Editor's note: One of the reasons I loved this story was because of the strength of the characters. The dialogue and beliefs of the characters were what drove the story.
Unscripted
Katy Lowe
The competitor's job was to write a story based off this song; the music and the cover image.
Some people are born for the theater.
Arthur Rondstorm was one of them.
Still in his costume, he posed for the camera and journalists hollered in the rows.
“Mr. Rondstorm, Mr. Rondstorm, when did you get your start in acting?” a reporter waved her arm like she was swatting giant flies, trying to attract his attention.
“My dad’s a director, so I got in that way. But it’s just natural talent that took me to the top. If you have skill like me, nothing can stop you.” He glanced up to the spotlight, ensuring it still focused directly on him, then flashed a grin to the rows of press bouncing up and down in front of him.
“Did you ever have doubts about your acting skills?” someone else called out.
“Why would I?”
“What are your plans for the future?”
“I’m aiming big. One word: Broadway.”
“Do you think–”
“I’m sorry, but that’s all the time we have for today,” The stage manager appeared on the stage. “Thank you for coming,” Then she hissed to Arthur: “Arthur, we’re having a cast meeting backstage. Now.”
Arthur nodded to Emily, unleashed a cocky grin on the press, and gave his signature flamboyant bow before jogging offstage.
Act curious, he thought, like you would if you didn’t know what’s going on. “What’s up, Em?” he asked.
“Someone broke into the ticket booth safe last night.”
“How much did they take?”
“Five hundred.”
He snorted. “Not much to crack a safe for.”
“They knew the combination.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “An inside job?”
She nodded. “Morton’s mad. And blaming you.”
“Of course,” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, I can handle him.”
“You can’t charm everyone,” Emily said, shaking her head.
Arthur threw back his head and laughed. “Some just take more time than others.”
They reached the break room. Morton, the director, paced up and down in the front of the room. Emily sat stark upright in a chair by Morton facing the cast, while Arthur skulked to a table in the back of the room where he regularly spent staff meetings.
He surveyed the crowd. Morton and Emily, of course--man, was Emily cute–plus Lisa, Arthur’s older sister; Karl (a lousy German actor and Arthur’s rival); Mark, the old ticket seller; and the rest of the cast and crew. Arthur snickered. They were dumb enough to actually listen to Morton’s lectures. He’d stopped paying attention to them at age six.
Besides, he knew what had happened
Tyler had called Arthur up the other night, begging for cash. Arthur was broke (he had just spent a few hundred on shoes and a thousand on other things) After a moment’s deliberation, he gave his best friend the combination to the theater safe. “Just don’t take more than a hundred bucks,” he had cautioned, “or someone will notice.”
So Tyler stunk at taking advice. Lesson learned. Arthur was innocent, of course. His only crime consisted of being a good friend.
He leaned back and propped his heels up on the table, watching Morton rage. Nice performance. Arthur smirked as he grabbed a bag of leftover popcorn from the shelf behind him.
“Arthur, pay attention!” Morton bellowed.
Arthur raised his eyebrows.”Yes, sir!” he drawled.
Morton’s face tightened. Arthur’s ‘sir’ always contrived to be both stiflingly polite and sarcastic at the same time. And Arthur knew it.
“One of you knows what happened,” Morton concluded. “And I strongly encourage you to confess before I find out myself.”
“That was fun. Nice dose of fire and brimstone,” Arthur commented to Emily as they left the break room.
“You weren’t even listening.”
“You weren’t either.”
“I was.”
“Nope.”
Emily glared at him. “We’re not all delinquents.”
“No, that’s just me. I’m a pretty good-looking one, though.”
“Give me a break.” Shaking her head, Emily walked into her office and shut the door.
Arthur stepped out into the street and grabbed a taxi. Em didn’t suspect anything. Lisa would be the real test. His sister knew him better than anyone.
But then again, he was Arthur Rondstorm, the brilliant actor, the up-and-coming star, the party king. Like he couldn’t could pull this off.
###
“Arthur?” Lisa was home.
“Yeah?” He stretched and gave the chandelier a “This is it” look before he rolled off the Mardones sofa and stepped into the lobby. Play it cool. You’re innocent.
“Shocking, isn’t it?” her eyes searched his face. “The robbery, I mean.”
