Gaffer Tape

The air in the basement of the St. Joe's Community Center smelled like wet cardboard and ozone. It was April. Outside, the world was aggressively blooming. Spring did not just arrive in this city; it assaulted you. I could see the tops of cherry blossoms through the high, dirt-streaked windows near the ceiling. They looked like pink popcorn against a brutal sky. Inside the basement, everything was dead gray. Concrete walls. Concrete floor. Metal folding chairs arranged in rows for an audience that did not exist.

I sat behind a plywood desk. My job was to pretend the twenty-four-channel soundboard wasn't held together by literal gum and prayer. Channel four was permanently dead. Channel seven crackled if you looked at it too hard. I was twenty years old. I was supposed to be in a lecture hall across town taking a macroeconomics midterm, but instead, I was sitting in the dark, watching Arthur forget who he was for the fourth time since lunch.

Arthur was eighty-four. He wore a gray suit that fit him like a collapsed tent. The fabric bunched at his shoulders and dragged at his ankles. He was playing the lead in a play called "The Plastic Orchard." The script was a complete mess. It was about a man who sells his soul to the devil for an immaculate lawn. He fights dandelions. He argues with soil. Marty, our director, had written it during what he called his high-frequency period. Marty was sixty. He still wore a tie-dye bandana and believed art could alter the molecular structure of the universe. He spent most of his time staring at the lighting rig like it was a religious altar.

"The magenta is too aggressive," Marty said. He didn't look at the stage. He looked at the floor. "It is vibrating. Can you feel the vibration, Larry?"

"It is just a light, Marty," I said. My phone buzzed against my leg. A news alert about a local fire. A text from my professor. I swiped them both away. "It is a cheap gel. It does not vibrate."

"Everything vibrates," Marty whispered. He looked like he was about to cry. He ran his hands down his face. "Adjust the fader. Give me more of a soulful amber."

I pushed the slider up. The stage turned the color of a bad spray tan. On stage, Arthur was staring at a prop phone. It was a heavy, black rotary dial. He looked deeply confused. He picked the receiver up and held it to his ear.

"Hello?" Arthur said. "Is this the pharmacy?"

"Arthur," Marty called out. His voice cracked. "That is not the line. You are supposed to be talking to your dead wife."

Arthur blinked. He looked at the phone in his hand, then at the empty space next to him. "She is on the other line?"

"No," Marty said. "She is a ghost. A memory. You are talking to the air."

Arthur sighed. He looked tired. Not just rehearsal tired. It was a deep, fundamental exhaustion that seemed to radiate from his bones. "I think I had a wife once. She liked peonies."

From the wings, Mia and Toby were watching. They were nineteen. They were the Dandelions. They wore green tracksuits that they bought at a thrift store. Mia was blowing a bubble with her gum. Toby was staring down at his phone, his thumb moving in a rapid, endless scroll.

"Cue the weeds," Marty yelled.

Mia popped her bubble. She stepped onto the stage. She raised her arms in a stiff, unnatural motion.

"I am the root," Mia said. Her voice was entirely flat. Total deadpan.

"I am the stem," Toby said. He walked out behind her. He didn't bother to look up from his screen.

"Toby," Marty said. He pointed a shaking finger at the stage. "Your phone. The audience will see your phone."

"The audience is going to be my mom and three guys from the halfway house upstairs," Toby said. "They do not care."

"Art requires absolute presence," Marty said.

"I am present," Toby said. He pocketed the phone. "I am a weed. I am photosynthesizing."

Arthur looked at them. His brow furrowed. The amber light caught the deep lines around his mouth. "Who are these people?"

"They are the weeds, Arthur," Marty said. He rubbed his temples. "They are destroying your lawn. You have to fight them."

Arthur looked down at his own hands. They were shaking. Liver spots covered his knuckles. The skin looked thin, like wax paper stretched over wire. "I do not want to fight anymore."

"It is in the script," Marty said.

"I need to sit down," Arthur said.

He walked off the stage. He didn't use the wooden stairs. He just stepped off the edge of the platform. It was a two-foot drop. My stomach turned over. I tensed my muscles, fully expecting him to snap a hip or shatter a knee. He landed heavy, his knees buckling slightly, but he stayed upright. He wandered toward the back of the basement, disappearing into the shadows near the boiler room.

"Take five," Marty said. He dropped onto a metal folding chair. It squeaked under his weight. "Larry, go make sure he does not wander into the street."

