I met Bruce Eisenhower as we were standing face to face screaming the word vagina at each other. It was the beginning of my sophomore year at Indiana University, and I had decided to become a famous actor. I enrolled in Introduction to Stage Performance, the first brick on a road I would pave to Broadway. It was the fall of 1987, and majestic limestone buildings towered across green fields. Our classroom was a cold, damp basement in the Theater Annex with no chairs. Mr. Hartman, an old queen who wore faded cardigans, led us through exercises meant to expand our bodies – “instruments” as he called them. We stretched like rubber bands (a Medieval torture equivalent to the Iron Maiden), lay on the floor in silence to find our internal peace (an exercise I quickly nicknamed “nap time”), and conducted vocal activities (including screaming words like masturbation, cock, clit, and pussy at each other while keeping a straight face). Mr. Hartman strutted before the class three times a week, criticizing us, as he demanded that we bark like dogs or pretend to be automobiles. The group resembled kindergarten recess more than an academic acting class. 

I was delighted, if not surprised, when three weeks into the semester Bruce asked me to read the lead role in his original script, a futuristic play entitled Parallel Transparencies: A Dramatic Exploration of Man’s Inability To Find Peace, which was to receive a reading before five drama department professors. It was set on a planet where two superpower civilizations evolved next to each other, but the atmosphere of the planet was inhospitable, so both civilizations had covered their cities in giant clear bubbles. Two generals, the main characters, tensely watched each other through a glass wall in the middle of the stage, eventually destroying their planet rather than coming to trust one another.

Bruce was a short man with orange hair and freckles. He squinted when he talked, then opened his eyes so wide the green irises were lost in a sea of white. He was the kind of man who looked handsome from a distance. But, closer, his features were disproportionate, like a funhouse mirror had stretched his forehead too high and shrunk his legs. He placed his hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly like we were close friends, but it rested too long to be an innocent gesture. I cringed mentally at his touch, and yet Goosebumps crossed my body. Repulsive men had always sexually excited me, a desire I had traced back to my childhood fascination with elephantitis, a disorder of the lymphatic system that causes parts of the body to swell to huge size. I spent hours at the local library memorizing pictures of enlarged ankles, faces, and scrotal sacks. My mother urged me to check out books about giant red dogs and cats with hats, yet I insisted on researching any disease that caused an external mutation. Leprosy was my second favorite disease. Spinal tuberculosis was a close third.

“You see, Matthew, the two generals see only their differences,” Bruce explained, “but the audience will see the universal similarities in all generals. They live parallel lives, failing to see the transparent fact that they are the same person.”

“Isn’t that clever,” I said, knowing full well it wasn’t. 

He nodded, congratulating himself. The plotline was improbable for a stage production, but this was my big break. Bruce wanted me to play the lead general and explained that the presentation was in two weeks. While the audience would be no more than a few department professors, Bruce was determined that his actors memorize the script, wear costumes, and use real props. He felt his play could not be fully appreciated without a proper production.

I was not a great actor. Everyone in class knew that but me. Critiquing comments from my classmates, such as “Keep trying” and “That was different” sounded like, “You’re wonderful” and “I wish I was as good as you.” Only much later did I see those trite compliments for what they were. So, I was flattered, accepting the role on the spot without considering how much memorization would be required. He handed me a fifty-eight-page script with his phone number neatly printed on the cover.

“We should plan a private meeting to discuss your role,” he said. “Come to my apartment for dinner tonight.”

His breath smelled like peanut butter, as his hand held steady on my shoulder. I agreed to meet him for dinner but insisted on a restaurant. We ate at Mother Bear’s, a loud pub with cheap alcohol and the best pizza in town. He told me that Mr. Hartman, our professor, loved his script and, after a private read through at his apartment, insisted on hosting a reading.

Bruce reached over and ran his greasy hand through my blond hair, saying, “You have a classic look.” His long spidery fingers looked like they had been broken and healed without being set, causing me to get momentarily lost in the coolness of his fingers. Despite Bruce’s repeated invitations to return to his place for a drink, I smiled and said, “I have a headache.” I knew that was a big step for me. In the past, I had slept with any man who looked in my direction and asked me. My self-esteem was connected with a man finding me sexually attractive, but I had recently made a resolution to change and found my first decline easier than I thought.

