“Mr. Fuller. Mr. Fuller!”

I knocked on his door at least fifteen times before I heard an answer. With no time to react, the door swung open inches from my nose and I found myself face to face with the largest man I’ve ever encountered. There in a fraying robe with holes all throughout, standing in mismatched boat shoes was an almost seven foot tall behemoth of a man. Overweight, unkempt, and holding a cane stood before me the best playwright to ever come out of our humble town. My boss at the Wilson Heights tribune sent me to get pictures of Mr. Fuller with the cast putting on a production of one of his pieces. It was somewhat of a last straw assignment for me. To be honest I’m not very good at what I do. The newspaper life wasn’t one I would have picked out for myself, but it keeps the lights on.

“Who are you? I didn’t order a pizza today.”

“My name is Andrew Harvey. I am a photographer for the local paper. Do you mind if I ask you some questions and maybe take your picture?”

“I don’t think so. I’m not in an order to have my picture taken today. On top of that I have an episode of Doctor Who paused and I hate to leave things unfinished. Thank you for your time Mr. Harvey.”

His eyes jumped around, twitching just slightly with every blink. He tightened his robe and with a cough the door was closed just as quickly as it had opened. In this business the geniuses are always a bit odd. I should have expected something to be off. There had to be a reason he doesn’t appear in public anymore. Regardless of his unusual qualities, I needed his picture. I’m sure “his show was on” would not be an adequate explanation to appease my boss.

“Please, Mr. Fuller. It’s about your play ‘Coming Alive.’ The local theater company is putting on a production. It would be lovely to get a photograph of you with the cast to help promote the show.”

I waited, but he didn’t reply so I made my way back to my car. I wasn’t giving up just yet, but my camera bag was getting heavy on my shoulder so I opened the trunk to place it inside. I slammed it shut and as I looked up, there in front of me was a completely different man. He was clean and dressed in a suit with an overcoat. I think he even shaved somehow in the few moments it took me to leave his front door.

“Well I suppose we had better be off then. I call shotgun!”

Before I had even left my position at the trunk he had circled my car three times, inspecting it. I didn’t ask and he didn’t offer any reason. He bounced in his seat like a deer in the spring time. He was graceful, but his height and size added a hint of clumsiness to it all. His head nearly grazed against the ceiling of my car with each excited outburst. He rambled on about all kinds of absurd topics the whole drive across town. It seems there had been two men in that house, maybe even his mind, and I had been offered the pleasure of meeting both. He rifled through my glove box as we drove. I didn’t mind. It was mostly filled with old CD’s and drive thru receipts.

I pulled into one of the curbside parking spaces in front of the Wilson Heights Memorial Theater. The theater had been vacant for a few years now. It had needed repairs and some of the facilities weren’t quite up to code. Its last few shows hadn’t brought in much money so the board of directors didn’t have much choice but to close down. It was not until recently some wealthy entrepreneur from out of town decided to make a large donation to bring the theater back to life. The board of directors decided it was fitting to put on a production written by someone local to create a feeling of ownership, nostalgia, and town pride. Through the glass double doors we could see the director talking with a very nicely dressed man in the lobby. By the time we were ready to enter the lobby, the mysterious benefactor had left.

“Gentlemen!” the director called out, setting a stack of papers on the ticket counter. “I’m Jack Marque, I’m directing this production. I am very sorry, but this is a closed rehearsal.”

I could see where this conversation was headed so I stepped forward to intervene. “That will be quite alright sir. We already know all the spoilers. My friend, Mr. Fuller here, wrote the play.”

Jack’s eyes got wide as he began apologizing. It was an honest mistake seeing as how he knew neither of us or what Mr. Fuller would look like.

“My name is Andrew Harvey and I am with the paper. I was sent here by the Wilson Heights Tribune to snag a few pictures of Mr. Fuller with your cast if that’s alright.”

“That would be great. Any publicity is more than welcome. I’ve been here working for the theater for ten years now, inconsecutively. Thanks to the gentleman you saw me with on your way in, we’ll finally be able to bring back a hint of culture to our community. We’re hoping this show will put the theater back on the map. The show is going to be a hit, I just know it! I’m confident this will get us back on our feet.”

With an agitated expression Mr. Fuller looked around at the desolate lobby. Cobwebs covered the ticket windows, and the carpet was torn around the major traffic areas. Rat traps could be seen tucked away in the corners and bugs littered the walls. “What exactly do you mean ‘back on our feet’?”

“Oh Mr. Harvey hadn’t told you? This is our grand reopening show. We’ve been out of operation for something like five or six years.” Breathing in the damp air, Fuller coughed and hung his overcoat on the rack on the wall. Under the coat’s weight the screws let loose, and the rack fell to the ground. All that was left was a few holes in the sheetrock and an outline in the paint where a coat rack used to be. “Great, my show can’t even find a competent theater to host her. Let me guess! You’re cast is composed of all volunteers?”

He opened the doors to the main theater and marched down the center aisle. The cast fell silent as they all began to see the gruff expression displayed on his face. As we all exchanged awkward glances at my new friend’s outburst, a loud screech like a rusty hinge filled the theater. Suddenly, before anyone could figure out where the noise was emanating, we were all assaulted by the loud banging of a large metallic object.

