“You were Annie, li’l orphan Annie,” he’d said, rolling on his side looking at her. She touched a hand under her bobbed haircut, fluffing up her hair, her legs tucked under her.

“With naturally curly blonde hair, how could I not be chosen,” she said, smiling through a smug haughty expression she’d brought to her face. Peter grinned at the snooty tone of her voice.

“Besides, Maria Cowland was tone deaf. And I had been in choir...” she swooped down to kiss him.

“Tomorrow, I love you tomorrow,” he mumbled against her mouth.

“How about now, my name is Jennifer H. Dihmer,” she replied, catching up his arms, stretching.

“Who else were you?”

The question slowed her. A finger absently traced shoulder. Who was I? She thought back, remembering.

“I was Christopher Robin in Winnie the Pooh, and once I played Ophelia, Annie, um, and in college the old mother in Beckett’s Endgame. Oh, and my personal favorite, Francis Farmer in a whacked out piece of playwriting as any young avant garde troupe ever performed...”

“Who was Francis Farmer?” Peter asked.

“Oh, a big ‘40’s stunning studio star, who ended up wrongly in an insane asylum, placed there by the white male patriarchy that couldn’t understand her.”

“Didn’t play by the rules?”

“We never do...”

“So why did you stop acting?”

Jen tilted her head, listening. She liked that question, Peter wanted to know, know about her. She decided she liked that. There had been too many who did not want to know, and she was tired of them.

“The world of the theater, Peter, is filled with a lot of self-centered folks.” “They’re everywhere.”

“Yes, but they seem concentrated in the acting field. I simply got tired of assholes. Directors who want to be leaders but aren’t, everyone is out for control of everyone else. It wasn’t quite my game.”

Rising to a sitting crouch, Peters hands entertained her hair, the ghost of a half smile on his face. He’s remembering something, Jennifer realized, his mind seemed back in time. She wondered where he was, what he was seeing. She felt like she wanted to know.

“What...” she asked.

“Nothing...” he smiled.

“Come on, tell me, I want to know.”

“I mean, its just that, I was never in a play, too shy.” His head did a ducking motion.

“What? You weren’t that shy when we first met.” This time it was she recalled to the past, to the party.

“I was boosted by the power of alcohol, what could I do?” he protested, grinningly helpless.

“Nothing,” Jennifer said, resting down on his shoulder, relaxing in his presence and comfort. “Nothing.”

As often occurs, the synchronicity of conversations at night often blends in with actual actions the next day. Jennifer knew that, metaphysically speaking, who we are today is the result of yesterdays thinking, could also shape actually events. So, she took it all in stride when, the following morning at work slinging bagels and coffee for 7.00 dollars an hour, she was faced with last nights conversation. A man dressed in an overcoat with a long draping scarf approached the counter, carrying in his arms a stack of papers.

“Excuse me..” He said, a slow, polite smile cracking his face. Jennifer, wiping the remains of some garlic and chive cream cheese on her apron glanced up.

“Yes, care for a bagel? The pumpernickel’s fresh out of the oven.” The man gave them a look, bending his head to examine them in their baskets behind the glass.

“They do look, and” here he sniffed the air, leaning towards her and sniffing again, a furrow crossing his brow, “...smell delicious, but I was simply wondering if I might place a flyer in the window.” He pushed his armful of sheets at her.

“Well,” Jennifer said, “depends on what it is for.” His hand drew a red sheet out and handed it to her. It was an audition for a play. What do you know, Jennifer thought to herself, and here I was just talking about this with Peter. There was a black xeroxed picture of an old sailing ship about to slip of the edge of the world, back when it was flat. Words spread across the sky.

“Theatre of the Abyss, holding tryouts for one woman, 2 men, production of Abdul Rleyh’s classic tale, The Rim of Darkness.” Jennifer read out loud. At the bottom was the theater address and phone number.

“Rim of Darkness, huh, what’s it about?” The man took a cut of scotch tape from a role he pulled from his pocket, sticking it to the paper, preparing to stick it on the window designated by the collage of colored flyers announcing local rock shows, parades and community events as the bagel shops bulletin board. He had taken her lack of refusal as a yes.

“It’s an interesting enough fable, a bit of a cross between a Faustian story and Becketts Endgame.” He stuck the flyer face out to the wide world.

“Endgame, I was in that.” Jennifer told his back. The man paused, then swept around, affected. Jennifer heard him pause in all the right places.

“Oh, perhaps you’d care to audition?” She felt his eyes appraise her.

“Maybe..” she said, undecided. She remembered other auditions. The silence of the stage, the blank faces of the director and his ilk working their critic into every pore on her face, every inflection of voice. Still, to know one had been chosen. And as her resume showed, she had been chosen.

