My first love was Hal Carter, the passion stirring drifter from William Inge’s play Picnic. I’d never fallen in love with a fictional character before. Sure, there’d been a celebrity crush or two, but Hal was different. Especially when he was played by Malcolm Rich.
As a classmate, Malcolm was a nice, quiet guy, who blended into the background. He wasn’t popular, but everybody seemed to like him. He wasn’t a jock, but certainly not a nerd. He wasn’t a brainiac, but not a burnout either. The kind of guy you forgot about the moment he left the room. I can’t even recall how many classes we had together our first three years of high school. But I was surprised to see him in my senior year acting class.
I proudly fell into the category of dork, with a side of band geek. Pale skin, plagued by acne, out of control curly hair and glasses thicker than the fantasy/sci-fi books I read. I’d been bullied most of my life, but as high school progressed, my bullies moved on to fresher targets.
In second grade, we saw a performance of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Watching actors bring characters to life on stage, I fell in love with theater. Unfortunately, there weren’t many opportunities to experience it considering my family’s lower middle-class, blue collar-ish status. We read a few plays in school, mostly Shakespeare and Raisin in the Sun, but thanks to budget cuts, drama clubs vanished from our district. Still, I dreamed about being part of that world someday.
A Theater Arts class was offered at my high school, but only to seniors. Looking forward to it is what got me through the first three years of torture. I was so happy to be there, I didn’t give a second thought to Malcolm. Even when we were sitting next to each other. Outside of pleasantries, we barely spoke. I was there to act.
The teacher, Mr. Dorsett, was a commanding, boisterous man. Some of my classmates complained that he was always yelling at them. But I knew he was performing. Theater was his life.
The class was in the school auditorium. Mr. Dorsett lectured like a college professor on stage. The first two weeks, he covered the history of theater. Mr. Dorsett brought what could be a boring subject to life. On stage he became historical characters and practically sang quotes from famous plays.
Next, we focused on voice and articulation. This was terrifying. Mr. Dorsett held a mirror up to our New England accents. Did we really sound like that? We did, but Mr. Dorsett drilled phonetics into us.
“If you’re going to take this stage,” he bellowed, “you have to learn to speak so people can understand you.”
We went up on stage and recited poems or short stories on index cards Mr. Dorsett handed us. Many of the students who went before me were nearly reduced to tears by his constant pausing and correction. “Enunciate!”
But when Malcolm took the stage, he recited Macbeth’s “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow” soliloquy with a sense of doom that left Mr. Dorsett speechless. He didn’t make any of his exaggerated cringes.
“Impressive!” he bellowed, making Darth Vader look like an amateur.
“Let’s see if you can follow that!” he snapped, as he handed me my index card.
I was terrified, bumbling over words. And to make it worse, I pronounced “tomato” and “potato” differently from each other. This sent Mr. Dorsett into a ten minute tirade about the pronunciation of the two words. I practically crawled back into my seat.
“Good job,” Malcolm said, without irony.
“Thanks.”
After that, Mr. Dorsett assigned scenes for us to workshop. I was given a few pages from Neil Simon’s The Odd Couple. Playing Felix, of course. My Oscar was John Bonner, a heavy-set stoner/rocker who wasn’t acting when it came to the role of a slob. He did what he had to do, actually showing some acting ability, but put the minimum amount of effort into it. Still, I was ecstatic to get a chance to perform in a comedy.
We read through our scenes on stage. Thankfully, I was called up before Malcolm. This time, my nervousness turned to excitement. I took command of the stage and got laughs from those who thought I was dull. For the first time in my life, I felt at home.
“You may barely measure five feet in height,” Mr. Dorsett shouted at me after my performance. “But on stage, you’re ten feet tall!”
I felt even taller as I returned to my seat. Other students congratulated me along the way.
“Man, you’re funny,” Malcolm told me.
“Thanks.”
Malcolm was cast as Hal in Picnic. His scene partner was Doreen Rizzo, the girl in class who took acting most seriously.
When he took the stage and began reading, his mannerisms changed. His voice deepened and he stood taller. He became Hal Carter. And he was hot!
I’d always found men more attractive than women, but those feelings scared me, so I ignored them. But there was no ignoring Hal. I’d only read about people feeling desire stir within them. That day, it stirred in me for the first time. Like a tornado.
