The Role Players Read Free Page B

disappointment.
    Chris, who had reentered the room with a fresh pot of coffee, grinned. “Well, let’s just say it isn’t a musical. But it’s a pretty powerful show.”
    *
    Max had to be at rehearsal by seven o’clock, so we agreed to a very early dinner at a gay restaurant just down the block from the theater, which was itself within walking distance of the apartment. It was a nice, comfortable place that reminded me vaguely of our favorite restaurant, Napoleon, back home. But, of course, the fact that this was not back home lent it an air of mystery and intrigue. The food was excellent, although the portions were a little small for Jonathan’s appetite, though he didn’t say so. Max had to leave before dessert, but insisted we stay. When the waiter arrived with the dessert tray, Jonathan couldn’t decide between the Bavarian Torte and the cherry cheesecake, so I told him to order one and I’d order the other. Chris opted for the French Apple pie. I made sure I only took a couple of bites of mine…it was delicious, but I was in one of my noble moods…before insisting I was full and that Jonathan finish it for me.
    “You’re sure?” he asked, politely, but reaching for the plate even as he spoke.
    Chris looked at me quickly and grinned, but didn’t say anything.
    *
    After dinner, Chris took us on a walking tour of the Village. We passed the theater, which, though it had no formal marquee, wasn’t hard to miss: the entire front of the building was painted a bright purple and a large painted sign stretching across the width of the front of the building said simply, The Whitman Theater Group. Flanking the glass double entry doors were large posters announcing “ Impartial Observer , a new play by Gene Morrison.” Jonathan immediately spotted and pointed to the smaller-font credits, which included: “Set Design by Chris Wolff.” He turned to Chris, beaming.
    “You’re famous!” he decreed. “This is terrific! You must be really proud!”
    Chris shrugged and gave him a small smile. “Well, let’s wait until you see the play before jumping to any conclusions.”
    The small lobby behind the glass doors was dark, lit only dimly by a light behind the ticket window. There was no evidence of the rehearsal going on inside. Chris moved on, and I had to grab Jonathan’s arm to pull him away from the poster.
    “Isn’t this great?” Jonathan said to me in a stage whisper.
    I grinned at him. “Yeah,” I said, “it is.” And we hurried to catch up with Chris.
    I’d been to the Village a couple of times before, but it was really nice to be with a native, as Chris now considered himself to be. He pointed out the homes of several famous people—writers and actors and artists, and both Jonathan and I were duly impressed, though Jonathan didn’t even bother to hide it. He insisted we’d have to remember every location and come back in the daylight so he could take pictures to show the gang back home.
    We did a casual walk-through of Washington Square, which I guess I’d forgotten was not wall-to-wall gay, though it wasn’t hard to spot a goodly number of fellow travelers.
    We stopped at a couple of bars along the way and, all in all, had one great time.
    “This play thing must really take up a lot of your and Max’s time,” Jonathan said as we sat in one of the bars. He picked the cherry out of my Manhattan and tapped it on his napkin to eliminate any trace of alcohol, then dangled it by its stem like a goldfish by its tail and lowered it into his mouth, putting the stem carefully on the napkin.
    Chris sighed. “Yeah, it turned out that way. Not so much my time, now that the sets are done, but for Max. He has to be there for every single rehearsal and that cuts way into the time we have for our regular life. He was single when he did it before, and it’s been awhile so I think he’d forgotten how much time it would take. We’ve talked about it, and I think maybe this will be the last time he’ll do