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***OPENING NIGHT***
Every evening before play practice starts, Jeffrey sits in front of the dressing room mirror and looks himself square in the eye. “You’re in the play!” he tells himself. “He picked you for the play. He wants you in the play.”
To ensure he gets that moment alone for his pre-rehearsal ritual, he always tries to be the first to arrive at the company’s borrowed performance space, pulling into the staff parking lot at Bridgetown Arts High School just as Mr. Buttons, the school’s janitor, is unlocking the doors. (He’s learned that arriving too early just means that you have a front-row seat for Mr. Buttons’s tai chi practice on the school’s front lawn.)
But tonight is no ordinary rehearsal. This is opening night. Still, there are certain similarities. Jeffrey exits his car and bends down to see if the oil pan is still leaking (it is), then hustles to catch up to Mr. Buttons so he can thank him for donating his time to the company.
Mr. Buttons appears to be wearing a slightly more formal version of his usual blue coverall, as a nod to the opening night festivities—the fabric has a shimmering iridescence to it that reminds Jeffrey of the ocean—and he has a single bird feather pinned to his breast like a corsage.
“Looking smart, Mr. Buttons!” Jeffrey greets him. “Thank you for being here. It’s a big night.”
He should be used to the janitor’s disconcerting manner by now, but the look he fixes Jeffrey with as he holds the door open seems even more intense than usual. “To love the stage as she must be loved, requires change,” he declaims.
“Oh!” says Jeffrey. He’d have thought that something like break a leg would suffice, but that’s Mr. Buttons for you. “Well! I’ll just—” he gestures into the building. Mr. Buttons nods enigmatically.
Jeffrey doesn’t get the dressing room mirror to himself, not tonight, as Stede and Ed arrive directly on his heels, followed by most of the nervous, chattering cast and crew. Still Jeffrey manages to whisper his mantra as he’s putting on his makeup: “You’re in the play. You’re in the play!”
***EIGHT WEEKS EARLIER***
After years of attending performances by the Gentleman’s Theatre Company, years of imagining himself on stage with them, Jeffrey has somehow worked up the courage to go to the information meeting for this year’s production. Fully half of his nervousness is about meeting the troupe’s director, Stede Bonnet, who’s known for the unique and creative productions he puts together each year on a shoestring budget. Even Jeffrey can admit that not every show is a success—who could forget the ill-fated Nun’s Revenge?—but Jeffrey is filled with admiration for the director’s passion, for his unyielding vision, for his—
“I’d like to welcome back all our returning players,” Stede says, emerging from behind the curtain with his arms outstretched. His golden hair shines under the stage lights against the muted backdrop of his black turtleneck. “I look forward to another year of pushing boundaries and exploring our shared vision. And of course, we’re delighted and privileged to have Ed with us once again.” A smattering of applause breaks out, and a person seated near the front of the auditorium raises one tattooed hand in acknowledgement. Jeffrey recognizes Ed, of course, from his starring roles in most of the company’s productions. And from the giant bouquet of flowers and gratuitous smooches he always bestows on the company’s director at curtain call.
“And a special greeting to our new recruits—” Stede’s eyes travel across the auditorium and land on Jeffrey. And then he winks. Jeffrey feels his face flush. “I have every confidence that you’ll plumb the depths and bring something truly compelling to auditions. And now, without further ado, I’m pleased to announce this year’s show.” He pauses for effect and takes a deep breath. “This season, the Gentleman’s Theatre Company will be performing—The Pirate’s Paramour by Jeff le Compte.”
The news is met with silence and a few muffled whispers, until a petulant voice pipes up from the back.
“I thought we were doing an Andrew Lloyd Webber show this time.”
“As I told you last year, Pete, we don’t have the budget for Andrew Lloyd Webber.”
“Did you mention my name? I was an understudy for Love Never Dies, he’d definitely remember—”
Stede continues as if he hasn’t heard, “Now, as Mr. le Compte is an up-and-coming name in the theatre world, he’s graciously allowed us to perform The Pirate’s Paramour for a reduced royalty rate, which leaves more in the budget for costumes! I’ve taken the liberty of sketching a few ideas.” Stede hands a bulging three-ring binder to a large man in the front row, who accepts it with a muffled “Jesus Christ.”