One of the pulleys operating the curtains had loosened up and fallen on a tall bald headed man reading over a script. He dropped to the ground in severe pain as his shoulder and neck had been subject to the pulley’s wrath. He rolled and wretched, moaning and cursing at the director as Jack tried to assess the situation. An ambulance was called and it became clear to all of us that this gentleman wouldn’t be performing any time soon.

“My lead! How did this happen? The show is ruined. I can’t replace him. We’re losing time. I’m going to get fired. The theater won’t be able to make it. We’ve let everybody down!”

Jack was pacing the stage, then the seats. As he made his way through the entire auditorium, he babbled to himself, consumed with worry about his show. Red faced and exasperated, he slumped himself down next to the back wall. Defeated, he weakly pounded his fist on the ground.

Taking in the scene, Fuller and I looked on silently. His face, stoic, examined the theater and the cast. He looked into the eyes of some of the performers as they pondered what this was all going to mean. He wandered through the back stage rooms, inspecting the stage controls and the dressing rooms, the prop closets and the wardrobe. His face began to change. He could see how much these individuals had poured into the show and how accurately they had captured his vision. Time, money, and a lot of work had been poured into something he designed. An idea was grinding away in his mind. He needed to give back to these people who cared enough to put something into his work. We could all see it as he continued to wander around the theater. His eyes bounced and his eyebrows twitched slightly as he grabbed my wrist and hauled me back to where the director was still seated on the floor.

“This just won’t do. I have a replacement for you right here.”

“The photographer?”

“No he’s not a photographer.”

“He’s not?”

“I’m not?”

“No he just takes pictures. He works for the paper.”

“What? Can he even sing?”

“Of course he can!” He leaned in closer to me and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You can sing, right?”

I nodded silently and lifted my camera strap over my head and set the camera down on a seat. A script was shoved into one of my hands a microphone in the other.

Jack looked at me skeptically and said “I assume you can read sheet music then?”

“It’s been a while, but I’ll do my best.”

The cast all opened up a circle amidst themselves, in the center of the stage. All eyes were on me and not a sound could be heard apart from the tender melody of the piano overwhelming the room. The show-tunesy song began as I tried to find my queues in the script.

“It’s a bit bouncy, don’t you think?” Mr. Fuller complained.

“Don’t look at me,” Jack replied. “You wrote it.”

He shrugged. “It was a different time, I guess. Tastes change. We’ll revise it later.”

After a long introduction it was time for me to sing. I felt strong and confident even though I’d never heard any of the music before. I started singing.

“Mr. MacArthur, well I’ve come to cash a check, I’ve been coming to this bank for years and you’ve never failed me yet. Now I’m packing up my savings bonds, I’ve got a suitcase full. Because I’m off to sail, I’m off to sail, the world.”

“He is quite good.”

“I told you. He just takes pictures.”

The song finished and the cast all gathered around to congratulate me on my impromptu audition. All of us turned towards Jack, now seated with Mr. Fuller in the front row. They whispered back and forth discussing my performance.

“Well I don’t have many options at this point, but even if I did, I think I’d still pick you. Son, that was exceptional. What do you all say we’ll call it a day? Everyone be back here tomorrow for rehearsal at three. How fast do you think you can learn your lines kid?”

“Yes, Sir! I’ll put my whole night into it.”

“Great, I’ll see everyone tomorrow. Three O’clock, don’t forget. And will someone please double check all of our equipment beforehand? We can’t afford another incident.”

Like mice scattering, everyone was gone, leaving only myself and Mr. Fuller alone on the stage.

“Mr. Fuller?”

“Enough with the formality, boy! Call me Danny.”

“Err, alright. Danny, How could you have possibly known that I can sing?”

“Lucky hunch I suppose.” He gave me a grin and turned to walk away. With a hand on his shoulder I turned him around to look him in the eye.

“The truth, please. How did you know?”

“You took an interest in me and my work, so I took an interest in you. There were three things that gave it away. You don’t dress like you work for a paper. You’re wearing Converse for God’s sake. No one trying to climb the media ladder looks like you. It just doesn’t make sense. Second was your car. It’s a hatchback. The trunk was a disaster. The carpet was torn and black. Scratches and tears in the plastic moldings. I’m assuming you bought it a few years ago to haul your bands gear. You’ve got CD’s so far out of the mainstream there’s no way you heard them on the radio. Many of them were autographed. They’re from festivals and shows. You looked for them. Lastly, you’re not a photographer. You just take pictures.”

“You keep saying that. What do you mean by it? Of course I’m a photographer. I work for a newspaper as a photographer.”

“Andrew, I’ve been in this game for a long time. I’ve worked alongside a lot of people wearing press badges. They cradle their cameras like a newborn child. You hold yours with disdain. It’s the shovel digging your rut. It’s just a job to you, an income. You don’t love it. It’s not who you are. I was quite honestly taken back by his words. I had only spent an afternoon with this man and he had read me like a book. I lifted my camera strap over my head and tears began to form in my eyes. I did my best not to let it show. “You’re right. You’re entirely right.”

“So I stepped out on a flimsy branch hoping it would hold me up, and it did. But can I offer you just one piece of advice? Don’t ever give up what you love for a paycheck. It might not pay the bills now, but if you quit it never will.”

He collected his jacket and hat from the floor in the lobby and we both left the theater that day with a new perspective. His life’s work had meant something to people. Maybe someday mine would too.

#fiction