The man saw the look on her face, and smiled. Another insect in the trap of ego. He drew another flyer from his stack.

“Here’s one, just for you.” Then he left, leaving her to her thoughts.

Work was a slow day, and Jennifer found she was turning over the idea of trying out for the play. She decided she would talk it over with Peter and see what he had to say about it. She mentioned it after she had closed the shop and the two were biking home to her house, Peter having also finished work at the library.

Speaking excitedly despite the rapid breathing as they pedaled up the hill, he was all for it.

“That’d be great, Jen, you in a play! I’m sure you’d get the lead.” “I’m not sure, you know, like I told you. The other night, the acting world..” Peter broke in emphatically again.

“Come on, you’re always talking about how you want to do something other than work your dull bagel job. This could be a project for you, give your time more meaning before you finally get the post graduation days over and get on with your life!”

“Look who’s talking Mr. ‘I work at the library answering phones’ man.” Peter had to grin ruefully at that. He’s in the same boat as me, she knew.

“Hey, the benefits are good.”

“But I get free food,” she declared, trying to get in the last word. His eyes lit up.

“Did you get some chocolate croissants?” He asked.

“In the bag.” They pedaled up the driveway of their rented two bedroom home. Jennifer was decided. She would try out for the play. After all, she told herself, buttering bagels just isn’t stimulating enough for a girl like me, as Peter would learn, again, later that night.

Rising in the morning, Peter had already gone to work. She found a note from him taped to a mason jar of fresh squeezed orange juice in the refrigerator. He told her to make the call for the audition and take the bull by the horns. And that he loved her.

Still, she hesitated at the phone, and had to go shopping at the health food co-op and tend to other errands before she was back at home and could force herself to dial the number. After all, she could still recall other auditions. It was true she had gotten leads, but for every one role she won had failed to get two. Just as it was a rush to be chosen, the flipside of the coin was equally true. To not get a part after acting your heart out for some pony tailed director named Conrad who went on and on about audience actor epiphanies was like learning that your childhood dog had just died. Well, maybe almost like, she amended.

Just dial the number, she told herself, you have nothing to lose but pride. Besides, Peter expected her to do it and, she had told him she would. After all, it was only a simple audition. She had yet to score the part.

“Studio Avernus?” A voice came on over the phone after she had dialed, low and guttural. Sounds of creaking were in the background, and a low murmur of chants. Part of the stage? She wondered, doing a test of the sound effects?

“Yes, I’m calling about the tryouts, a woman for Rim of Darkness.” “Yeah, you want to audition. Anytime.” the voice sounded as if it didn’t care at all, flat and with no inflections save for the hint of a sneer. Must be the stage manager she thought.

“How about today?” It was her day off.

“Fine, four o’clock.” the voice reeled of an address for her. Why not, she figured. Jump into this thing cold. She had always volunteered first in high school. Get those oral reports done first so you didn’t have to wait. Plus, you set the standards.

“Do I need to bring anything?” she asked.

“Nope. Just yourself. Good-bye.”

Abrupt, she thought as the voice rang off, and set about preparing for the audition.

The studio was located in a warehouse space down on the waterfront. Locking her bike to a metal pole, she looked around for the big red warehouse door described to her, finding it soon enough. A huge clapboard piece of wood hung above the double doors, painted in white, sloppy dripping letters; ‘Studio Avenus presents: Abdul Rylehs Rim of Darkness’.

The door was slightly open on its track, creating a space wide enough for one person, spilling a corridor of light into a darkened partitioned space. The darkness muffled the sounds, but Jennifer caught whispers near the back behind a raised wall. Cast shadows distorted themselves up into the tall rafters, and the whole place echoed faintly with the low murmured chanting she’d heard over the phone. The sound was low enough to border on not existing at all.

Soon enough, though, it blended into the background of Jennifer’s mind. She stepped forward, making sure not to trip over a scattering of electrical cords snaked around on the ground. She kept her eyes focused on the slivers of light and sounds of voices talking. Some man was yelling. Great, she murmured to herself, that must be the director.

“Very astute.” a voice at her side made her jump. She turned to make out a short, squat man with a gnarled face. His rubbery chin jutted forth strongly. His lips were curled in almost a constant look of disdain.

“You are here for the audition?” She recognized the voice from the phone, its same, steady monotone.

“Who are you ?” she asked.

“The stage manger. Please, come this way.” “Very astute..” she murmured, under her breath. The man must have heard her, for he cocked his head.

“You guessed I was the stage manager?” he asked, an eyebrow lifted quizzically.