Andrew Lloyd Webber-related quibbles aside, Jeffrey is thrilled. A pirate show! By an up-and-coming playwright! He wonders if Ed will again be filling the starring role, presumably the titular pirate. And who might play his paramour? It certainly won’t be Jeffrey, not in the first of what he hopes will be many seasons with the company. Just to be onstage as part of the ensemble will be enough.
Three weeks later, Jeffrey gazes, breathless, at the cast list posted on the high school auditorium door. In a surprising development, Stede has cast himself as the pirate. Jeffrey marvels at the man’s seeming inability to consider any challenge too daunting. A true thespian! And Ed, fittingly, will play his paramour. Jeffrey scans down the rest of the list, his heart pounding in his ears, and there, at the bottom of the page—there it is! “Pirate #7…….Jeffrey Fettering.” Jeffrey! Fettering! In the play!
***OPENING NIGHT***
“This is the spoon from the ‘dicks about spoons’ scene! That comes after the snail fork scene! Where’s the snail fork?” Stede demands, holding up the offending spoon and casting accusing glances at the assembled cast members.
“Okay, I’m not saying that I had anything to do with it, but—”
“Spit it out, Pete!”
“Well, you’re always saying you want us to show initiative—take ownership for the company—”
“Not ownership, I’m the owner of this company,” Stede huffs. “But initiative, yes. Now what does that have to do with the snail fork?”
“Well, you remember when I brought Lucius to the rehearsal? And he was jotting down helpful notes?”
Stede snorts.
Pete ignores the reaction. “Well, he said that the silverware wasn’t catching the light like it should. And so I used my own personal time to polish it. Because if there’s one thing that I learned from my time on the West End—”
There are murmurs of impatience from the assembled cast.
“Okay, okay. I might have mixed up which props were supposed to go on stage and which ones were going back to the prop room.”
Everyone groans.
“Good god, I don’t have time to search through that mess,” Stede says. “Does anyone know what the snail fork looks like well enough to find it in there? Not you, Pete, you’ve ‘helped’ enough.” And then time slows down, as Stede pivots to the left, his eyes wide and searching, and they land on—
“Ah, Jeffrey! Be a good man and run to the prop room for me, would you? You know the fork we’re looking for?”
“I—I think I—”
But Stede is already gone, his coat swirling behind him as he strides off to attend to . . . whatever else must be on the mind of a trailblazing actor-director on opening night. Gosh, Jeffrey doesn’t know how he does it. It’s the least he can do to take one small thing off his plate. He glances at his wristwatch (must remember to take that off before showtime!) and sees that he’s got mere minutes to produce the prop before curtain. He can’t let his director down.
Jeffrey sprints backstage, as fast as his fake peg leg (fashioned ingeniously but precariously from butcher paper) will allow, holding his tricorn hat to his head as he goes. He brushes pasts Mr. Buttons, narrowly avoiding knocking him down, and shouts an apology in his wake. Arriving at the prop room, gasping for breath, he takes a moment to assess the chaos. The prop “room” is actually a large closet, in which the theatre company’s accoutrements share space with various cast-offs from the high school—decomposing holiday decorations, broken music stands, long-abandoned items from the lost-and-found. Along one wall there’s a door labeled “Janitor’s Closet,” Mr. Buttons’s domain, from which can sometimes be heard muted clanking, sloshing, and muttering. The secrets of the janitorial trade!
Jeffrey reminds himself to focus—he doesn’t have much time. He glances around the room and tries to think like Pete. Where would he put a snail fork?
There’s a box of antique medical implements on one shelf. Jeffrey remembers those from a scene in the experimental steampunk horror play the company put on a few years ago. Most of them are metallic and pointy in some way, so a snail fork might blend right in? It’s worth a look.
He reaches his hand gingerly into the box, mentally confirming the date of his last tetanus shot. Aha! his fingertips brush against sharp metal tines. He closes his fingers around his prize, holds it aloft and—
It’s not the right fork. It’s quite tarnished (apparently Pete missed it in his cleaning spree), and it has a deep red jewel inlaid in the handle—oddly, the gem seems to be emitting a faint light of some sort. “Oh, bugger,” Jeffrey mutters, about to toss the fork down and continue his search, when Ed pushes the prop room door open with one hand, still hooking his fake beard over his ear with the other.
