Zeno more intimately, making eye contact with us again, “was the past. In this dramatic interpretation, narrator Nick Carraway observes one man’s futile attempt to recapture the glory of youth and love in
The Great Gatsby,
by F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
Zeno repeated the transformation and went on, in the voice of Nick Carraway, about his neighbor Jay Gatsby, a rich man obsessed with reclaiming his old love, Nick’s cousin Daisy. When a new character spoke, Zeno shifted his weight, changed his tone, and moved his gaze to a different spot in the darkened room.
I felt like a theatergoing Jonah swallowed by the whale—the story
engulfed
me.
Nick said, “ ‘Gatsby wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” I said to him, “I wouldn’t ask too much of her. You can’t repeat the past.” ’ ”
Gatsby answered, incredulous: “ ‘Can’t repeat the past? Of course you can!’ ”
For some reason, I found myself thinking of Abuela.
The whole audience knew it was never going to work. After Gatsby’s inevitable downfall, Nick found himself caught up in the same trap. “ ‘So we beat on,’ ” Nick said, arms outstretched, “ ‘boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’ ”
Zeno dropped his eyes and placed his hands behind his back, and the stage went black.
Two things were true when the house lights came back up to applause: I was thoroughly, with every cell of my body and every deep well of my soul, in love with Jay Gatsby, Zeno Clark, and the theater. Also, Clarence Williams was looking at me.
On my right, Leda and Janell were talking to someone else they knew, expressing the awesomeness of Zeno’s performance. I slid my eyes back at Clarence, who still looked at me with that knowing smile, waiting. “Well?” he demanded, as if he had coached Zeno himself.
“In-incredible,” I sputtered.
Clarence nodded smugly. “He took State last year in Dramatic Interp, only a junior. The Ax was his coach.”
I whistled in awe. This got Leda’s and Janell’s attention, and I introduced them to Clarence.
“You know an awful lot about the team,” I said to him. “Are you a senior?”
He smiled modestly and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Hardly. I’m a freshman. All my brothers were Extempers. I tagged along for years. I feel like I practically own the event.”
“Brothers, eh?” said Leda.
Janell looked impressed. “Extemporaneous Speaking— that’s the toughest, I heard. Don’t you just make speeches up on the spot, in front of the judges?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Clarence said. “We draw topics and then build an argument. You have to be up on history and current events. There’s lots of prep work.”
Again, Ms. Joyner touchéed us from the stage with her fake sword, cutting off the conversation. “We have ten more events to get through, gang. Don’t make me commit hara-kiri!” She gave us the old impaled-through-the-armpit gag and turned the stage over to the next speaker.
We made it through eleven performances, including one girl who read a radio newscast, complete with weather and advertisements, and one unlikely-looking pimply white guy who gave a burning rendition of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Then The Ax let us go.
“You’ve each been assigned a coach,” Mr. Axelrod’s amplified voice informed us. “Check the bulletin board on your way out.”
I’d been assigned the “humorous” coach, Mr. Soloman, with an appointment after school the following Wednesday. That was my piano lesson day. I caught up with Mr. Soloman on his way out and told him I’d have to switch times with somebody.
“Who’s on first?” he asked.
“What?”
“No, What’s on second, Who’s on first!” He winked. “Gotcha!” He shook my hand and said we’d get started on Tuesday, then. “What topic do you want to write about?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I
The Great Gatsby,
by F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
Zeno repeated the transformation and went on, in the voice of Nick Carraway, about his neighbor Jay Gatsby, a rich man obsessed with reclaiming his old love, Nick’s cousin Daisy. When a new character spoke, Zeno shifted his weight, changed his tone, and moved his gaze to a different spot in the darkened room.
I felt like a theatergoing Jonah swallowed by the whale—the story
engulfed
me.
Nick said, “ ‘Gatsby wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” I said to him, “I wouldn’t ask too much of her. You can’t repeat the past.” ’ ”
Gatsby answered, incredulous: “ ‘Can’t repeat the past? Of course you can!’ ”
For some reason, I found myself thinking of Abuela.
The whole audience knew it was never going to work. After Gatsby’s inevitable downfall, Nick found himself caught up in the same trap. “ ‘So we beat on,’ ” Nick said, arms outstretched, “ ‘boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’ ”
Zeno dropped his eyes and placed his hands behind his back, and the stage went black.
Two things were true when the house lights came back up to applause: I was thoroughly, with every cell of my body and every deep well of my soul, in love with Jay Gatsby, Zeno Clark, and the theater. Also, Clarence Williams was looking at me.
On my right, Leda and Janell were talking to someone else they knew, expressing the awesomeness of Zeno’s performance. I slid my eyes back at Clarence, who still looked at me with that knowing smile, waiting. “Well?” he demanded, as if he had coached Zeno himself.
“In-incredible,” I sputtered.
Clarence nodded smugly. “He took State last year in Dramatic Interp, only a junior. The Ax was his coach.”
I whistled in awe. This got Leda’s and Janell’s attention, and I introduced them to Clarence.
“You know an awful lot about the team,” I said to him. “Are you a senior?”
He smiled modestly and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Hardly. I’m a freshman. All my brothers were Extempers. I tagged along for years. I feel like I practically own the event.”
“Brothers, eh?” said Leda.
Janell looked impressed. “Extemporaneous Speaking— that’s the toughest, I heard. Don’t you just make speeches up on the spot, in front of the judges?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Clarence said. “We draw topics and then build an argument. You have to be up on history and current events. There’s lots of prep work.”
Again, Ms. Joyner touchéed us from the stage with her fake sword, cutting off the conversation. “We have ten more events to get through, gang. Don’t make me commit hara-kiri!” She gave us the old impaled-through-the-armpit gag and turned the stage over to the next speaker.
We made it through eleven performances, including one girl who read a radio newscast, complete with weather and advertisements, and one unlikely-looking pimply white guy who gave a burning rendition of Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Then The Ax let us go.
“You’ve each been assigned a coach,” Mr. Axelrod’s amplified voice informed us. “Check the bulletin board on your way out.”
I’d been assigned the “humorous” coach, Mr. Soloman, with an appointment after school the following Wednesday. That was my piano lesson day. I caught up with Mr. Soloman on his way out and told him I’d have to switch times with somebody.
“Who’s on first?” he asked.
“What?”
“No, What’s on second, Who’s on first!” He winked. “Gotcha!” He shook my hand and said we’d get started on Tuesday, then. “What topic do you want to write about?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“I
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