Beginnings - Final Call

The curtains closed with a flurry of dark rich burgundy fabric and golden tassels, to a smattering of applause. The acting company had made a valiant run. Keeping the company together required money and E. Humphrey Baines had refused to supply any more. He had said as much in a heated closed-door meeting with the company director and manager, Herbert Stanton.

The door had flown open and shouting between the two men spilled out, unceremoniously, into the hallway leading from Stanton’s office, down a flight of stairs, through to the actor’s dressing rooms and finally to the stage.

From that moment forward, Mr. Baines, a man who stood 5’ 7” in his stocking feet and flattened the scale at 345 lbs, refused to put pen to paper on another check in support of the acting company. During the weekly meetings with the actors, Stanton never mentioned Baines nor did he ever reference the argument with the company beneficiary that was to change the lives and livelihoods of the actors who counted on the company to live.

He never mentioned to the actors that the theater had been losing money for more than a year and not simply from lack of box revenues. Someone had been skimming from the deposits and draining the company of financial resources until it had been driven to its knees.

Baines had accused Stanton of stealing and Stanton turned it right back on Baines declaring, “You have had as much access to the money as I have! You know the combination to the safe; you even have a key to my office! Who’s to say that you haven’t stolen the money yourself.... Tax evasion maybe?”

Baines’ cheeks flushed a bright crimson. He stammered and sputtered with anger and amazement. “You are accusing me of stealing from myself? You came to me on your knees, begging me to fund this dream of yours. I paid to restore your worn out old theater! I paid for everything! I made your dream a reality….and for what? A few years of mild success and then…last year you begin your quarterly attempts to squeeze more money from me. What am I to believe? Mark my words, Herbert, you will not see one more cent from me or your precious city endowment of which I…I pressed to get you. Not a penny!”

Baines had wrenched open Stanton’s office door while yelling and abruptly, as if to punctuate the resolve in his final statement, slammed it shut, leaving Stanton to boil in his own juices. Baines stormed through the narrow hallway to the front foyer and out the set of double glass doors which was plastered in play bills.

Plays had continued for another six months. The actors watched as Stanton became more sullen and detached with each passing week. The director began retreating to his office during much of the rehearsals. His features became strained and pale. His tall, gaunt, 6’3” frame began to sag as he walked, as if from unseen pressures pressing on his shoulders. What little hair that sat atop of his head became even more sparse and unkept. He spoke with few people.

One by one, most of the promising actors jumped ship, looking for more stable work. The rest would talk and wonder aloud, uncertain of their futures. The end finally came. No fanfare or party, just a brief announcement from Stanton before last curtain call.

“Thank you all for your time and talents. Without you, we wouldn’t have lasted this long as a company. I have tried, as you may or may not be aware, to get new sponsorship for our theater since March when Mr. E. Humphrey Baines saw fit to abandon us. Unfortunately, he has incredible clout in the local arts community. Because of this, I have been unable to secure any new money. What I am trying to say is….this is going to be our last performance. I cannot see any way to keep it going. Please take your things when you leave tonight…… and thank you for everything. Your final check will be mailed to you within the week.”

With that, Stanton walked from the stage, past the bewildered silence, toward his office, alone, while the actors slowly scattered to complete their various pre-show responsibilities.

The theater was silent and dark. George Shafer, a tall, narrow hipped young man, mid twenties with short cropped brown hair, entered the side employee entrance. He wore a threadbare tan button down shirt, untucked and wrinkled, kaki cargo pants and slip-on leather loafers. George had had few prospects as an actor. Working at the theater represented his first real break into the professional acting world. Tonight, he felt melancholy and uncertain about where to go from here.

The announcement, made earlier that evening, hadn’t come as a total shock to anyone. There had been rumors flying around the company for weeks about the prospects of an impending closure. But George, with no other real future, wasn’t prepared for the reality of not having the theater and was shaken. This was probably why he had forgotten to return the keys.

Herbert Stanton had approached him, soon after he was hired, and asked him to do odd jobs on the days that the theater was dark, as well as the sweeping and cleaning of the theater after each performance. George needed the extra money and enjoyed being in the theater so he readily agreed. Stanton, soon after, gave him copies of keys to the side employee entrance and the rear janitorial closets. George had worked for just over a year before the theater company had collapsed.

Arriving home that evening, George emptied his pockets on top of the refrigerator and noticed the two gold keys attached to his key ring. He had forgotten to return them to Mr. Stanton that evening, before he had left. It had been the emotion of losing his job. He had begun chatting with some of the other actors about their prospects and where they would go. It hadn’t yet dawned on him there would be no more odd jobs to do.

George pushed open the heavy metal theater door while pulling the key from the lock. The door squeaked softly as it gave way. It was black, solely without illumination, in the hallway but for the thin stream thrown from the vapor lights of a street lamp, elongating George’s shadow before him. George stepped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him, slipping the keys into his pants pocket.

As the door closed, he found himself in complete darkness. The closest working light switch was thirty feet down the hall and around a corner. He started to inch his way forward, stretching one arm out in front and the other to the side. George let his fingers drag along the rough painted cinderblock texture of the wall to the corner. From experience, he knew that, from this point, the light switch was approximately four to six feet along the wall to his left.

He walked forward again, feeling for the switch with both hands. As he walked, his toe caught something solid, a mound on the floor, stretched across the hall. George tried to catch his balance, grabbing at the walls, as he fell forward over the invisible obstruction. He scrambled to his feet, frightened, holding his breath; he pressed his body against the wall. George could feel the light switch poking into the small of his back. He slipped his hand back and flipped on the track lights, illuminating the hallway.

Looking down at the floor, he stumbled back in horror. Stretched out along the hall in a stiff, unnatural position, lay E. Humphrey Baines. He was dressed in a frumpy black tuxedo, polished black wing tips, white shirt and black bow tie. Alive, he would have resembled a rather plump penguin. But E. Humphrey Baines was definitely dead. In the center of his rather wrinkled white dress shirt were two small matching black holes surrounded by a soaked circle of blood, like a bull’s eye.