Neo-Contemporary Failure

is a series of plays, and other things, following the life of Geoffrey O'Doherty, or others. http://neocontemporaryfailure.com site has a dark mode! isn't that exciting? 18+ please

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

So it begins!

Neo-Contemporary Failure is a play, and at this point a series of plays, about how we approach good art by bad people, and also suicide. It's really about suicide, if I'm being honest. It follows Geoff O'Doherty, a mediocre mildly cringe actor-playwright, as he attempts to create a new career for himself, while in psychosexual competition with an up-and-coming critically acclaimed much younger director choreographer, Jack Ainsworth. It takes place over 38 years, from 1968-2006.

I'm really bad at pitching stuff but if you like 70s musical theatre, terrible people doing terrible things, gay people, a twinge of severe mental illness, satire, mediocre artists, and the occasional graphic reference to CATS, you'll probably like it. I'm under the belief that you might even like it if you hate all those things.

Of Neo-Contemporary Failure itself, there are 4 parts, totaling around 600 pages and around 8 hours were it to be staged. I wrote the first 540 page draft in January of 2022, over about 27 days. I've been revising it since. I'm currently in the process of the rewrite of the final part. I'll eventually be putting all 4 parts on the website (linked in the description.)

There's another play, Tapenade, about dancer Olive Cameron's rise to power, that I'm holding off on posting because it's not 8 hours long and therefore I can do things with it, like normal things. But we'll see, maybe I'll put that up someday.

HERE, however, I'm mostly going to be posting other bits and pieces. I write typically around one short story every day about these characters some in script and some in prose, around 2000-3600 words. So I'll be posting those every day around 7pm EST.

Trigger warning for, like, everything if I'm being honest, fyi.

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜

[dazaiapologism]

I love threatening to kill myself. you can never take it away from me. and if you try to stop me I’ll really do it this time

[pissvortex]

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

I. Do not know why it is suddenly green. Btw.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

It isn't green when I try to edit it. I cannot tell you why it is green.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

I. Do not know why it is suddenly green. Btw.

[wokeuplaughing]

wait... you're thinking about gay sex and killing yourself again aren't you

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

Fear, Fear, Fear.

Jack wasn't scared. Not like his parents anyway. It wasn't that it was bad, they were very good people, they were just scared. Scared about everything. Everyone. 

Jack remembered how they'd meet with his first grade teacher once a week. He didn't get why, and neither did the teacher. Mom and Dad would be there every single Tuesday, hand in hand, while Jack had to wait. He knew better than to say it or show it, but he just wanted to go home, because Mom and Dad would go on and on with all their questions (how's he doing in this subject or this subject or, oh, what about this subject? Does he act normally?) all the time, and the teacher would always say, “You don't need to be concerned.” Which on one hand, Jack liked, but on the other hand always made them more nervous. They were terrified that the teacher just wasn't telling them. It became such a problem, this idea that his teacher was lying to them, that in first grade, he was transferred to all 4 of that year's first grade classes, ending the school year where he'd started.

Jack tried not to be embarrassed about it, but as he was walked by the principal into the same classroom his parents had demanded he be taken out of a few months prior, his classmates looking up at him with confusion, he couldn't help despise it. Everyone thought he was so weird. 

Jack felt their fear sometimes. But he always knew it wasn't his fear. He knew that the only reason he had a gnawing pit in his stomach, reaching up his throat, and trickling down his arms and making his hands shake, whenever he got too close to a pond or pool or lake or river, or when he ate something he wasn't supposed to, or when the neighbor kid tried to talk to him, was because they told him to be. He had no reason to be afraid of it. He was pretty sure he wasn't going to drown from five feet away instead of six. He was pretty sure that splitting a muffin with his classmate that one time wasn't going to keep him from being a good dancer. He was fairly certain that waving back at the kid through the living room window wasn't going to lead to being kidnapped. But of course, he didn't do any of those things. He turned them down despite knowing that he didn't actually need to be afraid, because his parents were afraid and told him to be afraid too. He was supposed to do what they told him to.

Jack didn't really feel fear, his own fear, until he was around 11. He'd had a huge growth spurt, and suddenly, it felt like one day, he was a completely different person. When he used to have to look up at his father, now he didn't have to crane his neck, he just had to glance up. It was a bit frightening. He'd always been small for his age, and now he was lanky and tall and strange, and he'd lay in bed and stare at his new, long, legs that felt just a bit too big for him. He felt a bit too big.

He knew that was a crazy fear, fear of his own body, but Mom and Dad also seemed to have it. There was some uneasiness to how Mom looked at him, since they were the same height. Mom would always comment on it, whenever they were side by side, “Every day, you get bigger.” She'd sigh. Jack wasn't ever sure how to interpret that sigh. It wasn't like he could do anything about it. He couldn't go back in time and keep it from happening. They never asked him too, either, of course, but he wished he could've done something to make Mom less anxious, every single time she stared up at him like that. 

He'd heard Dad talking about him. Jack knew he wasn't supposed to listen in, but Dad went on about it one night and Jack couldn't resist the urge to listen. Dad was scared it was going to impact his dancing, or his opportunities, or that he was going to “get attention from girls” and Jack wasn't sure which of these he was supposed to be worried about too. “I thought we had a couple more years.” Dad said. 

He pushed past it. He stomached the remarks and the conversations behind his back and the looks. That growth spurt was the last time he really grew for a few more years. And Dad and Mom put a plan to deal with it. Jack now just had to pretend to be a bit older, he was no longer a wunderkind, there wasn't a big deal about how young and small and cute he was, he was just a talented young dancer. It wasn't an act anymore. Jack was fine with that, generally. Though Dad usually made him say he was 16, and sometimes 18, when he was actually only 13.

Mary was not like Jack's parents. She was not a very scared person. Even when Bert was being awful to her, she rarely cowered and she usually snapped right back. Jack was really impressed by that. She'd scold him for being frightened. Jack hadn't seen himself as being frightened but apparently, to her, he was. Apparently he was too hesitant, too nervous, too shy, and all of that was fear. She told him he didn't need to be scared, that there was nothing to be scared of.

“We need to build up your confidence.” Mary had said to him the first time they ever worked together one-on-one, “Because when you're on the stage with other people, your fear is their fear.”