When Doreen’s character leaned in for the scripted kiss with Hal/Malcolm, Mr. Dorsett roared, “Hold on the kissing!”
I was relieved, because had I seen Hal/Malcolm kiss anybody, I might have burst right there in my seat.
As Hal/Malcolm returned to his, the class erupted with thundering applause. He blushed.
“That… was…” I couldn’t find the rest of the words.
“Not as good as you,” Malcolm finished.
And Hal was gone.
***
I had two things to look forward to each day. The possibility of taking the stage to make people laugh. And the possibility of seeing Hal Carter.
Mr. Dorsett used Malcolm and Doreen to demonstrate a stage kiss. That’s when one actor holds the other’s face, covers their lips with their thumb and kisses that. Knowing how the “sausage was made” didn’t stop my mouth drying while watching Hal initiate the second kiss.
How I longed to be his thumb.
***
On the days Mr. Dorsett wasn’t helping us with our scenes, we’d rehearse around the auditorium lobby and hallways. Malcolm and Doreen were at it from start to finish of class. John Bonner barely wanted to read lines once. After that, he’d sit and read some rock music magazine while I’d stand and watch Hal.
One day, Doreen was out sick. So I summoned the nerve to ask Malcolm: “Would you like to run lines?”
“Sure,” he answered excitedly. “Want me to read for Oscar?”
“We can run yours first.” I tried to sound nonchalant about it.
“Oh,” Malcolm sounded disappointed. “We’re not doing the Hal and Alan scenes. Just the Hal and Madge ones.”
How had Malcolm known about the character of Alan? Had he read the entire script? Of course, I had, imagining Malcolm as Hal in every scene, but Malcolm didn’t seem like a reader.
“I’m OK reading Madge’s lines,” I told him. “You have so much to remember.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
As we began to read, I feared I’d made a terrible mistake standing so close to him. All my secrets would be revealed to our classmates when he became Hal Carter.
Those fears were forgotten when Hal spoke his first line to me. At that moment, I transformed from observer to participant.
Did he notice my voice was shaky? And that I was sweating?
When we got to the point where Madge suddenly kisses Hal, I leaned in.
We were so close. Did he hear my heart pounding as I reached out to hold his face?
He stopped.
“That’s where she kisses me,” he says, turning back to the script.
“Yeah…” I barely concealed my disappointment.
Before we got to Hal’s initiated kiss, Malcolm ended the scene.
“This is a lot of help,” he told me. “Wanna run yours?”
“Let’s do yours again,” I suggested.
Malcolm didn’t object.
***
“Am I doing OK?” Malcom asked me the next day, before he and Doreen started rehearsing.
“You’re doing great,” I told him. Meaning it. Then, as if trying to pry a nail out of a piece of wood, I struggled to suggest, “If you’re worried… I could help you rehearse more… at my house.”
“Really?” he sounded relieved.
“Yeah. My mom works in the afternoon. So we’d have the place to ourselves.”
“That’d be great.”
We planned where to meet after school.
Holy shit. Hal was coming home with me.
But first I had to endure walking home with Malcolm. He felt the need to make conversation, asking me about TV shows I didn’t watch and sports I could care less about.
Hal wouldn’t need to make small talk. We’d walk in a comfortable silence.
When we got to my place, Malcolm put his backpack down in my living room.
“Let’s go to my bedroom,” I boldly suggested. “In case my sister comes home and wants to watch her soaps.”
My sister was most likely watching them at one of her glee club friends’ homes.
“Sure.”
I couldn’t recall the last time I had a boy in my room. Once my childhood friends lost interest in playing Star Wars or army men with me, I had no reason to invite anybody. Any school group projects were done in the library.
I was embarrassed to see my underwear and pajamas from the night before discarded on the floor. I quickly scooped them up and hid them in the top draw of my bureau. I’m sure Malcolm saw them, but he made no comment.
He looked around my room, taking silent note of every geeky poster, framed comic, and collectible toy still in its original packaging.
I wasn’t sure how to initiate. So I was relieved after a moment when he turned to me and asked, “Are you OK reading for Madge?”
“Of course. An actor has to be ready to read any role.”
“So, you want to do this? Like… a job?”
“I dunno,” I said. Because I didn’t. “But I know I’ll do more when I get to college.”
“Oh. Cool.”
