.

Matt found that hard to believe.

What play are you doing now at the Little Playhouse? the old lady asked.

It's an old 19th century piece. A more modern take on Greek Tragedy.

Matt caught a break, as the woman’s eyes glazed a bit. After a pause, she nodded at him and said,  Well, best of luck to you. She smiled and turned to her husband.

He knew he should have tried to sell the show to the old woman. That was what community actors did. But who was he kidding? That woman was no more likely to come see the play than Matt was to join the bridge club of which she and her husband were almost certainly members.

He turned back toward the stage. A few stagehands were milling about on it. A stout, exuberant woman walked among the crowd handing out programs for the performance. Matt took one.

It had the same idiotic drawing of Shakespeare with a menu as the one on his flyer and on the large moving truck parked behind the stage.

After an announcement about cell phones and a welcome from Exuberant Lady, two or three cast members came out and started singing. Matt rolled his eyes, wondering if bongo drums really went well with most Shakespeare.

A cooling breeze blew through the park as the play got under way in earnest a few minutes later.

If music be the food of love, play on!

The one line from Twelfth Night that Matt liked. The whole speech in fact was one of his favorites, and as far as he was concerned, the highlight of this play. It was delivered by a short and squatty gentleman with a head shaven bald. His diction was good. Could be a little slower. Not over doing the verse as these companies often did.

Matt caught himself doing it again; he was reverse-directing a stage play instead of just watching it, a symptom of being in the theater for so long.

Scene One finished. Scene Two revealed weaknesses. People who didn’t know the language. One who couldn't be heard. Everyone leaned forward in their lawn chairs in unison whenever he spoke, but this caused a clicking throughout the field that drowned out the very actor they had leaned in to hear.

Intermission would be a good time to make a graceful exit, Matt thought.

He scanned his program for the name of the soft-spoken actor. Longest bio in the program. Screw that. He tossed the program into the grass and began tapping his foot.

The actors for the next scene entered. Matt suspended all movement, even his breathing, when he saw the actress playing Maria.

She had exceptional poise and presence and all she had done thus far was enter.

Average height and weight, he guessed. Light brown hair done up like an Elizabethan lady-in-waiting, though thick strands of it had come loose and kept blowing in her face in the breeze. More than once this required a graceful swiping of it out of her sculpted face with her slender hand.

She wore a simple dress that complemented her figure perfectly. She gave the impression that she wore such Elizabethan clothing every day, so natural did the costume appear on her. Kudos to the designer.  Even a small yellow floral bracelet she wore on her left wrist seemed to be something this woman could walk into an office wearing on any given day without attracting odd stares.

Her eyes, violet and expressive stood out even from his intentionally distant seat.

Matt longed to hit fast-forward on this tedious production, to hear how she delivered her lines. When at last she did speak, he was not disappointed. She neither recited nor announced the Bard's language. Instead, it emanated from her with an ease most people could sustain only when pronouncing their own names.

She actually made Twelfth Night interesting.

The scene ended, and Maria exited through one of the doors on the set.

Matt paid little attention to the lead actors that entered at the start of the next scene.

He reached down and grabbed the program from the ground. At first he couldn't find her bio.

He flipped through again, and found her.

Sasha Fontaine.

Her headshot and Maria were all that appeared with her name. No bio.

Damn it, Matt said out loud, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the ground.

It was louder than he intended, and the old lady looked over at him for a moment. A few other people looked around as well, unsure of where the expletive had come from.

There wasn’t much time to worry about it.  Maria, or rather Sasha, appeared in the next