Jack wasn't quite sure how to get rid of that fear. He was trying, but he wasn't sure how to find it and squash it. Mary never told him how to do it, just that he had to do it. It became clear that it was less about being scared and more about appearing scared, and if he tried not to think about it, he would stop looking scared and therefore stop acting scared and therefore no one would know. 

Mom and Dad had kept Jack's life under their thumb. They kept it under control. Everything was on a strict routine, one that he never questioned. Everything had rules, everything had standards. Everything was laid out for him. He never had much of a decision in it. He loved dancing, but he wasn't doing it because he loved it, he was doing it because he was told he had to. He'd never stopped to think about it. It was what he was doing and he was going to do it. But he did like it. He figured that out, working with Mary, and he liked it and he wanted it. He didn't want it because he was supposed to want it or because Dad wanted him to want it, he just wanted it. 

The first night of his new life, the first night that he spent at the Coreys, he was more terrified than he ever had been. He didn't mean to be. Mary was nice to him, and he was excited, this was exactly what he wanted. This was what he'd begged for. But he was scared. He sat in his new room, in this new place, and he was scared. He couldn't push it away or think about something else, because he was just sitting there, 11:30pm, unable to sleep, alone, and there was nothing else to think about other than how scared he was. He was too old to be scared of the dark, but the corners of the room were so heavy and black and the wind was blowing and whistling and he could see himself, faintly, in the mirror on the wall as he laid in bed and he barely recognized himself. He wasn't even sure what was so scary about it all, just that it was different, maybe.

Jack worked on a schedule with Mary too, but it was much smaller. He had his obligations. Work with Mary and the rehearsals and his chores, but there wasn't anything else usually. It was never a routine. He knew to say yes when Mary or Bert asked him too, but it wasn't the same. And Mary didn't really care what he did as long as he didn't make it her problem. It was freedom, and Jack liked some of it. He liked being allowed to walk around the city and he liked being able to make friends (even if they were way older than he was and made him feel a bit dumb) and he liked feeling like he was his own person. 

But it was also scary. Because sometimes that lack of control veered into chaos and it felt like nothing made sense, and he'd look up at Mary and hope secretly that she'd tell him what to do or say or feel, and she never would. She never even considered it, he was pretty sure. Everything devolved into chaos at times. Everything. Everything would stop making sense. The world around him, the people, and himself. That was new. He wasn't quite sure when he developed that, when fear twisted itself into something else, strong feelings, trying to rip themselves out of his chest and crawling underneath his skin. It was a great, resounding pressure, like someone was gripping him with their fists, squeezing him tight until his eyes popped out of his head. He wanted to make it stop. He wanted to be released, freed from it.

He found solutions, temporary ones but solutions nonetheless. Sometimes it was a distraction. Sometimes all he needed was to be with someone else, to be told he was amazing and terrific and good at what mattered and cared about. Sometimes that didn't suffice, even when he really wanted it too. Sometimes it even made it worse, he'd come out of it feeling worse than before. He hated that. That didn't feel fair. It didn't just feel unfair, it felt scary. If it worked once, why didn't it keep working? 

When distraction didn't work he had to try to make it go away. He felt very ridiculous when it came to that. He always felt a little ridiculous but sometimes, when nothing made sense and no one would listen and it just kept building and building, he had to express it, he had to make someone else get it. 

He'd said some really stupid things. He even knew they were stupid as he was saying them, standing there, chest heaving, so overheated and angry that he probably looked as absurd as he felt. He wasn't even sure if he was really angry, if he was really set off, it just felt like the most appropriate approximation.

It was easy with Bert, at least. Saying these stupid things had a clear, in the moment, impact. Bert would sometimes scream right back, but other times he would throw something, and once or twice he'd just hit him. And Jack might storm out or he might keep arguing but he always knew that he had it coming. 

The really embarrassing ones were with Mary. Jack never even got close to expressing things that were true with her. He said things just to hurt her and he hated it. He'd said to her once, “I don't even like you.” emphasis on the “I.” And she'd looked so hurt for half a moment before telling him to get back to work. Then they never discussed it again. Jack never had the opportunity to apologize, which was Mary's way. She'd get him back, though, she always did. She'd spend the next few days being twice as harsh as usual and always with good reason. Any flaw in his technique or his body or his life or his opinions, she'd make sure to point it out. If she could, she'd do it in front of other people, and Jack knew he had to grin and bear it because he deserved it.

Of course because his, as Mary called them, outbursts didn't always work to relieve the feeling, to tame the chaos, and to make the terror and the dread simmer down, and oftentimes it ended up just making it worse, he had to take the third option. He didn't even intentionally do it all the time. It was a form of distraction too, but internal. It had started out as biting his knuckles and then it turned into other things. It felt, at least for a short moment, like total control. Like nothing else mattered and all he had was his ability to gnaw or dig into the blister on his heel or whatever. It made him feel powerful, which he never seemed to be able to feel anytime else. He didn't like the pain, it was awful, he just liked that he got to do it. Everything else in the world, that feeling, that stupid, ridiculous, strangle you from the inside and from the outside, feeling, it would briefly disappear and it would just be Jack for a moment.  He'd find himself doing it even when he didn't mean to, just because he wanted to be himself for a moment.

If it went too far, Mary would get on his case about it. It annoyed her, it frustrated her, and Jack understood why, it was annoying and frustrating, but maybe secretly he wanted her to tell him to stop a little bit. He liked that attention, that acknowledgement, the combination of both types of distraction. He liked feeling like someone else could see it, and he'd tell himself that whenever she swatted his hand away from his face that actually she was saying, “I understand it, but I don't think you should do it.”

Jack, when he was really little, knew his biggest concern was to keep the peace. Mom and Dad were so scared of things, he knew he had to make sure he didn't give them anything to be scared of. That was fundamental. He followed the rules and he made sure never to stir the pot. If he followed the rules and he was good, it was almost always peaceful. They felt their fear and he felt fine.

