Free Attack of the Theater People by Marc Acito

sexy enough that the girls want to do him, and professional enough that the parents want to pay him. At a hundred bucks a party, I definitely want to be him.
    The rest of August passes with Xerox monotony, each day a photocopy of the one before as I wait until my first gig. The only thing I’m learning working for the Agent of Evil is that bitterness is a contagious disease, a virus spread by aural contact. I try to remain immune by embracing my alter ago, telling myself that it’s not Edward Zanni who has to deliver a cup of Irving’s pee to his urologist on a sweltering subway; it’s Alan, Lucifer’s piss boy.
    It doesn’t work.
    Even more dispiriting are the entreaties I get from former Juilliard students. Now that they’re enrolled in the School of Hard Knocks, they’ve apparently confused me with someone with clout. Graduates I’ve never met contact me like we’re long-lost friends, which is just embarrassing. The only one I don’t hear from is Marcus, because it turns out Irving was the ray of happy sunshine who made the crack about him looking like a sea sponge.
    Meanwhile, Kelly breezes in and out on her days off after auditions. I can see why—you could easily picture her as a girl with slow-motion hair in a shampoo commercial, or as a doomed prom queen in a slasher flick. She even got an audition for
Starlight Express
, the latest assault on theater from Andrew Lloyd Webber, in which actors on roller skates portray trains. It’s a big hit in London, which Natie says just proves how the birthplace of Shakespeare has deteriorated since Margaret Thatcher took over.
    The nadir, however, comes on one of those brutally hot New York days, the kind that cause neighbors to kill each other in Bensonhurst. The intercom on my phone beeps, and the receptionist tells me there’s a Ted Lucas out in the waiting room to see me.
    Ted Lucas?
I think as I step out of my office.
Surely it can’t be…
    Mr. Lucas.
    My high school drama teacher releases one hand from the crutches that circle his wrists, deftly sliding it up his forearm so he can shake my hand. “Edwaaaard,” he says in a voice too theatrically sonorous for the space.
    “It’s great to see you,” I say in a tone that unfortunately conveys the subtext of
What the hell are you doing here?
Hoping to make up for it, I add a chipper, “Come in my office.”
    “Your office?” he says, raising his eyebrows. “My, my, my.” Mr. Lucas gives a Victorian tilt of his head to our receptionist. “Nice to meet you, Valli.”
    I offer him some water, which he declines, though he looks like he could use it, his pale linen suit wilting around him as he sits. He unstraps the leather carrying bag we gave to him on the opening night of
Godspell
.
    “You have a view,” he says. “Very impressive.” He strokes his beard, a gesture that used to intimidate me, but now seems like a nervous tic.
    “I have to be next to Irving’s office,” I explain. “It makes me look more important than I really am.”
    Through the wall I can hear my boss screaming at the Bucks County Playhouse about the color of Ann Miller’s dressing room.
    “I hope you don’t mind me barging in like this,” Mr. Lucas says. “I chanced upon Fran Nudelman recently and she told me what you were up to, so I thought I’d stop in and see for myself.”
    “I’m just taking a year off,” I say. “I’m definitely going back.”
    Subtext:
Please don’t think I’m a loser
.
    “
Egg
zelent,” he says. “A
Wanderjahr
will do you good. Give you a little seasoning.”
    “Exactly.” It’s possible he’s just being kind, but I’ll take it.
    “I’m making some changes myself,” he says.
    “Really?”
    “As you know, I haven’t acted in some time”—he makes a vague gesture at his legs—“but I’ve been encouraged by some colleagues to pursue voice-over work.”
    He pronounces the last words slowly, as if they were foreign.
    “Great,” I say. “You’d be terrific at