A Fellowship in a Cry of Players

“I regard the theatre as the greatest of all art forms, the most immediate way in which a human being can share with another the sense of what it is to be a human being.”

• Oscar Wilde

Sitting backstage in the Elsimore High School auditorium, Everett Darsteller was waiting for his moment. It was the Elsimore Ensemble’s final production of Hamlet, and he was Horatio. It was literally their last production. Ever.

The vapors employed by that pestilent thought were so foul that one could almost choke on them. But in that moment, their minds were fortresses; the full might of their limbic systems were trained on the task at hand. Sitting backstage, they were crammed against the walls like sardines. The wings were meant to hold no more than seven or eight people. With the entire cast and crew, they were playing host to over twenty. They were stuck in a closet together, but they made do. They were the Elsimore Ensemble. They were accustomed to making do.

Yes, Hamlet was the Ensemble’s final show. That was what happened when you went to a school that was stricken with monetary handicaps. Over the summer, Principal Cromwell had deafened them with the toll of the solemn letter, declaring that the Ensemble would fall victim to Elsimore’s sudden budget crisis. There was no negotiating, no compromising. After Hamlet, there would no longer be any plays at Elsimore High School. It was done.

Everett scanned the sullen, familiar faces around him. He could tell they were all thinking the same fearful thoughts, wondering what would happen after the show. What would happen after the final curtain was lowered? Everett was a senior; he’d be leaving after this year. But what about everyone else? They were freshmen, sophomores, juniors; they still had several years to go. Plenty of time was still left to them at Elsimore.

They couldn’t pretend that the Ensemble’s plays were the most popular events at Elsimore. Hardly anyone came to see them. Parents, grandparents, former Ensemble members, and that was about it. There was always something else going on during the shows. Tonight, for example, half the town of Elsimore was outside at the rugby game, cheering on the Elsimore team while it played its first game on the brand new turf field.

Breaking up the Ensemble, as the school had chosen to do, was tantamount to breaking up a family. He’d acted with many of these students for years. Was acting even the best part? The companionship, the trust, those things that were bestowed on them-that was what made them a family. That was what made them the Ensemble.

He twitched when someone tapped on his shoulder. It was Marcia Davidson, the show’s stage manager. “You’re almost on!” she mouthed to him.

Everett nodded, giving her the thumbs-up. Marcia turned and walked gingerly away, taking care to step over hands, costumes, and swords.

He rose. His best friend, Andrew Wells, was currently in the midst of a soliloquy, his voice reverberating throughout the auditorium. Everett took his place near the stage entrance. He took care to stand behind the glow tape. The glow tape, though old and faded, separated the backstage world from the stage world. One of the first lessons you learned was never to step over the glow tape, or else you would become stranded in limbo between the worlds. Nobody likes to be stranded, and so you didn’t cross the glow tape. Ever.

He closed his eyes, waiting for his cue line from Andrew. Any moment now…

He was a freshman again, nervously navigating his way through the corridors, wards, and dungeons of Elsimore High School. He was walking down the aisle of the auditorium, walking into auditions for The Tempest. He had been in school nearly a month and had yet to join a club or sport. He hadn’t even realized that the Ensemble existed until he’d seen the poster advertising auditions. He had done a bit of acting in middle school and enjoyed it. Maybe, he thought, I will enjoy this.

The auditorium was cavernous. It was one of the dustiest, mustiest rooms in which he’d ever had the privilege to find himself. Dust particles floated through the air, provoking a sneeze. Paint was peeling off the walls in long dry strips. Many of the seats were worn beyond the quick; several made ear-splitted squeaks when you sat in them. The filth-ridden floor was streaked with scratch marks and old tape. The stage was polka-dotted from dried paint splashes. The single clock in the entire space was hanging from two wires, popping out of the wall.