But with Mary, there wasn't a baseline peace. There was always something going on, something wrong. Mary would waltz through most of it, but there was a lot of conflict, that chaos in every direction. Jack didn't know how to keep the peace if it wasn't there in the first place, he wasn't sure what method he was supposed to use to make everything alright when problems reared their ugly head. Like, Mary had always told him not to get involved in her fights with Robert, but what about when he was threatening to kill her? Bert wouldn't kill Jack, he'd never threatened to do that to him, so he'd try to intervene, he'd try to get in between. Then Mary would get mad at him too and then it would all turn in on him instead of each other and he could just remember that it was for the best and pretend it wasn't really happening and then if it didn't stop, he'd just combine everything, he'd combine the attention and the destruction and the outbursts, and Jack knew better than to cry around the Coreys because THAT would turn them against each other (Look you got the stupid brat crying! He's trying to manipulate you, Mary, I don't know how you don't see that!), so he'd say something really harsh, he'd say something that maybe was a bit true and maybe it was their fault a little bit and he'd tell them he wanted to die.

That was, as Bert said, the worst thing Jack could ever say. No one could ever tell Jack why, but it was beyond terrible. He didn't get it. They weren't his family, they were under no obligation to love him, it was their choice to let it bother them so much. 

No matter how angry Bert was, if Jack used that line, he'd immediately drop it to comfort Mary. “He doesn't mean that, Mary, he's just saying it to hurt you, Mary.” And Jack sometimes wished he could say it more often because it worked so well. Mary wouldn't get mad at him about it either. She wouldn't spend the next few weeks getting back at him about it. It was the ultimate release too, because he meant it enough that it felt like himself and also when Mary and Bert got upset that was proof that they cared about him (which he knew was selfish, but sometimes he felt as if he could actually kill himself and it would take a few weeks for anyone to notice) and it was loud and big and hurtful and he felt powerful. At least until it made him feel very small and pathetic, but then at least he could hide away in shame until Mary got over it and everything went back to how it had been. The cycle repeats.

Since Jack could see how much power it held, he didn't say it very often. He'd said it once, only once, when he didn't need to. Every other time, if he didn't say it Mary was going to die or Bert was going to do something terrible or Jack was going to probably explode or lose his mind, but this one time he just felt like he needed to let it be known. 

He was maybe 16, since it was when he was in Offender! and he was on his way out to the theater. Bert was going with him that night, so he was waiting downstairs, and Mary stopped him and made a remark along the lines of, “They’re going to need to remake your costume if you get any bigger.’ and Jack wasn't sure why, but it was like the words were already in the back of his throat, he wasn't even thinking as he said it, “Don't worry, Mary, I'll kill myself before that happens.” (this was all more ridiculous, since Jack was in the middle of his second growth spurt, and he'd grown an inch and a half) and he'd felt so terrible for saying it that he'd left without saying goodbye and he'd done his stupid little show and then Bert had said that night, “You were great tonight. Let me take you out to dinner.” (Which was RARE for Bert and meant that Bert didn't want to smash his face in with a book or a some other large heavy object) but Jack felt so weird and wrong and terrible that he'd turned it down (which Bert, of course, took offense to) and so he'd just gone home and Mary was in the kitchen, so he managed to slip into his room and hide there and think about how he actually did, probably, deserve to die for saying that. 

He sat at his desk and read and tried to pretend it didn't happen as Mary knocked and then stood in the doorway a bit later. She just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, smelling of Clairol, with this dark, sharp look in her eyes. 

“I wish you wouldn't say things like that.” She said. Jack wanted to sink into the ground and melt into a puddle. 

She came over and put a hand on his arm. She'd repainted her nails that night, bright red. He didn't look up at her and he knew she didn't want him to. 

“It upsets me.” She said, “And every time you say something like that. I call your family. Because I think they oughta know when you talk like that. And really, Angel, I try to talk to your mother. And it makes her very, very upset. It breaks my heart.” She finally wanted him to look up at her, she tilted his head up. There was no expression on her face, “You should think about what you say before you say it. Get control of yourself. You're nearly an adult.”

And Jack nodded, feeling sheepish and nauseous and guilty and hurt and scared. He felt scared. He felt scared of her and it wasn't her fault at all, which made him feel worse. He didn't need to feel scared of her, but he did.

“I'm sorry.” Jack muttered out and she leaned close and kissed his head, bringing her hands up to his chest, fiddling with the collar of his shirt.

“I don't think suicide is a sin.” Mary said after a moment, pulling away and taking a seat on the bed, fiddling with the hem of her gingham house dress, “But I do think those who do it deserve to burn in hell.” She let out a long sigh, “What a horrible thing to put the people you love through.” She stretched her legs out, then adjusted the watch on her wrist and stood up, “Alright, kiddo, I'll see you in the morning.” then left.

Jack wasn't sure what punishment he believed he should face for it. Most of Jack's life the punishments he received for being awful were swift and instantaneous. A stern conversation or a smack on the head or a few days without dinner (and Bert would just kick Jack out which sometimes didn't even feel like a punishment), but Mary had always preferred to delay, and this, he knew, she wasn't going to acknowledge at all. He had to make the punishment up for himself, he had to have the discipline (a trait Mary had said she admired in him) to do it to himself. 

There were a lot of options. He sat there and thought about all the options he had, in fact. Made up a list and went through it. But the problem, of course, was that any punishment he could think of had its upside. It always would have a moment where he'd think, self-contentedly, about how he deserved it. It needed to be something truly bad, something that had no benefits and only made his life worse. 

He thought about it for the next few days. It was all he thought about for the next few days. It was even what he was thinking about when he was on stage. He couldn't figure out what it was, what exactly he deserved and how to ensure he didn't like it too much. Then he realized, sorta, that thinking about it might've been the punishment. Everything else in his life in those few days fell by the wayside. It was all he thought about, all he considered. He didn't do anything but think about it, there was nothing else he could even try to consider. 

The relief that he'd figured out how to get back at himself for his actions was quickly replaced with the anger and fear or whatever it was that he hadn't even been the one to decide it, which pushed him squarely back into his routines of self control. This time, though, he felt a bit more vindicated in it, Mary had told him to get control of himself, and here he was doing it. That was good. 

Jack wasn't even sure if he cared that much about being good, as much as he cared about not being bad. He was terrified of being bad, of being horrible, of everything he knew about himself being secretly true. He wanted to be normal and he wanted to be special and he wanted to be not bad, all with equal levels of importance. Jack found that trying to get himself to believe that was nearly impossible, though, Jack was always going to fear that he was abnormal and unimportant and terrible, so his goal really became to get others to believe it instead. If Mary thought he was alright, which she usually did, and Mary thought he was special, which she almost always did, and Mary thought he was normal, which he tried not to think about, then he was alright (and if/not Mary, it had to be someone else, or preferably everyone else.)