I stood up. My lower back popped. The chair behind the soundboard was molded plastic and built for a child. I walked past the stage. The basement was massive, a hollow cavern sitting directly under the church sanctuary. Stacks of donated clothes lined the walls in garbage bags. Cardboard boxes full of old holiday decorations were piled near the emergency exit. A plastic Jesus missing his left arm leaned against a pillar.

I found Arthur standing near the vending machine in the darkest corner of the room. The machine was lit up from the inside. It was the only bright thing back here. It hummed constantly. A low, electric noise that I could feel in my teeth.

Arthur was pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the machine.

"Arthur," I said.

He didn't turn around. "They have peanut butter cups in here."

"Do you want one?" I asked.

"I do not have any money," he said. His breath fogged the glass. "The bank took my house."

He was confusing the play with reality again. Or maybe reality with the play. I never knew which. The script had a scene about the bank taking his house because the lawn was dead.

"I have quarters," I said. I dug into the pocket of my jeans. Metal clinked against my keys. I pulled out a handful of change and fed the coins into the slot. The machine ate them with a heavy, mechanical crunch. I pressed D4 on the keypad. The metal coil turned slowly. The orange wrapper fell to the bottom with a soft thud.

I pushed the plastic flap open, grabbed the candy, and handed it to him.

He took it. His fingers brushed mine. His hands were freezing. "Thank you, young man. Are you the doctor?"

"I am Larry," I said. "I run the lights and sound."

"Lights," Arthur said. He ripped the orange wrapper open. He took a small bite. He chewed slowly, his jaw moving with exaggerated effort. "My wife liked the lights. We went to New York once. Nineteen seventy-two. Or maybe eighty. I do not remember the year."

I leaned against the concrete block wall. The cold seeped through the back of my t-shirt. "Was it a good trip?"

"No," Arthur said. "We fought the whole time. She threw a shoe at my head in a hotel room."

He smiled. It was a genuine, bright smile that completely transformed his face. The years fell off him for a fraction of a second. Then it vanished, replaced by the same blank exhaustion.

"Why are you here?" Arthur asked. He looked at me. His eyes were suddenly sharp. The fog cleared. It happened like that sometimes. A window opened in his brain, and the man he used to be stepped forward to look out of it.

"I need the community service hours for my degree," I said. It was a lie. I had already finished my hours.

"You are hiding," Arthur said.

My chest tightened. The hum of the vending machine suddenly felt too loud. "I am not hiding."

"You sit in the dark," he said. He took another bite of the candy. "You watch us make fools of ourselves on that stage. It makes you feel safe. You do not have to participate."

He swallowed the candy. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I have a test," I said. My voice sounded defensive. I hated that he could hear it. "I should be taking a midterm right now."

"Then go take it," Arthur said. "Why stay here with the dying?"

I didn't have an answer for him. I stayed because the basement was quiet. Because out there, above ground, the world demanded things I didn't know how to give. Degrees. Jobs. Rent. Credit scores. Relationships. Eye contact. Out there, everything was moving at a thousand miles an hour. In the basement, the worst thing that could possibly happen was a missed sound cue.

"Break is over," I said.

We walked back to the main room. Marty was lying flat on his back in the dead center of the wooden stage.

"Marty," I said.

"I am trying to feel the center of gravity," Marty said without opening his eyes. "The stage is tilted."

"It is a church basement," Toby said. He was sitting on a folding chair in the front row, his feet resting on the back of the chair in front of him. "The whole building is sinking into the earth."

Marty sat up. He grabbed his knees. He looked at Arthur. "Are you ready, Arthur? Scene four. The confrontation with the Devil."

The Devil was played by a guy named Greg. Greg was thirty-five. He sold commercial insurance during the day. He wore a cheap red suit that he bought online. He looked like a used car salesman. He stood in the wings, drinking an energy drink out of a can.

Greg stepped onto the stage. He carried a black leather briefcase.

"I have the contract," Greg said. He slammed the briefcase down on a folding card table in the center of the stage. "Sign it, and the lawn is yours. No crabgrass. No dandelions. Pure green. Forever."

Arthur stared at the briefcase. He was supposed to say, What is the price of perfection?

Instead, Arthur looked at Greg and said, "I need to call the pharmacy."

Marty groaned loudly. He grabbed his tie-dye bandana and pulled it down over his eyes. "Arthur. Focus. He is the Devil."

"He does not look like the Devil," Arthur said. He pointed a shaking finger at Greg. "He looks like my accountant."

Greg dropped character. His shoulders slumped. "Come on, man. I took an early lunch break to come do this."