She was on to him. Ugh. Arthur tried for a cocky grin and began edging out of the entryway. “Not really. Actors are the crookedest people in the world. Except for politicians.”
“They think it was an inside job.” Lisa dropped her Tiffany purse and walked into the kitchen.
“An inside job would’ve used the keys.”
She stopped rummaging in the fridge and looked at Arthur. “How would they know the combo to the safe?”
“Mark’s ancient. Probably writes it down so he don’t forget.” He was doing pretty good. She didn’t suspect a thing.
Lisa gave up the farce. “Arthur. Who did it?”
“Not me, officer,” Arthur put up his hands in mock fear. “I had no part in it, ma’am.”
“You got friends. Which one of ‘em did it? Ethan? Weston? Tyler?”
So she knew the whole thing. Arthur swallowed, scrabbled for an answer, and stood silent.
“It was Tyler, wasn’t it?” Lisa diced an avocado and put it in the blender.
And then:
“Cum’on, Arthur. Why’d you do it?”
Time to fess up. Maybe she’ll cover for me. “He needed cash. I wanted to help him out.”
“Do you know why he needed cash?”
No, but a thousand possibilities presented themselves, some of them bad, most of them worse. “I’m sure he had a very good reason.”
“This is Tyler Scott we’re talking about, Arthur.”
“Well–he’s had a rough life. He doesn’t need more trouble.”
“You can pay it back for him.”
Didn’t see that coming.
“Lisa, I’m broke.”
“That sucks, doesn’t it?” said Lisa, drawing herself up and preparing to sail out of the room, smoothie in hand.
“Aww, Lisa, this sort of thing happens all the time.”
“Not in my house.”
“Look, sis. It was what, a couple hundred bucks? We’re in a multi-million dollar business. My character shoes cost more than that.”
“New producer’s more strict. High standards for some reason. Mark’s gonna lose his job.”
“It’s about time he retired.”
“Arthur. If,” Lisa punctuated each word like a sand bag dropped from the rafters. “If you do not fess up and get back or pay back that money–all that money–you’re moving out.” She straightened up.
“I always wanted a bachelor pad.”
Lisa tried to choke back a smile and failed. But she didn’t budge. “You have two days.”
“Sure, sis. And when I’m living with the swells and you’re still in this second-rate apartment, I’ll remember you.” He saluted, his mocking, two-finger salute, and departed to his room to pack.
###
Arthur grabbed a taxi and headed over to Carlson’s. He found Tyler in his usual booth, engrossed in a NHL game with Ethan.
“Arthur, my man, come on over,” called Tyler. “Canada’s whippin’ us tonight.”
“We’ll win in the end,” Arthur replied.
“We always do.”
Arthur smiled inwardly. Tyler had a brick-solid faith in the old US of A’s ability to beat everyone at everything. “Ty, I need to talk to you.”
“What’s up?”
“What did you do with the money?”
“What money?” he asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the TV. “You wanna order us a pizza? Pepperoni and sausage.”
“You know what money, Tyler Sanchez!” He lowered his voice as waiter walked by.
“Eah? Oh, that job,” Tyler swivelled his head to look at Arthur. “I lost those spoils hours ago. I’m awful at rummy.”
“Well, I need it back.”
“What for? You weren’t involved.”
“Mark is going to lose his job.”
“The ticket guy? He’s a million years old. It’s about time he retired.”
“Ty, the man’s broke because his kid’s draining all the money. He needs this job.”
“Wish my dad would fish out cash when I need it. But really, who cares?” Tyler shook his head. “Arthur Rondstorm, You’re such a softy.”
“Well, he’s pretty much a dad to me.”
“You have a dad. A rich dad. A kingpin or something, right?”
“Yeah, well he doesn’t talk to me. He just pays the bills.”
“Sounds like a decent gig. Money and freedom. Man, what more do you need?”
“I need the money back.”
“Too late for that, buddy.”
“Well what am I gonna do?”
“Not tell people the combination to the money safe.” Tyler smirked. “Now shut up. I wanna watch this game.”
“Come on, Ty,” Arthur begged. “Lisa kicked me out until I pay back the money.”
“Why the heck does your girlfriend care?” asked Ethan.