 

 

Erick Jones and I lived in a tiny apartment building more than four miles from the edge of campus. A chartreuse couch from his parents, a rocking chair that we retrieved from someone’s trash, and a hazy color television from a garage sale crowded the living room. The dining nook held a card table where we ate our meals on the dishes that Erick’s mother contributed to our cause. Nothing matched, but we didn’t care.

After an evening with Bruce, I stumbled home slightly inebriated. Erick smiled coyly but waited for me to speak. All I could do was mumble a greeting.

“Hi, fag,” Erick said in a chipper tone.

Erick was the president of GLUM (The Gay and Lesbian United Movement), an advocacy group determined to make the university an unbiased place for all gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender individuals. One of GLUM’s goals was to help gay people take ownership of words that caused them great shame as children. Under their philosophy, if Erick could call me a fag and if I didn’t mind it, we were both getting past the humiliation and embarrassment that the heterosexual world had created for us as children. The thing was, I did mind it.

“Don’t call me that,” I said. “Or I’ll hit you.”

Erick’s slender figure curved like a woman’s, yet he held himself with great authority and spoke with a deep voice that made him more masculine than his outward appearance suggested. He wore impeccably pressed shirts, thin ties, and baggy pants. I told him about landing the lead role in an original play.

“It’s the same day as the protest,” he said waving a yellow flyer in my face. “You promised you’d come.”

GLUM’s biggest accomplishment was the recent inclusion of sexual orientation into the university’s non-discrimination policy. All programs and agencies on campus were required to adhere to this policy, which meant that the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps (ROTC) had to eliminate the military policy of discharging people because they were gay or lesbian.

However, ROTC had discharged a man who came out of the closet earlier in the week. ROTC representatives were quoted as saying, “We’ll pull ROTC from the campus before we comply with this policy.” Erick was organizing a group to picket outside the ROTC building. He and his cohorts had arranged for national and local media to appear, putting new pressure on the university to expel ROTC.

“I need to put my career first,” I said.

“Ahead of your own rights?” he asked throwing a stack of flyers at me that rained to the floor.

“Don’t take it personally,” I insisted.

“How often do I ask you for something?”

“All the time,” I said. “You borrowed my mauve shirt, a hammer, and two condoms on Saturday. I never asked questions.”

“If you don’t come, our friendship is over,” insisted Erick.

“When I’m famous, we’ll look back on this and laugh.”

But Erick didn’t find it funny, breezing by me in the coming days with nothing more than a grunt. I actually began missing his chipper GLUM greetings. Two days later, I said, “Hello sissy, fudge packer,” which seemed to put him in a better mood.

 

 

 

The cast for Parallel Transparencies met daily in a large performance room in the Theatre Annex, a musty brick house that had been converted into classrooms. The entryway opened into a large staircase that led into ten classrooms, the largest of which had a small stage area and seating for no more than twenty audience members. At the first rehearsal, Bruce placed a strip of scotch tape through the middle of the stage and explained that it represented the clear wall, separating the two generals. While characters were expected to lean against the wall, no one should ever cross from one side to the other. There were four actors in total – the two generals and their wives. From the first day, I had the feeling that I had sold my soul to the devil for roll of toilet paper.

Jenny, a short brunette who was cast as my wife, portrayed her character as if she were an ice skater, sliding elaborately across the stage, with clear determination, gliding first to the front, then to the back and finishing in spectacular circles. I delivered my lines like questions, desperately trying to guess where she might be moving to next. During our break, she said in a shrill voice, “I remember being as raw as you.” She cackled like a witch, waiting until all the actors were present to say, “Your character is emotionally complex. Have you ever experienced complex emotions? Because if not, it’s going to be really hard for you to act.” Jenny’s snide remarks worsened each subsequent rehearsal.

In the final scene, I had to kiss her goodbye, and then push a red button that would blow up the world, an act symbolized on stage by a complete black out. I imagined nothing so joyful as never seeing her again, so I struggled to deliver the line, “I will miss you, my sweet,” cringing as I leaned forward for the kiss. Bruce, noticing my physical repulsion, suggested that I conjure a sexy Hollywood star, but the sound of her nasal voice choking out the phrase, “I love you,” shattered any hunk I envisioned. Bruce took delight in making us replay the kiss over and over, saying, “I need passion.” After the first few days, I knew I was trapped in a play that would sink like the Titanic, and like the ill-fated band of that ship, we played on hoping to find a life raft before it was too late. We committed ourselves before we saw the iceberg, or in this case the script.