"Just read the line, Arthur," Marty pleaded from under his bandana.

Arthur looked at the ceiling. He looked at the dirt-streaked windows. The pink cherry blossoms shivering in the wind outside.

"I am tired," Arthur said. "I am so incredibly tired."

It was not a line from the script. The basement went completely silent. Even the hum of the vending machine seemed to cut out. The air felt heavy.

Mia stopped chewing her gum. Toby lowered his phone to his lap.

Arthur stood in the center of the stage under the harsh amber light. He looked tiny. His gray suit swallowed him. He looked like a ghost haunting his own clothes.

"I wake up," Arthur said. His voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly across the concrete room. "I wake up and the ceiling is wrong. The bed is wrong. I walk to the mirror and an old man looks back at me. I do not know him. He has my father's nose. My hands do not work. The knuckles swell up like balloons. It rains, and my knees burn. I sit in a chair and wait for the sun to go down. Then I wait for it to come up."

Marty pulled the bandana off his eyes. He didn't interrupt. None of us did. My mouth went dry.

"I come here," Arthur said. He stomped his foot on the wooden stage. A hollow thud echoed off the walls. "I come to this basement. Because for two hours, I am someone else. Even if it is a man fighting weeds. Even if it is completely stupid."

He looked directly at Marty.

"It is profoundly stupid, Marty," Arthur said.

Marty nodded slowly. "I know."

"But it is something to do," Arthur said. His voice cracked. "It is a place to be."

He turned to Greg. He held out his hand. "Give me the pen."

Greg fumbled. He dropped his energy drink. It rolled across the stage, spilling sticky yellow liquid on the wood. He snapped the briefcase open. He grabbed a cheap plastic pen and handed it to Arthur.

Arthur grabbed the imaginary contract from the table. He didn't look at it. He signed his name with vicious, jagged strokes in the air. He threw the pen on the floor.

"The lawn is mine," Arthur snarled. His voice dropped an octave. It rattled the cheap speakers hanging above the stage. "Let the green consume me. Let the roots drink my blood. I am the earth now."

Silence.

Total, crushing silence.

"Holy shit," Toby whispered from the front row.

Marty was crying. Actual tears ran down his face, cutting through the dust on his cheeks and soaking into his collar.

"Blackout," Marty choked out. "Larry, hit the blackout."

I slammed the master fader down. The basement went pitch black. The amber light died instantly.

The lights came back up a minute later. Fluorescent tubes buzzing to life overhead. Harsh. Unforgiving. The magic was gone. It was just a church basement again.

Arthur was sitting on the edge of the stage. He was breathing hard. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He looked confused again. The window in his brain had closed.

"Did I say it right?" Arthur asked. He looked at Marty.

"You nailed it, Arthur," Greg said. Greg looked genuinely shaken. He adjusted his cheap red tie. He picked up his spilled energy drink.

"Rehearsal is over," Marty said. He wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. "We open on Friday. God help us."

Mia and Toby grabbed their backpacks. They didn't say anything to anyone. They just walked up the concrete stairs to the street level, the heavy metal door slamming shut behind them.

I walked over to the desk. I shut down the soundboard. I flipped the main power switches. The red indicator lights blinked out. The basement felt colder immediately.

I walked over to the stage. Arthur was still sitting there, staring at his shoes.

"Do you need a ride home?" I asked.

"The bus comes at four," he said.

"I can drive you," I said.

He looked up at me. His eyes were milky around the edges. "I do not get in cars with strangers."

"I am Larry," I said. "I bought you the peanut butter cup."

Arthur thought about it for a long time. He nodded. "Okay, Larry."

We walked out of the basement. We climbed the concrete stairs slowly. Arthur took them one at a time, gripping the metal handrail with both hands. My legs felt heavy.

I pushed the metal double doors open. The spring air hit me like a physical blow. It smelled like car exhaust, hot asphalt, and blooming flowers. The sun was violently bright. I squinted, holding up my hand to block the glare.

Arthur put on a pair of sunglasses. They were huge, dark aviators. He looked like a blind pilot.

My car was parked on the street. It was a silver Honda. Rust ate away at the wheel wells. The front bumper was held on by zip ties. The interior smelled like stale coffee and old gym shoes.

Arthur got into the passenger seat. He struggled with the seatbelt, his swollen knuckles failing to grip the metal buckle. I leaned over and clicked it into place for him.

"Where to?" I asked. I put the keys in the ignition.