“Oh, thank god, you found it. I’m about to go on. Hand me the fork, and I’ll just—”
Before Jeffrey can point out that it’s the wrong prop, Ed’s fingers brush against his and close around the fork. There’s a flash of light and a sudden bang, and Jeffrey feels a whoosh of wind and then—
He’s on the floor. He’s on the floor and his knee hurts and there’s a strand of long hair in his mouth, somehow, and when he spits out the hair and opens his eyes, he sees—
Himself. Jeffrey screams.
So does Jeffrey. The other one. More like a yelp, actually. What is going on?
Other Jeffrey scuttles backward, bumping up against a storage rack piled high with knickknacks, which wobbles precariously. Reflexively, Jeffrey brings his hand to the back of his own head. He’s lost his hat, which is understandable, but instead of thinning wisps of hair over his familiar bald spot, he feels thick, wavy strands. He lets his fingers trail down the back of his neck and pinches a strand to pull it forward into view. It’s shot through with every gradation of black and silver, and extends well past his shoulders. It looks exactly like—
“Oh fuck, oh shit,” murmurs the other Jeffrey, who has one hand on his head and one patting down his chest and belly.
Jeffrey glances down at his own body, from the fake beard that adorns his chest to his shockingly svelte torso, encased in leather and buckles and—oh god. He’s Ed. He looks up and locks eyes with the man across from him. Ed is him. He’s Ed. “What the…” he whispers.
“…fuck is going on?” finishes Other Jeffrey. Or Ed, rather.
Jeffrey blinks. “I think we—” He starts twiddling his fingers as if that can adequately convey the experience of—apparently—having his consciousness implanted in someone else’s body. Good heavens, his hands have spiders tattooed on the backs of them!
Ed just stares at him, a look of horror on his face, his mouth gaping open. It’s not an attractive look, Jeffrey notices, with a pang of shame.
In one coordinated motion, their eyes alight on the fork lying on the floor between them. It’s now gleaming silver, the tarnish apparently burned away by whatever just happened.
“Fucking fork,” Ed growls, grabbing for it. He drops it immediately and brings his fingers to his lips. “Shit, it’s hot. And, like, weird.”
Before his brain can process what it’s just seen, Jeffrey’s—Ed’s—hand darts out to touch the fork. The heat sends a quick jolt of pain up his arm to his spine, his vision swims, and his heart seems to drop into his stomach. “Oh—oh dear,” he says.
“Five minutes to places, everyone!” Stede’s voice echoes from the hall. “And where is Ed? Has anyone seen Ed?”
Jeffrey watches as Ed’s head swivels toward the sound and he instinctively jumps to his feet. His paper peg leg crinkles as he teeters, finding his balance in an unfamiliar body. “Shit.”
Jeffrey scrambles up as well, grunting at the twinge in his left knee. (It’s better than the peg leg, though.)
“We have to stop the play until we figure this out,” Ed says, his eyes darting around the room. “Some kind of distraction?—A fuckery—”
“I can—” Jeffrey stops, startled by how uncharacteristically deep and self-assured his voice sounds. “I can go on for you.”
“Fuckin’ weird, man, hearing my own voice like that,” says Ed, scrunching up his nose. “Wait. What do you mean? You’re not my understudy.”
“No, but I, ah, I know all your lines.” Jeffrey gives his fake beard a tug to adjust it so he can speak clearly “And everyone else’s.”
“All the lines?” Ed laughs, and goodness, Jeffrey can’t believe how annoying it sounds. How awful. “I don’t even know all the lines and I wrote the damn thing.”
“You’re Jeff le Compte?” Jeffrey’s head is spinning, the new information overloading his already-taxed brain.
“Well, yeah. Stede and I kind of workshopped the idea together, and then—oh god, Stede.”
Stede’s voice can still be faintly heard from the hallway, growing more and more frantic as he searches for his co-star.
“We can’t let him down,” Ed says, suddenly resolute. “This theatre company is his life. Do you think you can get through the performance? And then we’ll figure out—this—” he gestures down at Jeffrey’s body with a look of dismay— “after the show.”
Jeffrey takes a shaky breath and sets his jaw. “I can,” he says. “And you’ll have to go on for me, in the ensemble. Do you know those lines?”
