Actor: A Novel in Three Acts

Lisa's office felt more like a church than a place for anyone administrative. A wide space, expansive, with high, rolling multidirectional ceilings that visually melded with the sky presented by two bay windows. Working in and with theatre people for all of my life, seeing directors and the like crammed together into broom closets with playbills, scripts, and week-old coffee cups fused with mold and shame was the norm. Views were given to winners, which Lisa clearly was.

After some confusion with the front desk (they had no idea who I was or what I was doing there), I was let upstairs by way of an elevator. From there, I followed the directions the guard had given me—down the hall, left, left, right—while passing other standard-looking offices with the occasional person in them. They barely looked over at me from their computers or their phones or their conversations. I was unknown. Why would they?

As I made my way, I noticed the walls were dressed with framed theatrical stills from past plays and their former actors. Frank's Wild Years with Tom Waits, Randall Arney, and others stuck out to me. The Common Pursuit too, which I remembered Edie talked about at one time, was also there. The original True West photos were there too. There were so many I felt simultaneously humbled, intimidated, and drunk on having the chance to be up there one day.

I came to Lisa's door seeing her name on it and knocked. No one answered. The halls and any nearby offices were empty. No one was around. After another and still nothing, I let myself in. Immediately, the transcendent space confronted me. Everything seemed to echo, creating a secondary, ephemeral, and untouchable realm of existence. The entire space was empty except for a large wooden desk ten feet long and five feet wide. Behind it was an enormous bookcase spanning the entire wall, filled with plays, craft books, and other obscure titles I had never seen before—Ibsen's Bisons and Shakespeare After Dark, to name only a few. On the floor was a hallowed red rug that took up a majority of the center of the room.

There were only two chairs at Lisa's desk, which was empty except for a giant Apple Studio Display monitor with its normal paraphernalia of a keyboard and minimalist mouse. Next to it was a single small yellow notebook with a pen nearby. At the far end of the space, were three small chairs and a table with a baby cactus in the center. Beside the succulent was a stack of papers I assumed was for True West.

The only art was a painting hanging on one of the five pillars holding up and dividing the room. I had never seen it before. I was so embarrassed by this I wanted to look it up on my phone. This embarrassed me even more. Instead, Lisa told me in the middle of her call.