Free The Role Players by Dorien Grey Page A

the torpedo strikes, they are once again separated.
    But when he encounters the same young man on the Hindenburg , his suspicions are confirmed. They studiously avoid one another during the trip; The Student is anxious to return to his own time to report the young man.
    After making his report to The Board, he goes out into the street to find the young man waiting for him. The Student confronts him, demanding to know how he could risk the future by being in the same time as The Student, the only one authorized to be there. The young man asks what is so special about the Student’s world? Devoid of hunger and fear and pain, it is also devoid of joy and exuberance and spontaneity and compassion. As they talk, they are passed by expressionless people in all-grey clothing, who stop and look at The Student, their faces gradually reflecting puzzlement.
    The young man continues talking, saying that he does not travel in time, but with it, and is present at all disasters, not because he wants to be but because he has to be. Slowly, The Student realizes that the young man is Death.
    As they talk, The Student becomes more agitated and the people around him glance at one another, their faces openly reflect their confusion.
    The young man reaches out and takes The Student’s hand, and leads him off stage. The moment he takes The Student’s hand, the onlookers rapidly drop their gaze from The Student’s face to the floor in front of them. One man kneels down and reaches out to the space they all are watching.
    “Why, he’s dead!” one onlooker says.
    The young boy turns to his mother and asks, “What’s dead ?”
    Everyone remains motionless while the light fixture comes to almost blinding intensity, then goes off, plunging the stage and the auditorium into darkness.
    *
    Granted, the interruptions (the director’s, “Marsha, a little less emotion, please. Take it from the start of your speech,” and Max’s “Brent, you’re not on your mark; your face is in shadow. About a foot farther stage left.”) took a little getting used to, but it was fascinating to watch. The Titanic ’s sinking scene, where almost everyone in the cast is milling around as the hydraulic lift begins to raise the side of the stage from stage left, gradually sending deck chairs sliding and making walking difficult, was extremely effective, and Chris’s realistic fixed backdrop of the ship’s exterior deck-level doors and windows added to the realism. As the lift raised the angle of the stage ever more steeply, some of the cast clung to the fixed railings, trying to climb higher, while others slid down the deck to disappear stage right. Loud, deep blasts of the ship’s foghorn reverberated through the auditorium, calling for help that would never come.
    While it was pretty damned impressive to Jonathan and me sitting there, McHam had them repeat the scene three times. “Let me remind you again, people,” he said calmly, “you are real people on a real ship that is really sinking, and you’re beginning to realize that you are most likely going to die. Don’t be afraid to let it show. We want the audience to see the chaos, but for us, it must be orchestrated chaos.”
    All in all, it went surprisingly smoothly as far as Jonathan and I were concerned. When the house lights came back up, Jonathan, I, Chris, and a couple other people seated behind us—who must have come in after we sat down—applauded loudly, and Jonathan wiped his eyes with the palm of one hand.
    “That was wonderful, Chris!” he said. “I’m so proud of you and Max! That platform and those backdrops and the sound effects and the lighting were all terrific!”
    I voiced my agreement, and Chris seemed pleased.
    “Well,” he said, “tomorrow I have to get back on the horse, helping Doris with the costumes and probably doing some of the makeup.”
    “Do you think we could see it one more time before opening night?” Jonathan asked.
    “Sure,” Chris said with a grin.
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