Ed screws up his face, thinking. “Yo ho ho? Lots of Arrrrrrrrrs?”
“Pretty much,” Jeffrey says. He gives Ed a hearty clap on the shoulder, which he wouldn’t normally do, but somehow in this body, it feels right. “You’ll do great. Break a leg,” he says, gesturing at the fake peg leg. “Oh wait, you already did!” A joke! Does humor come easier in this body as well?
“Ed! There you are! Where have you been?” Stede bursts into the prop closet, his eyes wild.
Jeffrey instinctively looks to Ed, who gazes back at him with wide, urgent eyes.
“Oh!” exclaims Jeffrey. “I mean, oh, I think I see the fork!” He points across the room vaguely. “I just came in here to help, um, Jeffrey, and—”
“Yeah,” Ed says, following Jeffrey’s lead. “I think it’s just—” and then, miracle of miracles, he reaches his hand into a random vase and pulls out the missing snail fork. “Here you go, Ed,” he says, holding it out.
Jeffrey hesitates for the slightest moment before taking it from him, unsure of whether it will trigger some new, more horrifying event. But nothing happens. The fork is inert and cool to the touch, a perfectly normal fork in all respects, and he slips it into into the pocket of his leather jacket and hurries—sore knee be damned—to take his place onstage.
***ONE HOUR LATER***
Jeffrey is suffering. He doesn’t know how Ed does it. The leather outfit doesn’t breathe at all, his chin is glazed with sweat under the fake beard, and it seems like he has to toss his hair over his shoulder with every other line he speaks to make sure it doesn’t stray into his mouth.
And the mental effort! He knows the lines from his frequent rereads of the script, from silently mouthing along during endless rehearsals, but he’s never had to deliver them out loud, while doing all the blocking.
Still, he’s managing. He knows he doesn’t command the stage effortlessly, like Ed does, but there seems to be an air of authority that comes with simply piloting this body. And his delivery may leave something to be desired as he struggles to keep the lines straight, but even a slightly robotic delivery must still sound appealing in this voice.
For his part, Ed seems to be muddling through as Pirate #7, following the leads of the other six pirates. During one of his few moments offstage, Jeffrey watches from the wings as the butcher paper strips of Ed’s fake peg leg come loose and trail onto the floor. He catches what looks to be an expletive on Ed’s lips as he notices and shuffles his feet to avoid stepping on it and damaging it further.
Finally, somehow, the stage lights go down and the house lights go up for intermission. Jeffrey rushes offstage as if he’s making a beeline for the bathroom, but he detours to the prop closet. Ed’s already there, sitting on the floor and ripping off the paper peg leg. “Oh, fuck off, fuck you, fuckin’ little—Oh, not you, man,” he says, tone softening as he stops struggling with the paper and acknowledges Jeffrey’s entrance.
Jeffrey raises his eyebrows.
“My character was miraculously healed offstage,” Ed says, crumpling the paper into a ball. “I wrote the thing and magic definitely exists in this universe.”
Jeffrey nods. “And in ours, it would seem.”
Ed looks thoughtfully at the fork, still lying on the floor where they left it. “I wonder—” He reaches one tentative finger out. “Oh fuckin’ shit.”
Just then, the door to the janitor’s closet swings open. Jeffrey jumps back and Ed lets out a little screech.
Mr. Buttons steps out. “I’d nae be touchin’ that if I were ye,” he says. “Send ye into a tunnel of despair.”
Ed scoots gingerly away from the fork.
“We could have used that warning before!” Jeffrey exclaims. Then he lowers his voice. “There was a boom and a flash and now he’s in—I’m in—” Jeffrey gestures frantically, but Mr. Buttons seems unfazed.
“Aye, a transmogrification,” he says, sagely, and turns to go back into the closet.
“But what are we supposed to do?” Jeffrey says, rushing to grab the door before Mr. Buttons can pull it closed. He somehow manages to execute a neat sidestep to avoid stepping on the fork, thanks to Ed’s sharp reflexes.
“Dinnae worry,” Mr. Buttons says. “I’ll hunt for a suitable vessel.” He pulls the door shut firmly, and Jeffrey only just gets Ed’s fingers out of the way in time.
“What did he mean by that?” Ed whispers.