“Well, “ Jennifer told him as she walked by piled up boards with painted scenarios on them, “If you’ve been acting enough, you get a feel for who goes where.”

“I see what you mean,” her guide replied, “Perhaps you should be the director.” he said with a loud sniffing noise. With that he ushered her into a space surrounded by cutout black shapes, continuing on past a small raised stage and a number of folding chairs.

In the front row stood a tall man with thick glasses, his hair tied back in a slick ponytail, gesturing wildly with meaty hands, yelling. The shorter, well dressed fellow sitting in a chair next to the yeller, whom Jennifer had already pegged as the director, kept waving around a clipboard. She figured him for the assistant. The stage manager made a loud cough, which grabbed the attention of the two arguers. Then he shuffled off and Jennifer could hear him moving chairs.

“I’m here to audition. Jennifer Dihmer.” Jennifer told them.

“What do you want?” The director adjusted his glasses, casting a look to the assistant who shuffled hurriedly a pile of papers.

“Yes, good,” he turned to her again. “I am the director, Ethan, and this is the assistant director Whately.” They both gave her a little bow, directing her with a gesture up to the stage and sitting themselves down in their seats.

“Now Ms. Dihmer, have you acted before?” “Yes, it was my minor in college.” She replied, gazing out over the black enshrouded warehouse, dustily illuminated by a side row of muddied windows, giving the whole theater space a feel which Jennifer could only describe as ‘Orson Wellesian’.

“Good,” Ethan waved her experience away with a fleshy hand, “Then we don’t have to deal with making you feel at ease and can get to the matter at hand. Whately, give her a script to read. You read the other part.”

Whately climbed up on the stage and handed Jennifer a sheet of stapled paper. He then walked to a position opposite her and stood waiting, his large eyes blinking, a patient, silent expression on his face. His clothes were old fashioned, and a very brown color. His black hair was also, like Ethan’s, heavily greased back. A theater head if I ever saw one, Jennifer thought, ruffling the script in her hand, feeling its familiar weight.

“Excuse me, Ethan, could you tell me a little more about this production, I’ve not heard of you before, nor the play. Have you chosen any other actors? Do you have a script I need to memorize and..” Ethan held up his meaty hand, stopping her.

“No Ms. Dihmer, we’d like to see you cold, we’re looking for that more natural, raw feeling. We want that ‘you!’ energy. Just go for it. Go ahead. Go for it.”

Jennifer felt her mind go blank. He didn’t even listen. Not that they ever had, she knew. They had their vision, their master plan, of which she was a mere cog. Such were directors, she realized again. But then the phrase from this morning came back to her. Her decision to jump in feet first, take things as they come. She gave a sigh and shook her head in memory at her other auditions, and began to read over the script in front of her. Natural, raw, she thought to herself, like rain forest granola, organic apples.

“Whately, what is she reading?” Ethan yelled up to the stage.

“The Piacular Virgin, scene 6 page 66.” The small mans wet voice answered. Paper shuffling sounds came from the chairs. Jennifer began to turn to the page herself.

“Ahm. Ms. Dihmer, if you could just began at the top. I will follow as the voice of the seirizzin.” Whately and his near inaudible voice reached her.

“Okay, Okay. Scene Six, the seirizzin and Virginia talk. I start.” she nearly mumbled.

Jennifer, modifying her voice and posture to some sort of ‘Virginia’ began to speak, following her lines, imbibing the printed words with a physical manifestation. Not herself, not Jennifer, but this ‘Virginia’, this vague embryonic form she was giving life.

“A grand room you have, seizzin, the view out over the cliff is exquisite. Is this tower not lonely?”

“All souls are lonely, and all souls are one. Lonely? Ahh, that is why I asked you here, since I first sensed your flesh in the cafe, the absinthe misting your features, the outline, the curves, your own cliffsides.” Whately spoke, a monotone like the stage managers but more low, hypnotic, and trance inducing. It almost seemed to blend into the blackness of the warehouse.

Jennifer read on. It was beginning to sound like some sort of Faustian tale, as the man with the flyers had said.

“I remember, you touched my brow and spoke of..” “More dreamy!” shouted Ethan, standing. Jennifer looked at him yelling. He clenched his hands to his chest.

“Give me young, make it nubile!” His arms sketched a sky. “Virginia is untouched, sweet. Good, good. Go.”

He sat down, a pencil in his mouth, gazing at her. Sweet? Thought Jennifer. When was this play written? She added a lithe husk to her voice, tossing her head and hair around, lowering her eyelids. Whately began again.