We were five days away from the presentation, and I was nearly finished memorizing my lines. The other general, Tom, a boy with a toned body who delivered his lines like a robot, showed less promise, and it appeared he would be reading from the script during the performance. I knew deep inside that I wasn’t very good, but Bruce praised every word that emerged from my mouth. I have always prided myself on being someone who is easily flattered, so his compliments began to make him attractive.

With only three days left prior to the opening of Parallel Transparencies, Bruce arranged to meet with the entire cast at his apartment to discuss character development. After studying my lines all afternoon, I arrived for the 7:30 meeting.

Bruce’s apartment smelled of cheap aftershave and patchouli potpourri. He guided me to a black vinyl couch and sat close to me with one hand resting on my knee. He explained that he canceled the other actors, so we could work on a few specific moments. I knew I had been set up and began formulating a quick escape. I willed myself to vomit, but it didn’t work. I planned to tell Bruce that I had recently been diagnosed with a case of elephantitis and needed to rush home to take my antibiotics. But Bruce complimented me on my looks, my clothes, and even the fact that my shoes were tied. I found myself relapsing, falling to the seductive powers of Bruce. He led me to a small dinette set covered with pork chops, corn on the cob, carrots, and two bottles of chardonnay that he insisted we polish off prior to settling down to work. As we drank the second bottle of wine, I felt light-headed and agreeable when he suggested that we rehearse a scene in which he would play my wife. He jumped right to the moment where I was to kiss Jenny goodbye.

“You’re struggling with the kiss,” said Bruce. “Have you kissed many people?”

I defended myself, explaining that I was an experienced kisser and that I’d been complimented on my kissing. I offered to provide references of men who could testify to my talent.

“Relax,” he said clearing his throat. “Let this come naturally.”

His body smelled faintly of an exotic spice. Breathing deeply, I thought the scent didn’t fit him. It was the scent of a handsome, athletic man – the kind of guy who was the quarterback of the football team. He and I began reading the scene, my words slurring, but I stopped at that point in the script where I was to kiss my wife. Bruce waited expectantly.

“We’re acting,” he said. “This is professional. Now, pretend I’m Jenny and kiss me on the lips.”

I blushed, embarrassed. I had touted my skill but now he would be judging me. How could I perform with such pressure? My lips went limp. He insisted it was for the sake of the play.

“To get to the root of this problem,” he said, “so you can do the kiss as it should be done.”

I closed my eyes and imagined the muscled man playing the other general, stirring some excitement. Bruce moved close to my body and again told me to imagine that he was her. Pulling him toward me, I kissed him but without passion. His crooked smile and raised eyebrows said I had failed. I tried it again, but this time quick and immature. I knew I could kiss better, but the pressure was giving me performance anxiety.

“We need to practice this until we get it right,” insisted Bruce. “Let me show you.”

This time, he put his arms around my waist, pulled our full bodies against each other, and pushed his tongue like a hungry snake into my mouth. His hand began roaming my body, caressing my buttocks and then my crotch.

“That’s it,” he said. “Again.”

His breath was warm against my cheek. His eyes bore into mine with desire, as he sucked my tongue into his mouth. This time, his hands went to my pants and unbuttoned them. He said, “You could be a professional model,” and I was completely lost. I began undressing him, and soon we were both naked. I’d had worse sex, but I couldn’t remember when. He was clumsy, as though he were a virgin, and climaxed after five brief minutes. I was left unfinished, unsatisfied, and uncertain why I had allowed myself to be seduced in the first place. He giggled like a twelve year old, promising “a repeat performance,” while I hoped for nothing more than an escape. I downed another glass of wine, and he convinced me to partake in two encores, which had equally disappointing results.

 

 

The next morning I stumbled home with a headache and hair that looked like I had recently stuck my finger in a light socket. Erick stood in the small kitchen wearing a yellow satin bathrobe and pink slippers.

“This is a piece of shit,” he said gesturing with a bagel in one hand and the script of Parallel Transparencies in the other. I proudly left it behind the past evening to prove to myself that I memorized my lines. He was near the final pages.