He gave me an address. It was an assisted living facility on the north side of town. I knew the building. My grandmother had died there when I was twelve.

I put the car in drive. We pulled out onto the main road, merging into the heavy afternoon traffic.

My phone buzzed in the cup holder. The screen lit up. A text from my professor.

"You missed the midterm. Come to my office hours tomorrow if you want to pass this class."

I flipped the phone over so the screen faced the plastic plastic console.

"You are failing," Arthur said.

I glanced at him. He was looking out the window. "How do you know?"

"You drive like a man who has nowhere to be," he said.

"I have places to be," I said. I gripped the steering wheel tighter.

"But you do not want to be there," Arthur said. He rested his head against the glass. The vibration of the road shook his body. "I understand. I spent forty years at a desk. Selling hardware. Hammers. Nails. Screws. Forty years. I hated every single day."

"Why didn't you quit?" I asked. I hit the brakes as the car in front of me stopped suddenly.

"I had a mortgage," he said. "A wife who liked peonies. Kids to feed."

He closed his eyes behind the dark glasses.

"Do you regret it?" I asked.

He didn't answer for a long time. The radio played low static. I reached over and turned the volume dial to zero. We stopped at a red light. A group of college students crossed the street in front of my car. They looked my age. They carried heavy backpacks. One of them was laughing so hard he doubled over. Another spilled iced coffee on his shoes. They looked so alive. So certain of their trajectory. They knew exactly where they were going.

"I do not regret the hardware," Arthur said finally. The students reached the sidewalk. The light turned green. "I regret the silence."

"What silence?" I asked. I pressed the gas pedal.

"The silence in my head," he said. "I never yelled. I never broke anything. I just let the days happen to me. Like weather. I stood in the rain and let it wash me away."

We drove the rest of the way without talking.

We pulled up to the facility. It was a massive brick building. It looked like a hospital trying desperately to disguise itself as a resort hotel. Fake white pillars held up the front awning. A circular driveway wrapped around a dead fountain.

I put the car in park.

"We are here," I said.

Arthur opened his eyes. He looked out the window. He took off his sunglasses. His face went completely slack.

"I do not live here," he said.

My chest tightened again. "This is the address you gave me."

"My house is yellow," he said. His voice started to rise. "It has a porch. It has a lawn."

"Arthur," I said. "This is the address."

He looked at the brick building. His breathing got fast and shallow. "No. No. I have to water the lawn. The weeds are coming."

"Arthur, look at me," I said. I turned in my seat. I kept my voice steady. I didn't want to scare him. "You live here now. It is okay."

He looked at his hands. He rubbed his liver spots. "My hands are old."

"Yes," I said.

"Who are you?" he asked. The panic was rising in his throat. His eyes darted around the inside of the car like he was looking for an exit.

"I am Larry," I said. "We do the play together. The Plastic Orchard."

"The play," he whispered. He stopped rubbing his hands. "The Devil. The weeds."

"Yes," I said.

He took a deep breath. The panic receded, leaving behind that hollow exhaustion again. "Right. The play."

He unbuckled his seatbelt. His hands shook so badly he had to try three times before the metal clicked open. He opened the passenger door.

"See you tomorrow, Arthur," I said.

He stood on the curb. He shut the door. He leaned into the open window. The smell of hot asphalt and cut grass blew into the car.

"Do not be quiet, Larry," he said.

"I will not," I said.

He turned and walked toward the automatic sliding doors. A nurse in blue scrubs met him at the entrance. She took his arm gently. They walked inside together. The glass doors slid shut behind them.

I sat in the car. The engine idled. The dashboard clock read 3:42 PM.

I picked up my phone. I unlocked it. The screen was severely cracked in the top right corner. A spiderweb of glass covered the camera lens.

I opened my messages. I typed a reply to my professor.

"I had a family emergency. I will be at office hours tomorrow."

I hit send.

I put the car in gear. I drove away from the facility. The cherry blossoms lined the street all the way back to the main avenue. Pink popcorn against a brutal blue sky. The world was aggressive. It didn't care if you were ready. It didn't care if you were tired. It just kept blooming, forcing you to look at it.

I rolled down the window. The wind was freezing. It hit my face hard. It felt sharp. It felt like something real. I pressed the gas pedal harder. The engine whined in protest. The speedometer climbed. Forty. Fifty. Sixty.

I drove until the cherry blossoms blurred into a single, continuous smear of pink. I drove until the silence in the car broke. Until the wind rushing through the open window sounded exactly like a scream.