He still wasn't that scared.

[amygdalae]

Me: damn this situation I'm in sure isn't ideal, what am I gonna do about this

Suicidal Ideation Man who lives in my brain: perhaps I have a suggestion ☝️🤓

[amygdalae]

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

Needy

Someone had told Jack he was needy as a child. Or at least implied it.  Jack was aware, at least logically, that one’s parents had an impact on them. But he couldn’t figure out where this great sense of need had come from. He hadn’t been neglected as a child, he’d always been clothed and fed and bathed and loved. His parents had never left him alone, he was always being watched. They had sacrificed so much for him.

He had always known that he was the second most important thing to them in the world, after each other. He had never doubted that. But he could recall it, that sense of need, of desire, the desperate want for attention, for people’s eyes, when he developed it. Dance was everything, but it was especially that. It was pats on the head, it was applause, it was praise, and at 7 years old he had already decided that he wanted it and needed it and would do anything for it. He couldn’t imagine a life where he didn’t get it.

He was a well behaved child. Incredibly well behaved. He didn’t have much time to misbehave, but really, he liked being told he was good, he liked to be praised by teachers and his mother and people on the streetcar that he was “such a delightful child!” It was sometimes bigger than he was. Every dance class, every job, every moment, he was waiting for that praise, he was waiting to be told he was great or talented or cute.

When he moved to New York, it only got worse. It was terrific, here he was, 13 years old, dancing with people 10 years older than him, and being better at it than they were. Everyone told him that. Mary told him that. He never told his age, but everyone knew he was young, and so mature and so good at it. So great at it.  But it wasn’t all great, for the first time in his life, he had freedom.Mary was less strict than his parents, as long as he didn’t stay out too late, or with people she didn’t like, he could do anything. But Mary was also less apt to praise than his parents were, everyone was, there was this overwhelming sense of “you are not perfect, anymore.” But it wasn’t the criticism that bothered him, well it did a little, it was the ignoring. The good things Jack did became the minimum, and he kept pushing forward, but all it did was raise that bar higher and higher. 

He didn’t need to be told he was good anymore, he knew that. But he still needed something. He couldn’t quite figure out what it was, he just needed it. He’d get anxious if he was alone for too long, even if he was around people, if like in rehearsals, Mary hadn’t looked at him in a few minutes. He wasn’t sure what he was afraid of, but he was terrified of something. He knew everyone in the room thought he was great, but it wasn’t enough, he needed them to… look at him, maybe? Or care that he was there? Or, he couldn’t tell.

He had a bad habit of chewing on his knuckles. Just something to do, he was pretty sure he’d picked it up from his father. It had gotten worse when he was a teenager. It had turned from a way to deal with the boredom of being a precocious child into the way to deal with the barrage of new experiences and new people and new rules and new emotions and the arguments and the feelings. He’d started biting his hands till they bled.  Mary’d get bothered by it, tell him to quit it, tell him it made him look unprofessional, and it would just make Jack want to do it more. Maybe that was the need, to be told off like that. 

He quit that habit eventually. Mary had come into his room one night and handed him a bottle of tabasco, to put on his hands to keep him from doing it. Like a child. It did work, though, mostly. It burned like hell, soaking into his raw skin. It had brought him to tears, and Mary had rolled her eyes and reminded him that had told him to wait until it scabbed up to do that, but as he ran his hand under the stream of the kitchen sink, and it kept burning, and Mary, snickering and apologizing for doing so, wrapped it up in a dish cloth, he thought maybe he needed that too.

When he lost his virginity, he didn’t particularly enjoy it, or her, or the feeling or anything, he really just felt he needed it, too. He didn’t even like that he needed it, and Mary had made it clear that he could be both a good dancer and have a girlfriend, so he stopped with it, but he still felt in some way, that it was part of the need, like it was another thing that filled up the bucket inside him. He felt as if he was a bucket with a small hole in the side and if he needed to keep filling it up with the need, because if he filled it up fast enough it would overflow instead of all leaking out. 

Mary had called him needy once. It had been a joke, Jack knew it was a joke. They were in a rehearsal for something. Jack was certain that he was messing it up. He was certain that he was doing something wrong. It was driving him so crazy that he’d blurted it out, “Am I doing something wrong?!” and Mary had laughed, stopped what she was doing and said to the room, “Well, you’re sure needy, Jack!” and everyone had laughed and Jack had felt embarrassed but it felt right. It was a very accurate observation of him. It was warm and real and accurate, like Mary really got it, how badly needed it.

She had actually apologized for it, later that night. Over dinner, she had recounted it to Bert and then turned to Jack and said, while putting a green bean into her mouth, “You’re not that needy, Jack, and you were doing it wrong.” But Jack still thought about it, as if she hadn’t pulled that label away. To him, and he wanted maybe secretly to her, and definitely to Bert, Jack was very Needy, it was who he was. 

Jack never told anyone. He assumed they all just knew, but he was afraid maybe that they didn’t, and if he came and said, “I know how needy and pathetic I am,” he’d just be outing himself. He wished Mary would say it more. He didn’t feel alone as much as he felt confused, why he needed to be Needy and why he couldn’t stand other needy people. To him it all sorta felt the same, sure praise was nice, but as long as they were acknowledging him, at least he knew they cared enough to bother paying attention. God, he wanted that. He had dreams about it, he’d daydream about it, about being looked at and wanted and cared for and desired. 

It changed a bit as he entered adulthood. After he was fired from the show, he didn’t want anyone to look at him or think about him or care about him at all. He wanted to curl up in bed, and just disappear, or evaporate into the air, or maybe wither away. Even when he could work again, he still felt it. Mary had been so excited when he came back and he was now her assistant instead of her co-star, and the whole cast had cheered for him, and he had been mortified, barely got through it. He’d work and then go straight home and back into bed, waiting to dissolve. Eventually Mary put an end to it, she and Bert and a psychiatrist friend of theirs had practically cornered him about it. He didn’t get it, but they gave him Dexamyl. And he’d tried dexedrine during the show, but this was like but rather than pulling him up and throwing him down, it would ease him back into the dread. It worked, of course, Jack returned to his needy self, and now with an extra need, being those pills. He got off them eventually, decided that the higher highs of the Dexedrine let him work more and quicker and better, and he’d just have to take more to keep himself from crashing.