“Tell me about it,” I said. “I should have asked for script approval.”

“Even if you do a great job acting,” he assured me, “you’ll never work in this city again.”

“What can I do?”

“The bad news isn’t that you’re in a horrible play.”

“It’s not?”

“Not any more,” he explained as he put two tablespoons of instant coffee into a steaming cup he removed from the microwave. “Now it’s that you’ve actually fucked the man who wrote this drivel. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“And it was bad sex.”

“Listen,” he said throwing the script into the trashcan. “I need your help this Saturday.”

 “It’s the same time as the play,” I said. “I can’t.”

“The protest is an opportunity to make a difference in the world. And, if this guy is as bad at sex as he is at writing, he should be accustomed to men disappearing afterward.”

“You’ll have to be GLUM without me,” I insisted. “I made a commitment.”

“To me first,” he said spitting small bits of bagel in my direction.

“I am committed to my career first and foremost,” I said. We stood in silence for minutes. “GLUM. Why don’t they change that name?” I asked. “It’s depressing.”

“Deliberately,” Erick said. “With all our recent victories, we’re planning to change it to GLADIATOR – Gays and Lesbians Affecting, Demonstrating, and Inciting Alternative Thoughts and Overt Representation.”

“That’s worse,” I assured him.

“I thought of it.”

“I’m still not going,” I said.

“You’ll miss a historical moment for this crap,” he said, retrieving the script. Reading from one of the final pages, he said, “‘I regret my actions. They will lead to the destruction of all life on this planet.’ How are you going to say that with a straight face?”

“That’s one of my better lines.”

“I’ll come by as soon as it’s over,” I told him, downing the rest of my water and refilling the cup. I hoped the fluid intake would reduce the pressure in my head. “I’ll be late, but I’ll be there.”

 

 

The next evening the cast had a dress rehearsal. Bruce unveiled our costumes for the first time. The two generals’ uniforms looked like any modern military attire, decorated with medals and stripes. The two women would wear old prom dresses Bruce bought from a vintage clothing store, and then covered in aluminum foil and strips of plastic wrap. When dressed, they looked like antennas come to life, generating a crinkling sound with each movement. Bruce assigned me a private dressing room, which was a large janitorial closet. While I began undressing, he snuck into the space, tripped over a mop, and cupped my crotch. I pushed his kiss away.

“You were an animal the other night,” he said.

“So were you. As fast as a road runner.”

“It’ll be even better next time,” promised Doug.

“There won’t be a next time,” I explained. “It was one-time performance. The reviews were terrible.”

Bruce said, “You’re one of those actors who adopts their character’s emotions to get into the role, aren’t you? And the general is full of rage. We’ll talk later.”

He kissed me before I could stop him. He assured me that relaxation was key to successful acting and explained that he would plan a “special private relaxation exercise” in my dressing room prior to the performance to help ensure that I wouldn’t be tense.

Arriving home, I found Erick painting small letters on a poster board that read: We want equality for all gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender students in all programs including the ROTC program, and we’re not going to leave until we get it!!

I said, “You need a slogan, not a novel.”

He sighed and said, “I suppose you’re right. I should go back to ROTC= Ridiculous Obtuse Tactless Cretins.”

“Closer,” I encouraged him. “Maybe just Equality For All.”

Dark circles surrounded his eyes, and his body slumped forward. He had barely slept in days, staying up every night to make phone calls, write press releases, and organize petitions to oust ROTC. Our apartment had become littered with piles of flyers and stacks of banners for the rally. I stepped over his paint and explained my dilemma with Bruce.

“Karma,” said Erick, his chilliness resurging.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I screwed up.”

“Yes, you did,” said Erick. “And I don’t forgive you. Yet.”

Erick did, however, suggest I dress in costume at home, arriving only minutes before the performance.

“That way, he won’t have the opportunity to ‘relax’ you,” he said.

“I’d feel silly walking to campus in my costume,” I said.

“You can take Blossom if you want,” said Erick. Blossom was his bright orange Volkswagen jeep that was twenty years old but glowed like new. “I have a permit, so you can park in the garage near the theatre building.”

“Solved,” I said hugging my friend, who handed me a paintbrush and an empty poster board. We stayed up until four in the morning painting signs.