“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my sister. My annoying, controlling sister.” Arthur imagined all the wonderful things he would do to her when he was rich. She’d be the one kicked out of her apartment.
“Ask your rich daddy for cash.”
“He doesn’t talk to me. I told you that.”
“How much do you have?”
“I kinda drained my bank account. The one he fills monthly. At the end of the month.”
“Bruh!” Ethan exclaimed as he checked the date. “It’s October third!”
“Exactly. What am I gonna do?”
“Your daddy’s Rockefeller the second, and his kid’s on the streets.” Ethan smirked. “You gotta admit, it’s kinda funny.”
“Whatever. Will you give me a loan?”
“I’m broke as you are. How do you blow through ten thousand bucks in three days?”
“Clothes. And food and stuff. I had a party.”
“It was a good party,” Ty admitted as a commercial break stopped the game. “Twenty-four solid hours.”
“Yeah, but what am I gonna do?”
“At risk of sounding like my mom,” Ethan sighed at Tyler’s snickers. “Get a job.”
“I have a job.”
“Then you’re not broke!”
Arthur bit his lip. “I, uh, used that money too. And the advance.”
“What kind of parties do you throw, bro? You need to invite me!” Ethan drained his Coke.
“You guys aren’t helpful.”
Tyler rolled his eyes. “Come on, Einstein. We are the last people you should’ve asked for advice.”
“Well who am I supposed to ask? Emily?”
“Oh, yeah, Arthur,” asked Ty. “How’s it going with the girl?”
“She won’t talk to me unless she has to.”
“Why?” Ty rolled his eyes. “Won’t talk to you, of all people.”
“No idea. She says I’m immature. It’s ridiculous.”
“Why didn’t you invite her to the party?”
“I did. She wouldn’t come.”
“Here,” Ethan broke in. “Move in with me, get a job working second shift as a waiter or something, and you can pay back the money and then go home.”
“Huh?” Arthur blinked, preoccupied with Emily. “That works, man. Thanks.”
“Okay. You gonna move in tonight?”
“Sure. My stuff’s in a cab outside.”
“Great,” Tyler broke in. “Crisis averted. Go for launch. Now shut up so we can watch the game.”
###
Arthur Rondstorm had a strong imagination, but he hadn’t expected a bachelor pad to look like this.
Peeling paint.
Dirty socks.
Dirty other articles of clothing
Soggy cereal rotting in chipped bowls with mismatched spoons scattered beside them.
A small greenish poodle rooting through the mess.
And the entire room hadn’t been remodeled since the Mayflower arrived.
Not exactly the swells, Arthur thought.
“Whatcha think?” Ethan asked, banging the last of Arthur’s suitcases through the door.
Arthur winced at the fresh dents in the suitcase leather, and pointed to the green poodle. “What is that?”
“That’s Baby, my poodle. She needs a bath.”
“I see.”
“Well, your room’s that-away, at the end of the hall.”
Arthur straightened and strode in that direction.
“You gonna take your bags? All ten of them?”
Arthur turned on his heel and lifted two of them. With great effort.
“I shall return for the rest.”
His room just had a bedstead and rickety dresser, but dust and dirt abounded. And Arthur didn’t have the money to hire a cleaning service. How much more would he have to suffer?
Picking his way through dog droppings and dirt, he put his suitcases on the sheetless bed, and brought in more from the hall. As he gingerly placed the last one on the bed, Crack! A six-foot piece of sheetrock fell out of the ceiling.
Covered in white dust, Arthur Rondstorm groaned at how far down he had come in the world.
###
Emily drove through the rain, windshield wipers on full blast and eyes squinted for stop lights and cars.
She stopped at a red light and a dark-haired pedestrian jogged across the crosswalk. She wondered if it was Arthur, then shook herself. Why did she care? She wasn’t interested in him, not like that anyway. It was that mom thing. Being the oldest meant she felt like a mother to every forlorn, motherless kid in New York state. She couldn’t help it, either. And that Arthur boy, for all his riches and “rizz”, as the ensemble girls called it, wanted a mom so bad.
She turned left and drove down to the parking garage. A van swung out of a side street and almost clipped her.
She swerved to the wrong side of the road, then looked up in horror as a blue camaro came at her.