Everyone was sitting in the front row, laughing and talking with each other. They knew each other from past shows. Everett felt more than a little intimidated. It would take him a long time to learn all of their names. Joining a group of familiar freshmen who were keeping to themselves, the questions started to flow through his brain. Have I made the right choice? Will this be too hard? What have I just gotten myself into?

Auditions began, and by the end of the night, it was as though Everett had known them for years. Ms. Smith, the Ensemble’s director and adviser, had actually given him a role with some lines, far more than he was expecting. He couldn’t believe it! Here he was in a high school play! He’d finally found something that he enjoyed.

Freshman year disappeared, quickly replaced by his sophomore year. Everett was a veteran now, endowed with experience. He had even been elected vice-president! After tremendously enjoying The Tempest, he was more than ready to begin A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Two dramatically different shows, but both were equally as memorable.

His sophomore year was also when Dan Silvers graduated. Dan, only two years older than Everett, was one of the best student actors to attend Elsimore. He’d learned so much from Dan; he had been Everett’s teacher, his mentor. Losing Dan was as if someone had taken a crutch out from under him. From then on, things would have to be done without Dan, the man who’d carried the Ensemble’s productions for years. No more.

Then there was his junior year, the year that every Elsimore student dreaded. Fortunately, rehearsals had a way of speeding up the passage of time. Richard III was by far the most complex project that Everett had ever undertaken. A king gone mad, an epochal clash of arms: it was pure tragedy! So much work, but the end result had been beautiful!

Yet, that was the year when the majority of the Ensemble’s members were seniors. Once they left, it was as if half of the Ensemble family had moved away. Suddenly, Everett found himself at the top of the cry, the cry of the Elsimore players. He was elected president by the remaining members. Little did he know that he was inheriting the position just as the Ensemble was reaching the end of an era. He received Principal Cromwell’s letter in the mail three weeks later. He was cast as Horatio in Hamlet, now the Ensemble’s final production. Now it was his time…

He was sitting in the back row of the Elsimore High School auditorium. It was sixty years ago, to the day, that he himself had been standing on that stage.

Sixty years ago, hardly anyone had attended the Ensemble’s productions. Sixty years ago, the students of the Ensemble had worked, created, and performed in an auditorium that was on its last legs. It was being abandoned by the school, the community. Then the students and parents had stormed the Board of Education meeting. In the face of incredible art, the Board and Principal Cromwell had yielded. The Ensemble stayed.

From Everett’s seat, things could not have been more different. The auditorium had been completely renovated, requiring enormous investment of time and money from the school. It housed one-thousand seats, each equipped with new cushions and oiled to perfection. The sound was of magnificent quality. Everett could heard the actors’ voices from the back row of the auditorium. It had been given the latest sound and lighting technology, all controlled from a booth in the balcony, rather than from a catwalk as it used to be.

Every seat was occupied. People had even been forced to stand, lining the walls. Parents, students, teachers, children: it was as if the entire town of Elsimore had turned out for the Ensemble’s latest production. Students were donned in green and white, the school colors, and Elsimore Ensemble T-shirts were a common sight. All of the newspapers were represented; even the local television station had sent some reporters, armed with cameras, to interview the actors. There was a pit band, made up of students and townspeople, that enthusiastically accompanied the actors with instrumental music. Everett had never seen anything like it. It was all that he could have ever hoped for when he was a student, and more.

In that moment, the audience was dead silent. Everett noticed several members who were wiping tears from their cheeks. He had a perfect view of the stage.

The boy playing Horatio stood up from the dead Hamlet. “Go,” he said quietly. “Bid the soldiers shoot.” The last lines of the play. The lights went out.

The audience erupted in a storm of applause. The pit band began to play a slow and solemn military march. The lights were turned up. One by one, the actors bounded out onto the stage, taking their bows and lining up along the stage.

When Horatio emerged, Everett clapped all the harder. The boy smiled. Everett remembered that feeling all too clearly, the one you felt in the moment after your bow: the relief, anxiety, and subconscious acknowledge that the final curtain had dropped. It was done.

Indeed. It was done.