 

 

 

An hour before the play, I stood in front of the mirror in our miniature bathroom staring at the gray uniform. It must have been ten or fifteen years old, but Bruce had sewed some special insignia on the arms and given me several medals to proudly display. For one moment, I enjoyed my military image. This would be great in a gay bar, I thought. Erick had left at 10:00 dressed in an outfit of bright rainbow colors and a purple baseball cap.

I recited my lines out loud, but my heart pounded. I broke a light sweat, and my hands began shaking as I wondered whatever possessed me to take this role. I could suddenly see my insincere delivery of lines, the stiff body movements, and my general lack of acting ability. I would humiliate myself. I tried to say my lines out loud but kept forgetting them. Splashing water on my face, I began deep breathing exercises to calm down.

I left half an hour before the play was to begin. I took the keys Erick left and a change of clothes in a brown bag and climbed into Blossom. I turned the ignition twice without result.

“Come on, girl,” I coaxed. This car was a living being, and she hated being driven by anyone but Erick. She was temperamental even for him, so Erick often flattered her to get her to run.

“Blossom, honey,” I said. “Your headlights are gorgeous. When I look into them, I see forever.”

I turned the key, and her engine sputtered to life. That was easy, I thought. One little plea, and she gave in. I anticipated that she would be more stubborn. I put her into gear and drove down the street telling myself that everything would be fine.

About half way to campus, Blossom sputtered, making several deliberate jerking motions before coming to a complete stop. I turned the key to no avail. Blossom would not cooperate. She teased me, lulled me into a sense of security and when I felt safe, she stopped and refused to go any further.

“Please,” I begged. “You’re steering wheel is soft and smooth,” I said, but she refused to respond. “You’re better than a BMW, sweetie.”

A blue pickup truck behind me honked, and I signaled him to pass. As I issued a new series of compliments about her seats, her glove box, and the rubber of her tires, I noticed the gas tank. The little red arrow pointed below the word empty. Had Blossom jettisoned her fuel or had Erick simply forgotten to refill her? Either way, I was out of luck. I pushed her off the main road onto a small side street. By the time I had Blossom safely secured in a legal parking space, ten minutes must have passed, but I wasn’t wearing a watch, so I couldn’t be sure.

I looked into the clear sky, wondering if a mischievous higher power was playing games. As if in answer, three sparrows landed on Blossom’s hood, chirping in short bursts that sounded like laughter. A humid breeze blew from the west as though encouraging me to move on. It was unseasonably hot, probably in the high eighties, making me long for a shot of tequila. 

I considered my options. Not showing up, no matter how I explained the situation, would appear as though I backed out because I was afraid. Hitchhiking crossed my mind, but I didn’t see any other cars approaching. A gas station was five blocks away, but that would take more time than I had. A nagging phrase started in the back of my brain and flowed forward to my mouth, “I’m screwed.”

The only viable solution was to run to the Theatre Annex. I quickly mapped the shortest route in my mind. If I walked, it would take at least twenty-five minutes, too late. Jogging could get me there in fifteen. I might actually make it on time. I started running.

As I hit a decent pace, I was convinced I could make it. I passed a group of four men sitting on the wrap-around porch, who yelled, “You run like a girl,” and threw an empty beer can at me. I was wearing black dress shoes, and soon, sharp pains crawled up my legs. I remembered my tennis shoes sitting on the passenger seat of Blossom. Too late to return, I would suffer shin splints for weeks to come.

I blindly crossed Third Street, to come onto campus, out of breath, exactly where I had anticipated. Sweat poured down my back; my clothes were drenched. I knew that I couldn’t keep running much longer, but I was close enough to feel victory. Barely able to form words, I asked a pretty blond woman wearing an Alpha Phi shirt what time it was. Moving away toward a bus stop sign, she said with disgust, “That’s the lamest come on. Leave me alone or I’ll scream.”

I headed down a small path between two large buildings. I emerged onto a one-lane road between the two buildings. One of them was the biology building, and I remembered a particularly stressful class I had taken there my freshman year. I didn’t know the other one.

A large group of shorthaired men and women dressed in bright greens, oranges, reds, purples, yellows, and blues blocked my way. Many held signs declaring “Fairness for gays,” “Hate is not a family value,” “Expel the hypocrites,” and “Military = hateful bigots.” Scattered in the periphery were television camera crews and newspaper reporters.