 It became a lot of things, too. Jack wanted to be the one who decided when the need was strongest, and drugs were the easiest way to control the feeling, which he didn’t care to numb as much as he cared solely to control, alcohol was the easiest way to get it over with, and sex was the easiest way to get it. And work. And everything else. Jack couldn’t seem to do anything to a normal extent, it felt as if it would immediately get out of hand and it kept escalating. It would get more extreme, so he’d consciously amp it up to feel as if he was deciding it, and then just creep further up and he would do it again, until he was going through a month’s worth of dexedrine in a week, or dancing until he was turning blue, or taking a swig of ipecac, or having sex with someone after they mugged him. 

Of course Mary always seemed to find out about these things, and she’d roll her eyes, and she’d tut at him, and she’d tell him to quit it, or tell him that it disappointed her, or tell him that it made her worried, and it made him need to do it more. Until it got too much and then he’d be forced to stop it and he’d need to find something new to replace that level of control and fulfill the need. The cycle didn’t seem to end. He was aware of it enough that he wouldn’t do things, like gamble or learn how to drive, because he knew it would become a problem. He didn’t tell anyone about any of this, he thought it made him sound a bit crazy, and he liked it when people thought he was fun and adventurous and unique and totally in control and not at all needy.

[pisshandkerchief]

i must not kill myself . killing myself is the myself killer

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

Part two!

Part two is online on the website. Follow Geoff as he experiences the biggest flop of his life, fueled by cocaine and notable film directors. Meanwhile, Jack Ainsworth deals with the trials and tribulations of being beyond successful.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Every few seconds Jack had to remind himself to push through the increasing pain and breathe. In and out. It’s like trying to pull a chain, every second. He couldn’t just focus on breathing, though, he needed to keep balanced, he needed to keep a smile, and bright eyes. Focus on a million things at once: feet, arms, legs, neck, shoulders, stance, breathe, you’re falling behind, feet, arms, hands, knees, BREATHE, keep the face, balance, ignore whatever is happening in your knee, BREATHE, you’re fucking it up, smile, BREATHE.

Every now and then there will be a sharp, shooting pain somewhere: his knees or his stomach or his feet. It almost knocks him off, but he pushes through it. He can handle it, even as it seems to strike him over and over again, as his chest squeezes, like his entire body is trying to expel his lungs through his throat. As if he's drowning, the bottom of his lungs filling up until he can only breathe out of the very tip top, he can feel it creep up.

His mind focusing on that takes him away from the movement. Fuck. Goddammit. Feet, arms, legs, neck, shoulders, stance, CAN'T BREATHE, you’re falling behind, feet, arms, hands, knees, STILL CAN'T BREATHE, keep the face, balance, ignore whatever is happening in your knee, HALF A BREATH, you’re fucking it up, smile- He fucks up. He tries to get back into it. He can't reach another breath, it's like his lungs are squeezed up against his ribs, trying to rip themselves out. He feels himself starting to cough. He feels himself starting to die.

The chorus is still singing around him, it's just noise, loud noise from every direction, the audience is clapping, they're cheering, they're dark. They're out there. He can't see them. They're just out there. He can hear them but he can't see them. They go on forever. He realizes that he's just standing there. He hasn't breathed at all in God knows how long. He's just standing there. Why are you standing there? Why aren't you moving? Why aren't you breathing? Why?

He needs to move. He can't. The entire world is frozen. No one is singing, no one is moving, there's no sound. There is no air.  There's just Jack, the only person on the stage. Alone. Not breathing.

He is down, on the ground. Sandy is grabbing onto his shoulder. He still can't breathe, there's no air left around them. William is helping. They're dragging him off, pulling him by his shoulders, gripped around him with strength and weight. His legs are like sticks dragging in mud, his shoes screech against the floor. Mary rushes past, brushing up against them, she squeezes his hand and then takes his place under the lights, getting smaller and smaller.

Sandy and William are propping him up, he's leaned up against her. He can feel Sandy’s knees pressing into his back. William is next to him, holding one of his arms. His hands are sweaty and warm. Jack tries to jerk away, he needs air, where did all the air go? Sandy stands, and William and her sorta pull him up with them. There are more people now, standhands and Carmen the stage manager, they're all around him. But they don't understand, he doesn't need them there, he just needs to be able to breathe. He's like a clogged drain. He's dying.

He stumbles again, there's no weight in his legs because there's no air in his body. There might not be any air in the entire building. He's trying to pull a piece of cotton yarn through the eye of a needle.  He's on the ground again. He's somewhere else, but he's on the ground. There are so many people nearby. Someone's unbuttoned his shirt, they're pressing something cold and metal into his chest. They've got a mask over his mouth and nose. He keeps trying to take it off, but they keep pushing it back on. He wants to tell them that he can't breathe but they won't let him talk.

There's a sharp pinch in his arm. He can't turn to look t it. It feels like a needle. No one will tell him what they're doing. Or maybe they are telling him he just can't understand them.

He doesn't know who it is that is trying to keep this stupid mask on, he can't hardly put together a face from the blurry features in front of him. He isn't even sure they're real. Why would they be? Who could be real without air? There are other people in the room. There are too many people in the room. Bert is kneeling nearby, he's got an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, he's watching with big eyes and a furrowed brow. Mary pushes her way in, she still has her shimmery red costume on, she stands above everyone, she's looking down. He's dying.

People are saying things, but no one is using words. Jack finally forces the mask off his face. He needs to explain what's going  on, no one gets it. But he can't. He tries and he can't, and soon Mary is down to his level, pushing the stupid mask back on his face. She brushes a finger along his temple, she's gritting her teeth. She turns and says something to one of the faceless men. She gets up, Bert grabbing onto her, he holds her hand.

More people grab onto him, they move him, they adjust him, they hoist him around like a heavy, awkward, object. He doesn't have much choice in the matter.

Jack's arms are either non-existent or completely restrained. The flickering of lights, of people touching him, beeping and clicking, talking, the hard object ripping its way through his throat directly into his airway. He can't swallow, or cough, or talk, and he can't breathe, because he's being forced to. He can't see anything, it's too bright and too busy and above there is only a white tiled ceiling miles above him. His chest is still spasming, trying everything it can to push his lungs up and out, squeeze any air that might be hiding within them.