We began.
Malcolm was no longer in my room. Instead, Hal stood before me in all his bad-boy glory. Showing some vulnerability to me as I read for Madge.
“There’s no place in the world for a guy like me,” Hal confessed.
Yes, there is, I thought. My bedroom.
When I leaned in for the kiss this time, he didn’t stop me. I touched Hal’s face. Now I knew what they meant when they wrote about electricity running through you. Was there stubble on his cheek, or was I imagining it? I pulled his face closer to mine. Were we really staring into each other’s eyes?
Then I kissed him.
OK, I kissed my thumb. But I was touching his lips. And he didn’t pull away.
But I did. Fearing my body would betray me.
For his kiss, he followed my lead. Hal’s thumb was on my lips. For those moments, I was no longer on this planet, but floating among the-
“And we pretty much end there,” Malcolm brought me back to Earth.
“Maybe we should run it again,” I suggested.
“Sure.”
I hoped he didn’t see me kiss the thumb that touched his lips.
When we finished, Malcolm hung around, checking out more of my collectables. I wasn’t sure if he was expecting an invite to dinner, but I couldn’t get Malcolm out of my house quick enough. Didn’t want to spoil the memories of Hal’s visit.
***
“Do you want to take off your shirt?”
I couldn’t believe those words left my lips. I’d been thinking them for days, figuring I’d chicken out when the time came. But surprise.
“What?” Malcolm was caught off-guard.
That took the thrill out of my boldness. “In the play,” I held up the script, which I didn’t need at this point, “Hal is shirtless.”
“Oh?” Had he not realized that after all this time? “Does Mr. Dorsett expect me to…”
I shrugged.
“In front of all those people?”
“You’ve done it in gym class, right?”
“In the locker room. With the guys. Not… a bunch of strangers.”
They’d mostly be our classmates, but I wasn’t going to argue that point. Instead I said, “You can practice here.”
“That’d be weird.”
“All of theater is weird,” I said, having no idea what I meant. “The more you rehearse, the more comfortable you’ll get doing it.”
“Good idea.”
I couldn’t believe that worked.
He began unbuttoning his shirt. I pretended to look at my script, but watched him out of the corner of my eye. Under his shirt was a white t-shirt, so I’d have to wait for the final reveal. He folded the outer shirt and placed it on my bed.
The t-shirt didn’t flatter Malcolm’s body. But he quickly pulled that over his head and placed it, folded, on top of the other.
Malcolm was much fitter then I suspected. He wasn’t a muscle jock, but he was nicely defined. Even though he was just Malcolm at the moment, it was still nice to have a shirtless guy in my room.
Without his shirt, Malcolm was a bigger, bolder Hal. This Hal had a boyish face, but a manly chest. Firm, thick with hair and radiating heat.
I still kissed my thumb when I initiated. But when it came to Hal’s, he kissed me square on the lips. No thumb. What? Was that a mistake? I was so surprised, I almost choked on my own spit.
I gasped as he lifted me into his arms.
“We’re not goin’ on no goddam picnic.”
He threw me on my bed. I stifled a moan of ecstasy.
“Are you OK?” Malcolm sounded worried.
In that moment, he could have done anything to me.
“I’m great,” I smiled.
***
I was slightly jealous to see many of the moments we’d discovered in the privacy of my room being played out on stage with Doreen. Granted, his thumb remained the object of his passionate kiss, but he did get her permission to pick her up. Instead of throwing her on a bed, he walked offstage and placed her down gently.
“That’s going to look awesome!” Doreen exclaimed. If only she knew that she had me to thank.
“Is it OK if I wait until the nights of the show to perform shirtless?” Malcolm asked Doreen and Mr. Dorsett.
“If you’re both comfortable with it,” was Mr. Dorsett’s answer. I suspect he never expected Malcolm to remove his shirt, but wasn’t going to stifle his creativity.
“I am,” Doreen was excited. “It’ll really sell the moment.”
Another thing she should thank me for.
***
It was our last at home rehearsal before opening night. By now, Malcolm was comfortable taking his shirt off the moment he entered my room. I noticed he stopped wearing t-shirts, even though the weather was getting colder. Did he want his chest easily accessible? He droned on about his life or asked me basic questions about superheroes. But the moment he became Hal (now well off-book), I hung on every word that I knew by heart.