Relief rushed through my body. These were my people; they would help me. I heard murmurs of “general” and “representative from the military.” Sneering feminine men and scowling short-haired women waved their signs with mumbles. Jeers spewed in my direction. If I fell now, they might kick me to death. I wanted them to know I was friendly, that I was gay, that I knew some of them. I searched the crowd and noticed Erick near the front.

“Hey, fag,” I screamed in Erick’s direction. It was the GLUM greeting, but I could see a perplexed look on his face that shifted quickly to recognition. Erick waived back, urging me forward. 

The leaders of the group shifted toward me. The mob lunged in unison. Never had I seen so many angry rainbow covered people, waving, grunting, saliva spewing from their mouths. I could explain the situation, I thought. But the screeches and howls kicked my instincts into gear, telling me that I was prey. I began sprinting again. At the same time, the crowd’s predatory instincts emerged. They followed, yelling, “Let’s get him,” “He’s afraid,” and, “Coward!”

I was no longer thinking, simply moving as swiftly as possible. I ran through the front glass doors of the nearest building. Several muscled men came to greet me, and for a moment I thought I was having a spiritual vision. Then I noticed that they wore military uniforms and fatigues. ROTC was painted in large tan letters on the wall.

They had obviously been watching the protest and stared down at me as if I were some horrible biology experiment escaped from next door. Trying to make out the insignia on my uniform, they seemed uncertain whether they should salute me or punch me. As they patiently waited, it occurred to me that I must outrank most of them; they might be waiting for a command.

I meant to say, “I need a safe way out of the building,” but I instead I repeated a few lines from the play, “I regret my actions. They have destroyed all life on this planet.”

The men moved closer. They had confused expressions on their faces, like they couldn’t understand any multi-syllable words.

“He’s a queer,” said one of them in a deep voice.

“I’m from your future,” my mouth began moving again as I stood up and straightened my uniform. “In my time you’ve won. You killed all the queers. But it didn’t stop there. Then you killed the Blacks and Latinos. And anyone who was different. Now the planet is sterile and dying. I have come back in time to give you this message. It’s not too late to change your ways.”

The mob of multi-colored gays and lesbians flooded through the door. The crowd must have felt safety in numbers, entering with a camera crew in the lead. I charged forward, pushing one of the soldiers down and breaking through to freedom down the long hallway. The burly military crew began chasing me, loose in their kingdom. Squeals of delight issued from the rainbow battalion that, emboldened by the apparent retreat of the soldiers, charged forward.

Hunted by two groups, I could think of nothing other than the play. I had to find the exit. The hallways were sterile with nothing I could place between my pursuers and me. I noticed a bulletin board with a recruiting poster I’d seen hanging in various classrooms: A handsome, uniformed man pointed at me with the headline: We Want You!  For the first time, the feeling wasn’t mutual.

Footsteps echoed sounding like hundreds of people were chasing me. I wondered momentarily if more soldiers had joined in the hunt. For years later, this experience led to a reoccurring nightmare in which a pack of naked musclemen chased me, but I was desperately trying to escape.

I turned a corner and slipped, falling to the floor. The lead soldier, a burly man, stopped as though he were deciding how to kill me. His high cheekbones and deep blue eyes were straight out of a fairytale. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear his voice over the pounding of my heart. Blinded by florescent lights, my world shimmered. My brain short-circuited, flashing in unrelated images, hallucinations from my childhood; the soldier morphed into my Prince Charming come to rescue me. His beefy hands pulled me to my feet. I leaned forward and passionately kissed him in a way that would have made Bruce proud. The soldier shoved me away, speechless. My delusion shattered. 

I rushed onward as he lunged but missed. The soldiers were gaining and in another minute, one of them would tackle me. I turned another corner and there at the end was a glass door – freedom. I slowed a little as I came to it. In big red letters, a warning was written across the glass: “Emergency exit. Alarm will sound.” I turned to witness uniforms and a rainbow battalion closing quickly. I pushed on the door with all my might, but it didn’t open. It was locked, and I would be caught. I threw all my weight against the exit, and still it refused to budge. I shoved it again and the glass gave way, taking me into the warm outdoors.

