“Jim!” Matt calls from the sofa as I descend toward the stage between the rows. He rises, along with his actors, and we meet at the foot of the first hardwood floor panel.

He’s still dressed in black. I wonder if he’s one of those people, who, once they find a cool outfit, stick with it until the end of time.

“Good to see you again, man,” he says, sounding genuinely happy to see me. “I want to introduce you to Jane Remfry and Ben Lardner.” The actors look to be in their mid-twenties. I wonder if they were in grad school with Matt. Ben is tall and quirky-looking. He has a goatee, and I’ve never cared for people who keep goatees. They’re suspect.

“Ben, Jane,” I say, shaking their hands. “A pleasure.”

I’m turning it on now. I can feel Jansen flowing through me like a shot of adrenaline.

“I am so honored and excited to be working with you, Mr. Jansen,” Jane says.

She’s a cutie. Tall and slim. Short, blond hair. Very Icelandic.

“Call me Jim, please.”

“I feel the same way, sir,” Ben says, and he actually shakes my hand again which is pretty funny. They’re star-struck as hell.

“So,” Matt says, putting his hand on my shoulder, and grinning at me through those thick, black frames. “How’d things go for you last night after the party?”

I smile that I-slept-with-beautiful-twins smile, and he fills the empty theatre with his laughter.

“Let’s do a scene, shall we?”

I follow everyone up onto the stage.

There’s a brown leather loveseat, and Ben and Jane sit down.

There’s a desk with a little lamp and a scattering of books and papers.

I sit on the edge of the desk.

“So, Jim, you’ve read the scene?”

“Several times.”

Boy, my mouth’s dry, my heart pumping like a piston.

“You off-book, yet?”

I don’t know what that means.

“Yeah.”

“Great. So, how about this?” Matt comes and sits on the desk beside me. When he speaks, he’s highly expressive with his hands. “I’ll tell you sort of what I’m thinking for this scene, and if you see it differently or there’s something else you want to try, I’m totally open to that. I really want you to follow your instinct here, because that’s what’s going to make this scene great.” He hops down. “I know the script says you walk in and sit down at rise, but when the lights come up I want everyone already sitting.”

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you take a seat behind the desk.”

I walk around to the swivel chair and sit down. My hands tremble now. I set my satchel on the floor, pull the script out, place it on the desk. Training wheels, just in case I blank.

Matt stands between the loveseat and the desk. I feel that light shining down on me from the blackness of the ceiling. Jane and Ben look so comfortable. I keep reminding myself of that quote I heard somewhere, that if you’re scared, you should pretend like you’re at ease, and no one will know.

“Everything,” Matt says to all of us, “hinges on this scene.”

Great. I’m going to fuck up this guy’s play.

“I know,” he continues, “there’s this temptation to take it over the top here, and some directors would probably go for that, but I don’t think we need to. The play itself, the way it treats relationships, is already so over the top, the acting shouldn’t mimic that, you know?”

I most certainly do not know what in the hell he’s talking about.

“Lookit, there’s comedy here, but fuck up the timing, you know? This isn’t Neil Simon. I want people to laugh, but not too much. The goal, honestly, is to unnerve them. They’ll laugh for the same reason people laugh at funerals. So,” he glances back at me, “want to give it a go?”

Oh God.

“Why not?”

What is my first line? Shit.

Matt walks off the stage and takes a seat in the first row.

“Let’s do the whole scene,” he says, “and I swear I won’t interrupt you the first time. I’ll just go ahead and tell you, Jim, I’m pretty bad about that. I mean, I could work on thirty seconds of dialogue for a whole afternoon. But I don’t think we’re going to have that problem today. Ben, whenever you’re ready.”

Ben takes a deep breath and stares for a moment into the floor.

When his eyes come back to mine, he’s a different person. Vulnerable, wounded.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” he says gravely.

My line. Fuck. I lean forward and glance at page fifteen of the script.

“Yes, well. My time is extremely. Limited so why don’t you tell me the problem.”

That was awful. Wooden. Perfunctory.

“I’m the problem,” Jane says, crossing her arms and glancing with annoyance into the empty theatre. She really looks pissed.

“I’ll decide that.”

“No, she’s right, Doctor. She most certainly is the problem. She’s an enormous problem.” Ben is so good. I feel like he’s really speaking to me.

My lines have evaporated. I grab the script.

“Sorry, Matt.”

“It’s all right. Stay with it.”

“So,” I continue, and I know it, everyone in the theatre knows it—I am dying up here. “You initiated this session what would you like for me to say?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did you come—”

“Okay!” Matt yells, coming out of his seat, “I know I said I wouldn’t, but I want to stop here for a second.” He walks onstage, begins pacing between the sofa and the desk.

“I think I know what you’re up to here, Jim.”

Man, I wish someone would dim those overhead lights. I’m sweating like a maniac.

“I don’t think the whole acting like you can’t act thing is going to work for this scene, and I’ll tell you why. Don’t get me wrong—it’s frighteningly convincing. But like I said before, it’s way, way over the top, and if this play gets any goofier, it’ll fall apart. You know what I’m saying, Jim?”

“Absolutely.”

Matt approaches me. “I think it might help if we get you out from behind this desk. Connect you to Gerald and Cynthia a little more. Here,” he comes over, “let’s slide your chair out to center stage.”

This is dynamite. Now I’m sitting six feet away from Jane and Ben, and they’re going to see the fear dripping from my face. My inability is so fucking glaring, I’m on the verge of running the hell out of this theatre right now.

“And Jim?” Matt says as he walks back to his chair on the front row, “let’s slow things down a little. Feels like you’re rushing your lines a tad.”

Jane gives me a reassuring smile. Ben’s looking up into the lighting grid. I wonder if they’re embarrassed for me.

“Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Dr. Lovejoy,” Ben says, beginning the scene again.

“Yes. Well. My time is extremely limited…” I stop. If I don’t take control of this situation immediately, I may lose everything. I begin to shake my head. Then I stand and look at Matt.

“I’m sorry, but I strongly disagree with you here. Look, you’ve written a cutting edge play. There’s no doubt about that. And what is it you told me earlier that your goal was? To unnerve people. Right?”

An uneasy nod.

“What is more unnerving and uncomfortable than watching someone onstage who is totally dying? They’re trying so hard, but they’re forgetting lines, rushing lines, overacting. Mumbling. Trembling even. It’s painful to watch, but it’s also funny. Isn’t that the juxtaposition you’re going for? Uneasy laughter? What better captures that than a character who comes on stage before a few hundred people, and everyone’s thinking ‘is he acting like this on purpose’? Honestly? You tell me.”

“I see what you’re saying, Jim, I do, but—”

“But what? It’s staring you right in the face, Matt. You told me to go with my instinct. ‘That’s what’s going to make this scene great.’  Didn’t you say that?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, my instinct is screaming at me, and this doesn’t happen often, but I know in my gut, that this is how I should play this scene. Don’t you feel it? We’ve had an epiphany here.” I look at Jane. “Do you feel it?”