“The drop of water on your skin. Your perspiration. I caught it in my fingers, owning it. I tested it in the fields of flame, bringing forth your image and commanding it. As I command you now, as you came here, before me, as you are now.”

“I am here now, seizzin, I am here for you.” Faustian it might be, she thought again, but its definitely not Goethe caliber.

“Hypnotized!” again the director broke in, “Come on Virginia, give me compliance!” Jennifer nodded, relaxed her muscles. She swayed a bit.

“You were always mine, Virginia.”

“Let me, show me.” Jennifer husked it, pushing herself up towards Whately. She did not notice him back away. Already she was reading forward, attempting to match movements to words.

“Yes, and what will I let you, do, as you ask.” Whately’s character hissed.

“Draw the red line from my throat to my dark chasm. Split my layers with the curved talon. Carve in my untouched cave your sharp symbol to open my earth and let me flow, over you. I will watch as you do, my eyes open, seeing all. Allow me to rut..” and Jennifer suddenly realized what she was reading.

A bile rose up in her throat. She didn’t know if it was from the image, or the descending particles of dust which fell illuminated in the sunlight. She could feel them settling in slow layers upon her skin, dry and caking. She felt it settling in her throat, clogging. It made her start to gag, but an instinct of acting, of her presence on the stage and the knowledge of the presence of the soft faced Whately and meaty hands of the director who was now standing, changed her gag into a laugh. At this Whately stepped back with a strange ducking bob of his head. Ethan fairly screeched at her.

“No laughing, no!! All wrong, don’t you know what to do!” He glared at her, his swinging hands knocked over a few chairs which the stage manager slowly righted. Jennifer, stunned, simply looked at him. She than looked again at her script and scanned the words. She did not like what they implied at all. And she realized that she didn’t have to take that yelling from Ethan.

She let the script fall from her hands to the floor, and jumped down from the stage. Whately followed behind her, swooping up her script from the floor and anxiously smoothing its pages. I don’t need this play, she told herself, grabbing her coat.

“Good-bye, Ethan, Whately. I don’t think I like your play.” and she turned to leave. Ethan glared at her, his fists clenching and unclenching. She noticed a fine line of spittle draining from the corner of his twisted mouth.

“Fine, Ms. Dihmer, we don’t need you.” and then he made a movement which unsettled her. She backed away fast and turned and left. She did not look at the two men again. The director had leaned down close to her waist and drew in a breath through his nose, sniffing her.

“You don’t smell right.” he had said.

Jennifer made it to the warehouse door before she realized she was holding her breath.

“We’ll get others!” the director had shouted in parting from the dark recesses of the theater. The stage manager stood by the entrance, ushering her out. She looked at him and he looked blankly neutral back at her.

“Too bad.” he said. “You were good. Please, have two complimentary tickets. Opening night.” He stuffed them in her hand and directed her out, slamming shut the door.

Her two green eyes blinked in the sunlight. As she numbly pedaled away from what she could only describe as a strange audition, the low hum of chanting again came muffled from the warehouse turned theater. It took a sweaty bike ride home and hot shower to finally wash all feeling of dust free from her body.

Later that night, entwined under sheets with Peters warm body, the strangeness of the day was fast fading. It had all seemed so unreal, so that she couldn’t quite relate to Peter the key nature of what it was that had disturbed her about the event.

“They were just creepy, that’s all.” she told him as his chest rose and fell, lifting and dropping her head as it rested in the nook of his shoulder. “More so than most theater folks I’ve worked with.”

“Creeps.” chuckled Peter, his voice resonant in her ear. “They were creeps. What a word.”

“Something about the play, “ she murmured, “It rubbed against my integrity.” A sleepiness began to seep from her legs.

“I do like your integrity.” Peter replied, moving a hand to rest over her smooth shoulder. The movement caused Jennifer to twitch, she felt her body relaxing in spasms signaling sleep. She trailed off a last sentence before soft dreams took her.

“No more acting, “ she drawled into Peters skin, “Think I’ll write my own play.” “I’ll help. “ Peter whispered, as the day faded slowly into sleep.

Despite a retelling of her adventures on her day off to her fellow co-workers, the event had slowly dropped from her memory. The audition was replaced by a monotone of daily coffee orders and tasting of bagels mixed with the more substantial interactions with Peter at home and in town, drinks with friends and well cooked dinners. Days turned to weeks, and a deepening of her and Peters relationship. Jennifer found herself looking with Peter for a more desirable, fulfilling mode of life. They began to seek out a new town to relocate to. One that was bigger and offered better opportunities than the food service industry and library information desk. Thus it was that Jennifer did not remember the Theatre of the Abyss and its play entitled the Rim of Darkness till she saw flyers appear, though not in the bagel shop, announcing its opening performance that weekend. Searching her drawer of coupons she found the two complimentary tickets given her and decided to see how the play would turn out.