People talk, hovering around on the sidelines, he cannot see them but he can feel their presence. They say things and Jack tries to focus on what they're saying so hard that by the end of their sentences he's already forgotten the beginning. He wants to talk back to them, he wants to understand where he is and why, he wants to hear them clearly, but he can't.

Then the tube is out. His throat can feel it, still, like it pulled something out when they pulled it out. He can vaguely remember that, the nurses giving him loud, one word instructions, which he followed as they pulled it out. He can mostly breathe. It hurts. It's a fight and it hurts. He's not dying. Maybe he should be.

He can adjust though. He can sit up just a bit, though it hurts and his body feels like it was pulled through a wringer, and finally he can see the hospital room that he's in. Everything about his body feels off, like it's no longer his. Maybe this is hell. The room is so bright it's like staring at the sun.

They're asking him questions, this time he can hear them from beginning to end, and as he tries to answer he realizes that his voice has been stolen from him, his voice comes out quiet and distant, and it hurts.

“Do you know what year it is?”

1963.

“What's your name?”

Jackson Ainsworth.

“How old are you?”

18.

“Do you know why you're here?”

No.

They keep asking him questions but he doesn't want to answer them. He doesn't want to talk. He doesn't want to be awake. He doesn't want to be alive.

Mary is here now. She is standing over him, she is touching his hair. She squeezes his shoulder. She leans closer. She's looking right in his eyes. She puts a hand on his face, brushing her thumb up and down on his cheek. She doesn't stop touching him, but she does turn away. Bert is in the room too, right towards the entrance, standing and watching, looking tense and put together.

“Maybe we should get his parents here.” Mary says, she sounds afraid, her voice is shaking.

“They said he'll be ok to leave in a couple of days.” Bert replies. He catches Jack's eye and comes over, standing right by Mary.

“Hey, buddy.” Bert says. What bullshit. “You're looking better than yesterday.”

Mary nods. She stops touching his face. She grabs his arm instead, sinking her fingers into his flesh.

Jack wants to understand, he focuses on his words despite the pain that talking brings him, “They had a tube down my throat.”

“For 3 days.” Mary says.

Bert steps away again. Mary watches him. She lets go of his hand. She turns to face Bert.

“We gotta bite the bullet.” Bert says.

“I know.” Mary says, “It's just… I want to believe there's going to be a miracle.” She turns back to Jack, “The whole cast signed a card for you, kid,” back to Bert, “It's late. I can come back tomorrow, let me do it.”

Bert nods, “If you think that's the right idea.”

Mary looks at Jack, she leans in close and kisses his forehead, the pulls away and puts a hand on his face.

“I'll be back tomorrow.” She says, “You're looking better every time we stop by.”

He doesn't want them to leave, but he resigns himself. It hurts too much to ask them to stay. His mind is vivid, the pain cannot distract him from it, it seems to rip through him: He just wants to die.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

Olive Cameron reflects on her husband's relationship with money, books, and letters.

Jack liked to read. He did it way more than I did. He always had 10 or so books from the library sitting on the table, and a hand scribbled list on his table of what he wanted next. Jack hated his handwriting, which was large and heavy handed, so any note he took that he worried that anyone else would see, he'd write as small as possible. It was completely illegible.

Jack read a lot, but I suspect he didn't understand much of what he was reading. He was trying to brute force himself into understanding it. Which may have worked if he had even a few more years of education under his belt, but he refused to ask for help. Jack, in his 30s too well known to try to seek adult education, had spent his young adulthood too busy dancing for night classes. It was a rare point of real embarrassment for him. He felt as if everyone around him knew, and that they were judging him harshly for it. He coped by living through memory, only writing things down if he needed to, and if questioned about this habit would simply portray it as an element of his genius.

“Writing just slows me down.” He'd hiss at Peter Burnett, his lover, friend, and oft stage manager of his shows.

Jack did write letters to his family, though. Once a month he'd send a check to his parents and a check to his younger sister, alongside a bright, happy little letter about his life. These letters rarely got responses but the checks were, of course, always cashed.

Jack was perhaps even more self conscious about his math skills than his writing. It was a right of passage among his gaggle of friends and groupies that he'd eventually make you take a look at his taxes. He was convinced that he was messing them up but refused to hire someone to do it, so instead he'd hand these forms over to you and say, as if he already knew the answer, “don’t these look right?”

Jeff loved math and prior to Jack and I's marriage, was gladly helping Jack with his finances. Jack was particularly flustered by monthly budgeting. He struggled with saving money as any left over at the end of the month (which varied greatly on how bad his coke and pills habit was) would be sent to his family in a second check. They didn't ask for this, of course, but Jack felt obligated to do it. Jeff broke everything down into a nice monthly budget and explained it all in simple, friendly language, because that's just who Jeff was.

I took over this responsibility when I married Jack, obviously. The financial element of our marriage was a big one, and while Jack definitely had money, he also had debt and a barrage of questionable choices. Kissing Me Quickly, and finally listening to Jack’s agent and getting him someone to handle his taxes, fixed most of those problems.

I'd gotten a pretty bad deal as a first time performer for Kissing Me Quickly’s Broadway production. I made as little as possible for as much work as possible. Jack was typically unsympathetic to the physical and economic turmoil of his dancers, but upon marrying me he immediately forced a renegotiation. Jack was one hell of a negotiator when he wanted to be. Jack had no limits and it was impossible to call his bluff. Jack would, and make it clear that he would, do absolutely anything to get what he wanted. It was a miracle that Jack never threatened to kill himself at the negotiation table, but he did once hire people off the street to picket on my behalf. Jack enjoyed the fight even more than he enjoyed the fruits.

Jack and I negotiated together for later productions. For the London, Tokyo, and First national tour, I received assistant choreographer credit. For the second national tour and licensing, during which Jack was hospitalized, I fought to get co-creator credit right next to him.

Jack’s finances weren't all terrible. He owned his apartment, though I couldn't tell if he knew that. He had a lease on his dance studio. This lease was particularly nutso. The space had been Mary Corey’s and the building it was in was owned by her husband. Jack hated Robert Corey, and unlike most the people Jack hated, he was justified in doing so.

But Robert Corey was trying to extend the olive branch in the studio agreement. I think he genuinely wanted Jack around. Jack paid $1 a year for the space, in trade, all Jack had to do, all that he needed to do to keep this large, well maintained, studio that Jack had practically (and sometimes literally) grown up in, was donate 90 minutes of his time, per month, to the Corey Foundation, one floor above. All Robert asked of Jack was that he taught one 90 minute dance class, of his choice, to a group of disenfranchised New York highschool students per month. Just one.