“I don’t know, I suppose we’ll just—”
“Places please!” Stede calls from the hallway.
“Well, that’s my cue, I guess,” says Jeffrey, fiddling with a jacket buckle.
“You’re doing well out there,” Ed says.
“Thank you,” Jeffrey says, his face warming. “Lots of big scenes coming up in the second act, I hope I can—”
“I know you can,” says Ed. His eyes narrow. “And just—well, remember this is a one-time thing, is all. Hopefully.”
Before Jeffrey can ask him what he’s implying, he’s being whisked back onstage. The second act passes in a blur. Jeffrey handles the shifts in tone, the romantic energy building and flowing between the pirate leads, as well as he can. He nearly cries in gratitude when, during a few precious moments offstage, his character “shaves” and he gets to ditch that abominable fake beard.
But it’s only then, as John hurriedly applies fresh makeup and powder to his newly-naked chin, that he remembers. The climactic emotional scene is coming up next. He’s got one more big monologue to deliver, a confession of love, and then. Then. The lovers are going to kiss. He’s going to kiss Stede.
“Oh, I can’t—” he murmurs.
“Don’t move your lips.”
“Mmmph,” says Jeffrey, helplessly.
John finishes his work and holds up a hand mirror for Jeffrey’s approval. Jeffrey gazes upon Ed’s objectively beautiful face, his distinctive nose, his perfect jawline. His large, expressive eyes, are, Jeffrey can tell, full of fear—but nobody else needs to know that.
“You’re in the play,” he whispers to himself.
“What’s that?” John says.
“Nothing! Just warming up the old vocal cords.”
John takes the mirror back and taps him lightly on the ass with it. He winks. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
And Jeffrey…does. He strides confidently onstage, ready to deliver his declaration of love. And Stede—Jeffrey's relied on him the entire play, but only now does he really comprehend how wonderful he is as a scene partner. He embodies the character’s complexity—the mix of brash self-confidence and naïve vulnerability. And his authority as director and leader of the company undergirds his every body movement, every intonation. Jeffrey is in awe and grateful for the chance to share the stage with him.
For the first time all night, Jeffrey feels truly at home on stage. He knows this monologue best of all Ed’s lines—it’s beautiful, and he’s heard it endless times in rehearsal. The characters are sitting side-by-side on the beach, so he doesn’t have to worry about stage directions, just emotion. Energy sparks between him and Stede as they lean in closer, drawn together by an unstoppable force. Jeffrey slings one arm around Stede’s shoulders and delivers his final line, the one that conveys the true depth of his character's feelings, and there’s only one thing left to do.
Time stands still. Stede’s hazel eyes, wet with emotion, flutter closed and his lips part slightly. All Jeffrey has to do is close the final inches of distance between them and go in for the show-stopping kiss. But he can’t move. He’s not Ed. He’s not the star of the show. He’s just Jeffrey. Pirate #7. There’s not a sound, nor a stir of movement in the whole auditorium. He knows the audience is waiting, hearts in their throats, just like he’s been every day of rehearsal during this scene.
And then—he hears Mr. Buttons’s words echoing, clear as day, in his mind: “To love the stage as she must be loved, requires change.” Tears spring to Jeffrey’s eyes. He loves the stage! Here, even in the wrong body, he’s home. And then his body simply moves. He leans in, tipping his head to the right as Ed always deos. Stede takes in one sharp little breath, and then—their lips meet. It’s a stage kiss, simple and chaste, yet—familiar. Stede is kissing him like he’s done it a thousand times before, and Ed’s body knows what to do. Jeffrey has watched them enact this same kiss over and over in rehearsal, watched with his heart fluttering in his chest, just like it’s fluttering now.
It’s Stede’s job to break the kiss, thankfully, because Jeffrey, lost in the moment, might have forgotten. He pulls back with the tiniest, softest sigh that only Jeffrey can hear. They hold eye contact for a moment and Jeffrey can see that Stede’s are sparkling.
Jeffrey’s heart (Ed’s heart?) beats wildly in his chest, blood thudding in his ears, and then—applause. The audience cheers. The cast swarms onto the stage for their curtain call.
Someone taps Jeffrey on the shoulder. It’s Ed, holding out Stede’s gaudy opening night bouquet. Jeffrey raises his eyebrows, unsure if he’s worthy of the honor of delivering it. Ed presses the bouquet into his arms just in time, and Stede turns to Jeffrey, the same look of mock surprise on his face as every opening night.