“Shall we get decked out for the theater?” she asked Peter the night of the play. He poured her a glass of whiskey on the rocks and handed it to her. She looked at him over her sipping.

“I like getting duded up. And it is opening night.” The whiskey was already her third glass. She and Peter both had the next day off.

“ I thought you said those theater guys were creeps.” Peter said the word, relishing its pronunciation.

“I want to see how it turned out. Besides, it’s free.” “Can’t beat that. Shouldn’t we hurry? It’s starting soon.” Jennifer smiled at his haste.

“We’ve got to get duded up first.” Her hands began to work at the buttons on his shirt. She smelled the whisky on his breath as she kissed him. Peter protested, pulling away.

“Hey there, we’ll be late.”

“I like making you late.” she coyly grinned as she lead him to the bedroom to get ‘duded up’.

A swift and drunken bike ride brought them late to the warehouse theater. Giving their tickets to a tuxedoed usher at the door they entered into darkness and found all the seats taken. They stood with their arms around each other at the back near the door.

Illuminated actors moved slowly about the stage, a low chanting rising from their shuffling steps. A girl dressed in white gowns with a low slung bodice stood raised on a pole above the chanters. A tall man in a suit stomped around the scenario, waving a large knife in the air.

“That must be Virginia.” Jennifer whispered in Peters ear, wondering how the actress had survived her audition.

“Strange scene.” muttered Peter. The chanters increased their song, their voices singing faster, rising up into the rafters of the warehouse. Jennifer cast her eyes around, trying to spot the director. She spied him and the shorter form of Whately stage left in the front row. Their heads seemed riveted on the performance. Back on stage, the tall man stopped pacing in front of the girl, whose face glistened in the lights with a sheen of sweat. Her expression made Jennifer grip Peter tight.

The man stretched his arms forward and gently scraped the brow of the girl, turning to the audience with a gleeful look. A droplet of sweat glittered on the blade. A movement caught her eye.

Is this a postmodern play? Wondered Jennifer, or is the director climbing onto the stage as another character. Perhaps his audition technique was too harsh, and he was forced to play a role himself. But as she watched the director walk right up next to the knife wielder, and lick the blade with his tongue, she decided it must be a postmodern play because she was having difficulty deciding what was real, and what was acting.

“We shouldn’t have come so late.” Peter whispered. “Can’t make out what’s going on.”

Jennifer found she couldn’t take her eyes off the stage. There was no other sound other than the chanting. The audience too was mesmerized as Jennifer was. The director turned towards the audience, raising his big hands. The knife man stepped behind him, knife again raised, blocking the view of the girl. Jennifer’s ears began to hurt as the chant rose in crescendo. She saw a flash as the knife made a downward movement and the air rent with a concerted scream as the chanters voices yelled as one. The director began to gibber in a strange tongue, and beneath her feet, the ground began to shake. Her mouth went dry, and her feet moved her instinctively back, her arm tugging Peter with her. This was no play, she realized.

“Peter..” she whispered, and a red line suddenly split down the front of the director with his outstretched hands, onto the stage, and up the center aisle of the audience. The whole floor shook and a large snap rifled the air, and Jennifer and Peter gasped as a huge chasm began to crack open the ground. Dust clouded the air and flames erupted from buried unknown gases. The two sides of the warehouse titled, sliding the stage and audience members screaming into the flaming pit, flailing and trying to desperately hold onto sliding chairs, to stop their unfathomable descent. Jennifer tugged Peter out the door, an insane fear moving her legs, backpedaling rapidly as they watched the crack race towards them.

The chasm spread wide, a mottled vent down into sheer, alien terror. Pushing a dazed Peter outside she felt herself stumble into a body and her fearful eyes stared instinctively into the face of an unsmiling person she only later recognized as the stage manager. “

Not staying for the end?” he had leered at her, trying to block them, but Peter accidentally barged right into him, knocking him down. And then, they were through the door.

Collapsing outside the entrance to the warehouse, she looked back, and saw the manager calmly fall into the burning abyss which in no, sane way could have appeared there, his eyes steadily locked onto hers as he fell, smiling.

A wrenching sound coupled with human screams reverberated out over the industrial waterfront as the entire building collapsed inward upon its self, settling into a burning pile.

Cradled in Peters arms and limping away as the Theatre of the Abyss disappeared in a cloud of fire and brimstone, Jennifer realized now why she no longer ever wanted to get into acting again.