No way to stop.
No road to turn.
She closed her eyes.
This was it.
There was a crunch, a jolt that made her bite her tongue, and, from the camaro, a scream.
Then everything was still.
Emily opened her eyes. White dust floated around her. Maybe this is what Heaven is like, she thought.
She coughed explosively. Nope. Not yet.
Gingerly, she eased herself out of the car, wincing at the cuts and bruises, and looked around. The Camaro, reduced to shards, showed a leg thrown limp over the remains of the dashboard. Her lips parted in horror.
The Camaro.
The Blue Camaro.
Lisa!
Emily started running towards the car, punching her cell phone and miraculously calling the right number.
“911? Operator, I’m Emily Wetzel, where? 7th Street. Just crashed with a Camaro. The driver isn’t moving. Send someone. Quick!” Her common sense gave out as the operator tried to reassure her.
Emily took a deep breath and listened to instructions. Don’t touch Lisa. You have to wait. Wait.
Wait.
As Lisa is quite possibly dying.
Wait.
She was about to go mad.
An ambulance rattled up. The doctors jumped out
Minutes passed.
“Dead,” said the doctor.
###
Arthur went to her funeral and cut a fine dramatic figure standing by her coffin. Morton attended, skulking in the back.
He gave up on the theater. On his dreams. Arthur Rondstorm’s show was over.
He quit the show–no warning, he just didn’t show up to rehearsal. He moved back into the apartment, not to defy her but to be closer to her. He just sat around and cried. The media put out dozens of articles accounting for his withdrawal from the world. The reputable magazines suggested he had sank into depression. The tabloids thought he had been abducted by aliens. Arthur’s agent, elated by the publicity, called the penthouse over and over again, but Arthur never picked up.
After a month or so, though, he became old news, and people left him alone.
Then one morning the doorbell rang.
“What?” Arthur asked as he let the director in.
“You moved back in,” Morton noted, looking around the untidy penthouse.
“You think I was gonna stay in that trashy apartment? Besides, you don’t care.”
“Your heart’s broken, kid.”
Arthur stiffened. “True.”
“It’s been a month.”
“Right again. Keep this up and they’ll promote you.”
“Look, boy, I know you’re hurt. So am I.”
“Yeah. you lost a lead actor. I lost family.”
“It’s hard, but you have to get over it. The media–the world–expects more. They want their show. They want their Arthur.”
“They’re not getting him.”
“Arthur, Arthur,” Morton coaxed. We’re actors, you and I. We live off playing the part. You’ve got to buck up, kid.”
“Why?”
“They count on you.”
“For amusement.” Arthur shrugged. Morton couldn’t afford to lose both Rondstorms. That was all.
Morton sighed and shrugged.
“Listen, Morton. I don’t care what the world wants. I’m done.”
“The show must go on. I’m not asking for another one. After this, you never have to look at a theater again. I’m just asking you to finish out this job.”
“You don’t even care about Lisa.”
Morton’s eyes went bright for a moment, then hardened again. Only for an instant, but Arthur saw it.
Morton couldn’t fake cry.
Arthur bit his lip and looked the director in the eye.
“Fine. The show will go on.”
###
That show passed.
A new one opened: 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Arthur wasn’t auditioning for it.
But once again, he was broke. And he didn’t have Lisa to save him now.
“I need cash, Morton,” he complained. “And I need it quick.”
Morton shrugged. “Audition. If you make it, you get cash.”
“Then I have to wait until the show.”
“If you get the part.”
“Oh, I’ll get the part, sir.”
“Of course you will.” Morton smiled but shook his head. “Watch your step, boy.”
###
Arthur lounged on the couch backstage after his audition.
Morton walked by. “You’re confident.”
“Of course I am,” Arthur smirked. “I was made for this role.”
“There’s more to acting than skill.”
“Like looks?” he ran his hand through his hair.
Morton rolled his eyes. “Like character. Kindness. Responsibility. Honesty.”
“This is the theater, Morton.” Arthur smirked. “Since when were we honest?”
True enough. Twenty-seven years of experience had taught Morton that, at least. “The new producer wants to change that. He’s religious. Won’t take ‘actors without morals’.”
Arthur rolled his own eyes. “He’s gonna be real short of actors.”