“Darling!” he whispers, pulling Jeffrey in close, going for the customary smooch. Jeffrey thinks about the softness of his lips, the little sigh. He could—he shouldn’t—but—
“Oh, sorry!” Ed exclaims as he stumbles into them, grabbing both of their shoulders to brace himself and separating them with his body. “Tripped over my own two feet! Good golly, look at the crowd tonight,” he murmurs, keeping himself firmly planted between Stede and Jeffrey.
Jeffrey tamps down the mildest annoyance at Ed’s impression of him (“Good golly”? Really?), but he’s grateful to have the situation defused. After their bows, he lets the rest of the cast sweep him offstage, then he and Ed neatly bypass the celebrations and duck back into the prop room.
Mr. Buttons is waiting there, and he gives Jeffrey an approving look and a little nod before pulling them both into the janitor’s closet. It’s quite crowded in there with three of them, though somehow the closet is larger than seems possible from the outside.
“Found a suitable vessel,” Buttons says, gesturing at a wheeled mop bucket filled with sudsy water (the mop is nowhere to be seen). He brandishes a pair of tongs he must have nicked from the cafeteria and gives the water a stir. Steam rises from it ominously.
Jeffrey catches Ed’s eyes over Button’s bent back. Ed shrugs. It’d either this or stay in the wrong bodies forever, which—Jeffrey would be lying if he didn’t see the appeal of walking through life in Ed’s lithe form. But, looking at his own body—as sweaty and balding as it is—he feels a little pang of longing. He’s playacted as Ed, but he knows that the role he was born for is, simply, to be Jeffrey.
“She’s ready,” Buttons intones, standing up straight and using the tongs to pull the fork, dripping and steaming, out of the bucket. “Give me your hands.”
“How do you know it won’t do that ‘tunnel of despair’ thingy you mentioned?” Ed says, clasping his hands behind his back.
“It’s been purified in the waters,” Buttons says, as though that should be obvious. “Hurry, we dinnae have much time.”
From the hallway, Jeffrey can hear the celebrations becoming more raucous. He takes a breath, tosses Ed’s luscious locks back over his shoulder one last time, and stretches out his hand.
There’s a bang. A splash. The single light bulb hanging above their heads goes out.
“Fuck,” says Ed’s voice, from the other side of the closet.
Jeffrey clears his throat. “Ed? Mr. Buttons?” His voice is quavery, but it’s his own. He crawls on his hands and knees, feeling his way to the door, and pushes it open, flooding the closet with light.
“Dear god, Ed, what happened?” Stede gazes into the closet with a look of alarm. He brushes past Jeffrey and Mr. Buttons, who has somehow ended up with the mop bucket overturned on top of his head, but seems otherwise unharmed. Dropping to his knees, Stede takes Ed in his arms and brushes his hair back from his face, checking him for damage.
“‘s fine, I’m fine,” Ed says, but he doesn’t break away from Stede’s embrace.
“We’re all right,” Jeffrey says, though Stede hasn’t asked. “We were just helping Mr. Buttons with—with something, and—”
Stede, not listening, is busy pressing kisses to Ed’s face. “You were marvelous tonight, darling,” he gushes.
“Well, okay, then!” Jeffrey helps Mr. Buttons extract himself from the mop bucket. He’s dripping wet but seems none the worse for wear. “Thank you for your help,” he whispers. Mr. Buttons nods his head silently and gives a little bow.
“Guess I’d better just—” Jeffrey says.
As if on cue, Stede turns his head, without relinquishing his hold on Ed. “Oh, Jeffrey! When did you get in here?”
“I, uh—”
“You performed splendidly tonight. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought were a veteran of the stage! It’s an honor to have you in the company.”
“Yeah, mate, I really think you carried the play tonight,” Ed says, catching Jeffrey’s eye as he accepts another kiss from Stede.
Jeffrey hears Stede huff, “well, I wouldn’t go that far,” as he walks out of the closet, ready to get out of his damp costume and into some comfortable clothes. He catches a glimpse of himself, his familiar body, as he passes the dressing room mirror, and he can’t help but smile. He’s in the play!