Page 75 of Script Swap
“You may find this hard to believe,” Fox said, “but when I was growing up, I wanted to be an actor.”
“Why would I find that hard to believe?You literally wear a Phantom of the Opera cape at least once a week.”
“I wouldn’t say—”
“You like to fling it over your shoulder when you’re in a huff.”
“I’m never ‘in a huff.’”
“Like when Aric wouldn’t give you a piece of his cruller.”
“He’d already had two!And for that matter—”
“Oh, and you wore the mask that one time because you had a pimple—”
“I did not have a blemish!And will you stop talking?”They added an aggrieved, “Please?”
I mimed zipping my lips.
(At this point, Fox wasclearlyin a huff—if they’d been wearing their cape, they would have been whipping it around fast enough to take somebody’s eye out.)
Somehow, though, they managed to sound only slightly strained when they said, “As I was saying, I wanted to be an actor.It only made sense.My father, as you have seen, has a histrionic bent—”
“Are we calling it a bent?That seems like an invitation to way too many jokes—oh my God, no more commentary, I promise.”And I mimed zipping my lips again, to be safe.
After a beat—to let me know of their displeasure—Fox continued, “And I grew up in a theater, and—” Their voice became softer.“And I loved it.”
“What happened?”
“Well, I was terrible at it, for one thing,” Fox said, in a tone that somehow suggested this wasmyfault.“And that was a great disappointment.For me.And for my father.More for him, I think, in the long run, because he did hope that I’d be what he wished he had been—which, I think, is what most fathers want for their children.But itwasa disappointment for me, as well.I’d grown up among actors.I idolized actors.I found them interesting and witty and—and alive.And I wanted so desperately to be alive, because they would come and perform over the summer, bright and attractive and vital, and then they would leave.And I would be here, stuck with people who did not understand me and, for the most part, did not like me.”
“Fox,” I said.“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, but I’m fine.As I said, I’m happy with the life I’ve built.I’m even—your writerly insight to the contrary—relatively well-adjusted.My point, though, is that I know what it’s like to want something desperately and to fail.I did not become a world-renowned actor.I didn’t become a star.And no amount of hard work or perspicacity or stick-to-it-ness would have changed that.Could I have become a better actor, with time?Likely.I might have reached a level where I did local circuits, appeared in regional productions.But I was never going to be what my father wanted.Or, for that matter, what I wanted.”
They lapsed into silence, and after a moment, I heard myself ask like a child, “What happened?”
“I gave up.And for a while, it was awful.It was the most awful thing I think I’ve ever gone through.More awful than the bullying and the jeers I had to put up with from classmates.More awful than the disappointment at home.It was awful because I had failed, and I knew I had failed, and I thought, in a real sense, that my life was over.”
My throat tightened.My chest tightened.My whole body tightened in the contraction of strong emotion that wouldn’t let me speak.Because Iknew.I knew that feeling.I’d been too afraid to give it a name, but I knew it.That I had lost the thing I wanted most.That I’d never had it to begin with.That I would never have it, no matter how hard I tried.It was like some part of myself had been cut out of me.No, not some part.The core.What I’d built myself around.The person I was, the writer.Like my life was over, yes.But the way it felt—if I had to put it into words—was like dying.Like every morning, I died all over again.
Finally, I nodded.
“But,” Fox said gently, and they touched my arm, and I met their gaze, “I didn’t die, Dash.”
“I know,” I said thickly.And I had to wipe my cheeks.“I know.I know it’s melodramatic.I know it’s self-indulgent, self-absorbed, egotistical, whatever you want to call it.Plain old selfish.It’s definitely a sign of privilege.I get it, I do.And I know my life isn’t over, not really.”
But it didfeellike it was.
To my surprise, though, Fox shook their head.“No, that’s not what I meant.Those feelings are valid.They’re real.Of course you should feel pain.Of course you should grieve.To make something—totrulymake something—means to care.And caring means making yourself vulnerable.It means taking a risk.It would be inhuman if you didn’t feel hurt.”
“So, it’s okay to give up.I’ll find something else that makes me happy.”
“Good God, are you this bad at listening when Bobby tries to talk to you?”
I blinked.“Uh, maybe?”
Fox made a sound of disparagement, but their voice was gentle again when they said, “Dash, I’m trying to tell you that life—especially the creative life—isn’t linear.There isn’t an end post.Wait, is an end post a thing in sports?Is it an end zone?”