Jack, perhaps because he hated Robert, perhaps because thinking about Mary made him guilty and nervous, or perhaps (most likely) because he didn't like being told what to do, refused it. He'd been using any excuse possible every single month for the 4 years he'd had the space, till Robert changed the locks and put a sign on the door reading, “You know what you have to do, Jack.”

Of course Jack did! He sent me to teach it instead. Robert showed up, a frail 60 year old man hovering in the back of the room, and we grabbed lunch afterwards. He thanked me for my time, especially as I had taken off from Kissing to do it but said that he asked for Jack, not me, and that he still intended to terminate the lease.

I adjusted in my seat and frowned at Robert. The lease agreement that Jack had signed was utterly insane, certainly because Jack didn't understand it, with the stipulation that if the lease ended early for any reason, that Jack would be on the hook for market-rate back rent. The Coreys had taken most of Jack's wages as a child under their guardianship, and I suspect Robert Corey loved the idea of having some level of financial control over the only one of his late wife's proteges who spoke positively of her.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I said to Robert. I confessed to him that Jack and I had gotten married, something that no one at the time but our witnesses knew, and that as his wife, I believed firstly that I should be allowed to help fulfill his obligations under the lease and secondly that the economic ramifications of the back rent would financially cripple our “hopefully soon-to-be growing” family. But I said it nicer, dabbing my eyes with the napkin, quivering my voice just a little bit. I tried to seem just so lost and confused, like I was madly in love with Jack and completely unaware of the chaos that defined his life.

Nervously, Robert Corey conceded a bit. He seemed so unsettled, more than I intended. He agreed that I could do the monthly classes, but asked me to try my hardest to convince Jack to do at least one a year. I agreed and he handed me the new keys, and paid for lunch.

A few days later he sent a gift to us, a set of ugly floral china. “To Mr. And Mrs. Ainsworth.” Jack was upset that I'd told him, but happy he didn't have to get rid of the studio.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

In 1976, Boy Wonder tries to explain the value of musical theatre to Olive and Jack.

A restaurant.

JACK and BOY WONDER are there. JACK is towards the end of some very intriguing and mildly disturbing story, BOY WONDER is listening in either awe or horror.

JACK

There was so much blood. It was very uncomfortable. And most of the blood was mine.

BOY WONDER

Most of it?

JACK

Well, okay- when she- I sorta jerked and- her nose got hit. It was a mess.

BOY WONDER

That's… I don't like that.

JACK

It was pretty uncomfortable. Not as painful as you'd think considering all the blood, but– But ah, you learn. Besides, she's my wife, can't hold it against her.

Enter Olive, who takes a seat next to Jack.

OLIVE

Sorry I am late, wonderful Maurice just talks on and on and on and on.

BOY WONDER

I don't understand why you two can't stand him.

OLIVE

Jack keeps a list.

JACK

One–

BOY WONDER

I like Maurice. I don't need you to convince me otherwise.

JACK starts to speak, OLIVE interrupts him.

OLIVE

What are we seeing tonight?

BOY WONDER

Pacific Overtures. It's Sondheim.

OLIVE

Will it make me change my mind on the medium?

JACK

Only goddamn hag in the world that could be in a musical for 10 whole months and still come out hating– this bitch has a Tony award for her performance and she still goes on and on about how much –

OLIVE

And when I was in Chicago I was helping out practically every storefront musical in the city.

JACK

Because you're the only one there who knows how to dance.

OLIVE

But no matter how many shows I ever did, I just don't get it.

BOY WONDER

What is there to get?

OLIVE

I just don't understand why everyone is singing.

BOY WONDER

You just don't get it?

OLIVE

No.

BOY WONDER

Sometimes you can only tell something through song. The power of music. There's obviously more technical storytelling reasons, but music is the epitome of emotion, it's when nothing else will do. When everything is too much, when the world is collapsing, music pulls you up and out.

OLIVE takes a sip of Jack's drink.

OLIVE

I don't think that's true.

BOY WONDER

You don't think it's true? Liv, you helped structure Kissing–

OLIVE

I know how it works, I just don't get it. I mean, if we sung whenever we felt anything too much, Jack would be singing all the time. It just doesn't make sense to me–

BOY WONDER

–You're a dancer. You understand the power of rhythm. Music transcends. It's visceral. It's being let into the character's world, what they feel, who they are, and why they're there. Everything big, everything too small to see, everything too much to handle, it's all music, that's the only way you can get through it. The only way you can get people to understand. It's an extension of the soul. It's a straight line to a heart.

OLIVE

I don't think that's true-

BOY WONDER

–Through music you're not just seeing the story, you're brought into it, you're living it, you're breathing it, you're one with the moment. It's power.

OLIVE

I'm not feeling that.

JACK

Ain't he cute?

BOY WONDER

Okay… Um, what confuses you? Exactly, I mean. I can probably explain it.

OLIVE

Why they're singing. I mean, how often do you see that in the real world?

BOY WONDER

Theatre isn't the real world, that's the whole point.

OLIVE

Why?

BOY WONDER

What do you mean “why?” That's the power of art, the power of fiction. You have to suspend the sense of reality. That's what makes it enjoyable.

OLIVE

Who would ever want to live outside of reality? I mean, what a great world we're in.

BOY WONDER

Reality has it's limits, it's– there are routines that must be followed, there are ways of expressing ourselves that are within the normal limits that has to be followed– unless you're Jack– music isn't escaping reality, it's enhancing it, it's elevating the world, it's finding new ways to appreciate it.

OLIVE

But why are they singing?

BOY WONDER starts again, but Jack reaches out to him and touches his hand.

JACK is barely stifling laughter.

JACK

This is like watching someone poke a tiger through the bars in a cage.

BOY WONDER

I just want to help you understand.

OLIVE and JACK can't hold back laughter anymore.

OLIVE

Kid, I'm pulling your leg.

Boy Wonder sorta leans back, looking mildly embarrassed.

JACK

Okay, okay, we're going to miss the show if we keep having a good time.

They start to go.

BOY WONDER

I have some really good books on the topic. Some things Louis Curtis wrote to me when I was a teenager writing letters to him. I share them sometimes.

OLIVE

That is alllll right.

