Peter’s first reading was for my least favorite story, as well as my least favorite painting in the entire museum. A very young, way-too-hip fiction writer from Bucktown named Sam Demarr had e-mailed us that the only painting he felt like writing on was “the one with the giant gum.” I’d actually loved it as a child — that enormous pack of gum floating over the city skyline. Now I hated how the gum hovered there, out of proportion. It had nothing to do with the city below it, no shared color palette, the garish green wrapper rendering the brown skyline drab and uniform. On one of our first dates, Carlos and I had stood there joking that it was based on a true story, the Giant Gum Crash of ’72. Since then, I’d always thought of the gum as about to land, to flatten the unsuspecting workers below, so I’d found it particularly funny that the story Sam Demarr had submitted was called “The Gum Flew Away.” Demarr himself was standing at the side of the room in dirty khakis, smirking into his wineglass.
Peter pulled a tube of papers from his coat pocket and unrolled it so he could read the top one. The other actors held theirs in the black folders we’d sent them in. “First, all the gum flew off,” he read, “leaving Chicago in its spearmint dust. Then the department stores floated away.” Aside from the fact that his papers were visibly shaking, Peter sounded like himself, strong-voiced and in full command of the English language. This story suited his flat, ironic delivery. I’d chosen it for him specifically because it was monochromatic and free of dialogue. “The hot dog stands were next,” I heard him say. For all my daydreaming about finding myself stranded onstage, this was the closest I’d come to feeling as if it were my own energy propelling an actor, as if when I stopped focusing, the whole thing would fall apart. Peter was gesturing around now, with the still-shaking papers, backing toward the wall and away from the old ladies in the front row. Even his legs were bouncing, and it finally occurred to me that maybe it was drugs making his limbs and voice and eyes jump around like that. It didn’t seem like something he’d do, but who was I, anymore, to say what Peter would do?
And then, as he read the line about the mayor launching himself off the Hancock tower, Peter actually put the back of his hand against the painting and swept it up the canvas. The gasp from the crowd was so loud and so high that I couldn’t tell where it stopped and the alarm started. A security guard I’d barely noticed trotted from the room, and another stepped forward, speaking into a radio. Peter froze, and I could feel his stomach flip. I could feel the sweat sticking the papers to his hand. The alarm turned off, and people started talking quietly.
“And this is why we didn’t broadcast live,” Lauren whispered beside me. She was glaring like I’d done it myself. The Institute coordinators talked in a cluster while two more guards and a woman in a suit rushed in, asking Peter to step aside so they could inspect the painting for damage.
The crowd just looked embarrassed, touching their faces and chatting a bit but waiting politely for the reading to resume. Sam Demarr seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. Peter had stepped aside, but he was still up there in front of everyone, the only movement coming from his eyes, which jumped around liquidly, looking for their chance to leap free from his face once and for all. One of the guards talked with him in what should have been a whisper, but everyone could hear. He asked for his name, his driver’s license, copied everything down on a big clipboard.
And I thought, maybe that’s what I would have done, if I’d leapfrogged up there into Peter’s body, if I needed to get away before anyone realized I was a fraud: I’d hit the painting and make the show stop. But I didn’t think he’d done it on purpose. Or at least not consciously.
It was a good five minutes before the woman in the suit stepped away from the painting and signaled that we could continue. She stayed there, though, in the corner of the room, frowning. I assumed she’d have a long night of paperwork now. I felt bad for her.
I took the mike again and said, with a big fund-raising grin, “Now you’ve seen what fine security your contributions support!” Lauren was at the front of the crowd, shaking her head to show how disappointed she was, as if I hadn’t gotten the message yet. “We’re going to try that one again.” I waited for a meek laugh from the audience and then turned to the actors. Peter looked at me with those blank, jumpy eyes like he didn’t even recognize me, like I was just another blurred member of his audience, watching and breathing and waiting for him to fail. I’m still not sure what I felt, standing there. Maybe I felt my heart break, or maybe I felt Peter’s heart break. When you’ve known someone that long, when you formed yourself around his personality back when you were just a fourteen-year-old lump of clay, isn’t it really the same thing? Aren’t his heart and your own somehow conjoined? Perhaps that’s what I could never explain to Carlos: Ours was a kind of first love that wasn’t aimed at each other, but somehow out at the world. We We were forever side by side on the chapel bench, watching the show.
Peter whispered something to the short-haired actress and handed her his papers. He held up his open hands to the audience in apology, ten pale, bony fingers, then walked around the people and out of the exhibit.
“The Gum Flew Away,” the woman read, the clarity of her voice a reassurance, a wiping clean. “By Sam Demarr. First, all the gum flew off, leaving Chicago in its spearmint dust. Then the department stores floated away.”
I thought of following Peter out. I’d done it so many times before, chasing him down as he stormed from a party, calling his name five times until he finally turned to look at me, tear-streaked or red-faced on the wet sidewalk. “He didn’t mean it,” I’d usually say, or “You’re just drunk,” or “We all love you.” I never said that I did. Just all of us, meaning everyone at the party, everyone he’d ever met, everyone who’d ever seen him from across the street. It wasn’t true anymore; the world didn’t love him, just I did, and I had the feeling that even if I could say that, it wouldn’t be enough. And if it were, then what? What would I do with that responsibility? And now Lauren, who was still my boss if I was lucky, was finally shooting me a look of conspiratorial relief. “Actors,” said her face. “I know,” said mine.
It hit me like cold water that I wouldn’t see Peter again, that he’d avoid my calls until he drifted to another city to try again and fail. Someone would hire him at a third-tier regional theater on the basis of his résumé, and he’d last one show, if that. He probably wouldn’t know how to give up.
After the readings, I propped myself up at the microphone and said my bit about membership and shortening the pledge drive with early donations, and Institute Steve said something I couldn’t follow in his nasal little whine, and I got a drink in my hand. It was cold enough outside that I wanted to drink just so I wouldn’t feel the bone chill on the way home. I chatted up as many people as I could stomach over the wine and shrimp. People didn’t want to talk to me, though. What they wanted was to meet the actors. “I saw you in Phèdre at the Court,” a woman said to one of the actresses, who smiled graciously. “It was just gorgeous. You wore that red dress. Tell me your name again.”
Another woman asked the actor who’d read the Stuart Dybek piece to sign her program. She didn’t seem to notice Dybek himself standing a few feet away, laughing with a friend and wiping his glasses on his tie. If the actor found the request strange he didn’t show it, signing his name on the margin of the paper. Peter would have written something like “Peter Torrelli is fabulous. Love and kisses, Pablo P.” Or the old Peter would have, the one who knew magic.