“When come tomorrow you don’t have a job, you’re going to be real short of cash.”
“I’ll get this role. I haven’t caused any scandals. As far as actors go,” Arthur glanced up at Morton. “I’m a saint.”
“You won’t get the role acting like this. You better figure out what else you’re going to do.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Cum’on, Arthur. You’ve pulled these tricks before. Play the good kid. If the producer’s impressed with your ‘morals’,” Morton rolled his eyes. “You’ll have a shot at the role. Keep acting like this and you won’t have anything.”
“I’m done acting stupid to get stuff. Of course I’ll get the role. I’m the best there is, thank you very much.”
“Fine. Don’t believe me,” Morton straightened. “When you’re on the streets, remember what I said.”
“Will do, sir.” Arthur gave a mocking salute and smirked.
###
Evicted.
An unfortunate word.
“Look, I’m out of cash. And–my sister died,” Arthur tried for a sniffle and a few tears. “But as soon as I can get another role at the theater I’ll be good.”
Brad Johnson, the landlord, had heard it all before. The whole sister thing was true, but he knew this kid. Had known him all his life. The boy had inheritance. And a trust fund the size of Texas. Course he probably blew through it all in a week.
“Come on, Brad. Just one month?”
Brad looked him over. Decent clothes. He was undeniably handsome, in the way that directors looked for in title roles. Brad had spent summers as a teen painting sets for his uncle's theater, and he knew a lead actor when he saw one. Arthur was it. How was he, of all people, about to be on the streets?
Arthur clenched his teeth and brought every foot of acting experience around to his aid. He was just an unfortunate innocent.
“Please, sir?”
Brad shook his head. That boy could wheedle the hind leg off a horse. Even Lisa couldn’t see through her brother 24/7. He kinda wanted to give Arthur an extension, for old times sake, but you know how those things go–word gets around, the whole bum and vagabond population of New York begging at your doorstep. You had to stay on top, these days.
“Sorry, kid. Can’t help you there.”
“But Brad, please…”
Brad shook his head and got back in the car.
Arthur clenched his teeth in frustration and called Ethan. “Hey, Ethan?”
“What?”
Arthur stiffened at the hard tone. “Can I move back into your apartment? I’m broke again and–”
“Yeah, yeah, your sister. I heard. Too bad. She was a decent girl. You can’t stay with me.”
“What?”
“I kinda got evicted. I’m living with my parents.”
Arthur threw his phone to the ground in frustration and went upstairs to grab his suitcases.
And then retrieved his phone because he didn’t have money for a new one.
###
Imagine a tiny park built half a century ago on a strip of land between two apartment buildings in the worst part of town. Imagine a thousand pounds of sleet and dirty rain and warped sunshine forced onto this park. Imagine it when no one had been appointed for its upkeep but the neighborhood teens who periodically volunteered to refurbish the equipment with spray paint.
Imagine a tall, skinny dark-haired boy lugging four suitcases (he had abandoned the rest along the road at intervals) entering this park, dropping the suitcases, and collapsing under the slide.
The sky filled with clouds, but the air burned like acid, and no rain seemed forthcoming. The streets, watching trash scrape over their surfaces from a sudden hot breeze, showed no signs of life. Arthur tried to smile. For once in his life, the audience was gone. The curtain had dropped. He was truly alone.
And he hated it.
He sat down, put his head in knees, and sobbed. Gasping tears ran down his face, so different from the fake cries he had made in the shows. These were honest, broken tears, hotter than the air outside.
Maybe we call him a wimp. But then again, Arthur grew up spoiled and rich. To be alone and penniless was a new, and unpleasant, experience.
He cried until he dried up and had nothing but a sick feeling in his stomach, and he sat, in the shade of the broken slide, despairing as the sun baked him rough and the cold moon froze him, until a bird started him out of his misery by flying full force into him.
Arthur glared at the bird, affronted. Humanity may no longer respect me, but a bird could, I guess. He thought, standing and brushing himself off. Plans began to form.
He had cash. Five hundred bucks he had found in the back of Lisa’s desk. Why did he throw that stupid party?
Five hundred bucks. He could, in theory, pay back the lost money. It’d make Lisa happy. Of course she was already happy in Heaven, so why would she care? It’d be dramatic, though.