The alarm hurt my ears for only a second. Then I was pushing away tree branches and sliding down a small hill covered in autumn leaves. I heard a splash and was knee deep in the stream that passed through the center of the university. No longer feeling anything, I couldn’t tell if the water was warm or cold as my feet sank into mud. Hopping out of the stream, I left one shoe stuck, and ran away. I couldn’t hear anyone following but as I made a backward glance, I ran into a student carrying two books, which flew to the ground. He had a gentle, understanding face.

“Asshole,” he said.

“I’m late for the future,” I said, breathing heavily.

I rushed on. As I reached the stairs that lead up to the room where my fellow actors were awaiting me, I could hardly believe my luck. The clock read ten minutes past two, an acceptable tardiness.

I burst onto the stage. Bruce stood in my spot with a script in hand. I pushed him aside, shouting the opening line, “This war is killing us all. We must find a solution.” My voice was filled with sincere pain, delivering my lines with intensity and a limp but without regard to the actual script. My lines mingled with into some parallel story that was similar, but different than the original. My fellow actors gave me befuddled looks as they tried to improvise to my changes. Throughout the play, I crossed Bruce’s scotch tape wall with complete indifference, ignoring any blocking we had planned. Jenny skated across the stage, but I put her movements to shame, trumping her circles with figure eights. I gestured wildly, and like an orchestra conductor, pointed at actors when it was their turn to speak. When it came time to kiss Jenny, I said, “I never liked you anyway,” and slapped her before pushing the red button. The lights faded, and in the darkness I slipped off the stage, retreating to my dressing room.

My legs ached. I smelled of body odor and the muddy creek. I considered what to do next. Should I go back to the rally and explain what had happened? Or find Bruce and apologize for ruining his play? I decided hiding in the closet until the others left was the best answer. Bruce knocked, then entered. I looked down, unable to meet his gaze. He stepped in the mop bucket.

“I am so sorry,” I said.

“At first, when you started deviating from the script, I almost fainted,” he said, knocking over a broom. “But once everyone got into it, I got all these ideas for revising. Also, the professors really enjoyed your performance. You could get a role in the next department production.”

“My acting career is over,” I said. “We both know I’m better in bed than I’ll ever be on stage.”

“How would you like to come to my place to celebrate?” he asked placing his hand on my crotch.

“My friends are expecting me at the rally,” I began, “and sex with you bored me.”

He retreated like a scolded puppy. I took off my jacket and hat before entering into the blue afternoon. From a distance I watched the protesters, now back in front of the building, chanting, “Red, green, yellow, blue! We won’t put up with you!” I decided not to return, but walked a long route to avoid them, stopped by a gas station to buy a gas can and two gallons of gas, picked up Blossom, and went home. As I parked the orange jeep in her spot, I gazed into her headlights and said, “That wasn’t funny.”

That night, Erick and I wrapped blankets around our shoulders as we watched local news stations run the story about a renegade military man who verbally abused a peaceful gay protest. There was video footage of me both from the camera crews and security cameras in the ROTC building. Nothing had a clear image of my face. As the stories progressed, I watched a plump gay man in drag tell cameramen that I had screamed, “All gays must die.” A woman in leather said she heard me shout, “Homosexuals should be put into concentration camps.”

ROTC representatives denied any connection to me. They claimed that my appearance and departure through the emergency exit was a publicity stunt devised by “local homosexuals to promote the homosexual agenda.” However, one of the ROTC soldiers, a young pimply boy, apparently had taken my words to heart. He clearly explained that I was sent from the future to warn against our impending doom.

“Thanks for coming to the rally,” said Erick.

“It was the least I could do,” I said.

“That play was better than I thought it would be,” he said. “Usually the tour comes after the run.”

“I can’t wait to see the reviews in tomorrow’s paper,” I said. “And yes, I was wrong to do it. I’m sorry.”

“If you ever do that to me again,” he said, “I’ll let Blossom run you over.”

“She would enjoy that.”

The next week in acting class, Mr. Hartman ordered us to become running water. I sat on the floor not moving, wondering if running water was leaking from his brain. At that moment, I decided I didn’t want to be a famous actor anymore. But a writer might be interesting. I could do better than Bruce. That was the moment I decided I would be the next William Shakespeare.