I stopped using my thumb during our kiss, too. He was fine with it.
I’d place my hands on his chest. Trying something different every scene. Starting with tentative touching, to grasping, to caressing. If questioned, I’d tell him I was trying to find moments for Doreen. But he never did.
In return, he’d place his hands on my body. My shoulders, my arms, and I thought I’d pass out when he cusped by butt. But they were all done with caution. He didn’t see Hal as a touchy-feely type. But Madge apparently was.
One time he put his hands on my chest, but stopped. “Don’t think Doreen would like that.” But I did.
During his initiated kiss, he opened his mouth. I was shocked, but welcomed it. No longer caring if he noticed what was happening to the rest of my body. Wanting him to.
Our tongues danced.
Then he literally swept me off my feet.
It felt like I was falling onto my bed forever. I almost begged him to fall on top of me.
Instead he asked, “Wanna run it again?”
“In a minute…”
***
The Picnic scene would close the showcase. My Odd Couple scene would end the first act. In retrospect, I’d have exchanged those to leave the audience with a laugh. But at the time, it was perfect.
I’d pace nervously backstage the first half of the night, worrying about my own performance. Hoping my partner wouldn’t screw up. (He didn’t.)
“Break a leg,” Malcolm said to me every night. I wished him the same. It was nice, but it wasn’t the encouragement I’d need from Hal.
I slayed it. I got big laughs with both my lines and reactions. Thank goodness Mr. Dorsett taught us how to hold for them. There was lots of holding.
Once I was done, I took off like a shot and headed into the audience.
As I passed people, I heard:
“You were hilarious, dude!”
“I never laughed so much.”
“You should be on TV.”
Guys who used to beat me up now wanted to high-five. I loved it, but at that moment, I wanted to find a seat, away from anybody I knew. So I wouldn’t miss a single moment of Hal.
On stage, he was magnificent. Surprising all who witnessed his transformation. He got even longer applause than I did. But I could never be jealous of Hal.
Every night, I went home immediately. Images of my first love burned in my mind.
During the last performance, tears streamed down my face as I watched Hal’s swan song. That night, he was taller, sexier and gentler than any other night. Or afternoon in my room.
After the show, I went backstage to congratulate Malcolm. He was genuinely happy to see me.
“You stayed!” he perked up excitedly. Did he not know I’d been at every show?
“Wouldn’t miss it. You were fantastic.”
“I owe it all to you.”
He hugged me. It was more than a hug from a friend. So tight, so intimate.
But it was from Malcolm, not Hal.
We pulled away but still locked arms. And eyes. Then Malcolm leaned in and kissed me. Long and deep. There was no guilt or shame here. Only warmth and loving. What they say about feeling your heart flutter is true.
We kissed for what felt like forever and no time at all.
But it was from Malcolm kissing me, not Hal.
***
I’m not sure how to define what Malcolm and I were once Hal was no more. We walked to school together and he was eager to initiate his boring conversations with me in class. I tried to engage with him, but finding a common ground was difficult when he talked about things like cars and sports.
After our kiss, I wasn’t sure if I should invite him over to my house or out for a date. Not that he invited himself over or suggested we meet up outside of school. I worried I wasn’t paying him enough attention, but he was only giving me slightly more than before.
Soon after, we were assigned new roles for the spring showcase. I was Charles in Blithe Spirit, with Doreen as my ghostly Elvira. We had so much fun finding the laughs as Elvira haunts my character. Malcolm was cast as Bif in Death of a Salesman.
We returned to rehearsing at my house. I read for Willy Loman, his father. This made our kissing sessions feel awkward and out of place. They slowed down and eventually ceased.
During the performance, when Malcolm performed the confession to his father, the auditorium fell silent every time. He was brilliant.
But Bif was no Hal.
Tom Misuraca studied writing at Emerson College in his hometown of Boston. Over 160 of his short stories and two novels have been published. His story, Giving Up The Ghosts, was published in Constellations Journal, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2021.His work recently appeared in Flint Hills Review, The Paradox and Southern Florida Poetry Journal. He is also a multi-award-winning playwright with over 170 short plays and 14 full-lengths produced globally. His musical, Geeks!, was produced Off-Broadway in May 2019. He currently lives in Los Angeles. www.tommiz.com
ELEVENTH HOUR LITERARY 