But why did that theater deserve anything from him? They kick him out–give Karl the lead, send him to the streets. He didn’t even get a part in the chorus, for Pete’s sake! Who cared about morals, anyway?
“I told you,” Lisa’s voice echoed in his head. “Character comes out in the end. It was only a matter of time.”
“This is the theater. I’ve been a million characters. Villains. Heros. The best of everything.”
“Arthur. Even here, onstage, we care, some of us.”
“Sometimes,” Arthur rolled his eyes. “I’ve made it pretty far like this.”
“I’ve kept you out of trouble.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Go back to the theater. ‘Fess up. Pay back the money. They might still give you a job.”
Either Lisa was very convincing or it really was a good idea.
“Fine. Just to make you be quiet.”
Arthur turned on his heel and began to march toward the theater.
“Arthur.”
He spun around. “What?!”
“Clean yourself up. You look like a hobo.”
“You’re so bossy. Even when you’re dead.”
“Go. The YMCA has free showers.”
“Ok, ok!”
Arthur took a shower, dressed in a suit, put his mother’s pocket watch in his vest pocket, and walked the three blocks to the theater.
###
The set crew had been in and out today, and the twenty-foot ocean backdrop was painted beautifully. Waves with lace crowns circled and curved under a flat sky that seemed to glow with the morning sun. He glanced at the artist’s caddies of brushes and knives in the wings. They had worked hard on this.
Pity he would have to ruin it.
Arthur pulled out a small knife and approached the canvas. He smiled. This was justice. Fine work being destroyed, treated like trash. Like his skill. His life. Maybe he’d rob the safe, too. For good measure.
He smirked and put the knife to the fabric.
And Morton walked by.
Arthur shove the knife back into his pocket and pulled out his watch.
“Arthur.”
“Sir?”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting to speak with you, sir.”
“About what?”
“About the ticket money,” Arthur whispered. This was it. He was dead. R. I. P. Arthur Rondstorm.
“Project your voice, son.”
“The ticket money–I know who stole it.”
Morton quick-stepped to face Arthur. “Who?”
“M–me. I did.” his voice grew stronger. “I needed it. I was broke.”
“How could you possibly be broke? I put extra in your account this month.”
“I’m not in the least responsible, sir.” Arthur couldn’t keep the mocking tone out of his voice. “You know that.”
“Regrettably.”
“I really tried, Dad.”
“Never mind. You’ve confessed.” Morton scowled. “Best I can expect, I suppose.”
“Yeah, I should have before.”
“You’ll pay back the money. And I’ll get my lawyers to write something up for you to sign. No scandals in the Rondstorm family.”
The game was up. There was nothing to say. So Arthur said nothing.
“And you’ll leave New York until this all blows over.”
“I have to. I don’t have the money to stay. I’ll sell my watch,” Arthur swallowed. “To pay you back.”
“That’s all then. I’ll give you the agreement tomorrow morning. You have fifteen minutes to clear your stuff out of here.”
“Yes, sir.”
There wasn’t anything to clear out. He checked his watch–it wouldn’t be his in a few hours. Five more minutes.
It was funny, years and years of memories in this playhouse, and five minutes to say good-bye. But it was dramatic. And Arthur Rondstorm was, at heart, whatever his shortcomings, an actor. His eyes traced the lacy foam patterns of the ocean backdrop. The pianist began warming up for today’s auditions. Two minutes.
A woman started singing scales in a beautiful soprano. It could almost be Lisa.
Emily walked through, arguing with Morton on the changes to the overture. Morton glanced at him, his expression flickering between anger and regret. Emily didn’t notice him at all.
One minute. The pawnshop would be open. Author turned to the audience and gave a last flamboyant bow. A final cocky grin. Then he leaped lightly down the steps, and strode down the aisle, out of the theater.
So good!!
This was one of the best short Shiites I’ve ever read. Ever. I was about to start sobbing
I loved this!!! The humor kept the story flowing (I laughed a lot about Ethan and Tyler and Arthur and their pitiful broke-ness XD) and the twist with Morton was ooh so delicious! Great work!
What an intriguing story, Katy! I loved how you did the different personalities
Intriguing story, Katy! Congratulations on winning!