They leave.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

Olive Cameron, Jack's wife and collaborator, reflects on how Jack spoke to her about his time working with Mary, and her own indulgence in pain.

“Jack was raised by the theater. He never had the sense to rebel.” Our friend Anne Burnett told me once. I wasn't sure if I knew what she meant.

I hadn't been raised by the theater. Theatre was a tangent in my life. I stayed away from the theater until, as I was removed from my life as a dancer, it became the only way for me to survive. I chose it as an adult. If I could teach people to dance like they did in the theatre, I could make enough to live. That's all it was to me.

Jack knew nothing else. 

Jack told me that when he was 18, Mary had cast him opposite herself in a show that fell apart. He couldn't sing well, so they cut more and more of his songs apart until they were just an ensemble singing at him, and to keep the audience’s focus on him, instead of singing he danced. Apparently it was the hardest, most elaborate, demanding and beautiful choreography Jack had ever seen. Nothing, he'd tell me, ever compared to it. Jack spent his life trying to recreate how it made him feel, the awe and the terror. Mary must've been fixated on it too. She pushed him and pushed him. She wanted to see him work for it, she didn't want him to make the audience think it was easy. They had to see how it felt. 

Jack told me, with both eagerness and embarrassment, that during the Boston tryouts, he had the number right before intermission. It was 12 straight minutes of movement, starting fast and culminating even faster. He told me that his legs would go numb followed by his whole body, that it was like he was sitting in the audience every single night, watching himself move with such energy it was like he was being flung around by an outside force. The moment the curtain would fall for intermission, he would collapse, to be literally dragged off by a stagehand. Every. single. night. Until he couldn't anymore.

Jack was an asthmatic, though he hated admitting it. Maybe Mary was setting him up for failure, trying to teach him a lesson. Jack, perhaps, needed to learn that he couldn't do it all, that sometimes the most he could do was not what needed to be done. I don't know. But Jack definitely believed that all Mary wanted was that excellence, that he owed it to her and she expected it. Pushing himself until he physically could not anymore, every single night, didn't even last through the tryouts. One evening, Jack collapsed 6 minutes too early, unable to finish the number, unable to breathe. They improvised an ending to the song, and extended intermission by 10 more minutes for Jack to recover. But he didn't.

Jack would discuss this with me whenever we worried about our work. He would say it as if he had made some horrible, life altering mistake, and not that his choreographer (and director and co-star and reason for living) hadn't taken into account his whole ability. If you want a dancer to keep dancing, you can't let them kill themselves with their dance. The dagger needs to be fake. Jack didn't learn this, all he learned was that he would never be good enough to be opposite Mary. 

Jack didn't recover that night. They canceled three nights for him, and he still couldn't get back to what he'd been doing before it happened. Mary came to him on the fourth night and asked for his permission to fire him. Jack agreed. She fired him, and rehired him (as he was meant to be) as her assistant. 

The show had changed so radically that they couldn't add many of the characters' songs in, and Jack's replacement, who was older, more established, and more experienced, couldn't dance like Jack had been able to do. Jack rechoreographed the act one closer for this actor himself, Mary sitting in the back of the room watching them work. But it didn't fill the hole in the show, and it closed after a 2 week Broadway run.

Jack loved that I loved the pain of dance. He appreciated that I indulged in the bruises. But if Mary hadn't fired him, he would've danced himself to death. I didn't want to dance myself to death like he did. He knew I didn't, and whenever I worked as his dancer (or as his wife or as his star) he always kept the threshold right where I wanted it. He’d let me tear a muscle or roll an ankle, but he'd never make me dance till I died.

Jack was under the belief that everything that ever happened to him was his just desserts. I wanted him to believe that he deserved better. I wanted to tell him that I loved him and have him say, “of course you do” and mean it, but Jack never would've stood that. He needed to feel wrong. 

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

In 1966, Jack deals with discomfort after being brought in to fix his struggling mentor's choreography on her first show independent from her husband, and meets Peter Burnett, a charming stage manager who is the son of a notable producer and director.

MARY’S PENTHOUSE 1966. It is a slightly lively party. Slightly. There are various actors about.

The festive atmosphere is slightly marred by MARY, who is nodding off on the sofa.

Across the room is BERT. Bert is glaring daggers at MARY while ROD talks at him.

About are other faces, WYATT, a flagrantly homosexual man slightly older than Anne, is meandering with ANNE and their adult son, PETER.

We also see ANNE’s current fiance, TIM Garfield, who is listening to their conversation but about 4 drinks in.

LOUIS Curtis is sitting on the ottoman chatting to MAURICE.

Everyone has a glass of vile tasting overly boozy punch and almost everyone has a cigarette.

STANDING against the wall, as far as he can from everyone else, is JACK. Jack neither has a cigarette nor a glass. He is watching the room with disinterest and maybe a bit of anxiety.

BERT I'll grab you for the next one, Rod. I promise.

BERT excuses himself and crosses to JACK. He gestures for him to follow and the two go into the dining room.

The dining room table is covered in a buffet style of mid-60s delights. An absurd amount of Jello and aspic. Shrimp cocktail. Some weird mayo based salad served out of a pineapple. All sorts of food in hues of green, yellow, and red, and the big bowl of orangish colored punch, which is mostly gone.

A few people hang out here, talking and smoking or picking at the food.

One, SANDY is happy to see Jack.

BERT Could you do me a favor?

JACK If you're going to ask me to leave–

BERT Could you fix another bowl of punch?

JACK What's in it?

BERT Whatever fruit juice we have in the pantry and your choice of liquor, I've just been winging it. I'd do it myself but I really want to… get Mary out of the living room.

JACK nods and BERT goes back into the other room.

JACK takes a bottle of vodka out of the liquor cabinet and pours it into the bowl.

SANDY You did a pretty good job coming in at the last minute, Jack. We appreciate it.

JACK I'm glad my name isn't going to be on it.

She gives a “what can you do” smile.

SANDY We tried our hardest, Jack. So did you. So did they.

JACK No one can fucking dance, it's ridiculous. Don't even know how they got casted.

SANDY (Warm) “Cast,” Jack, the word is “Cast.”

She gives him a kiss on the cheek and goes into the other room. JACK goes into the kitchen and opens the pantry. He sorts around until he finds a bottle of pineapple juice. He puts it on the counter, fishes around for a can opener, opens it, brings it back into the other room and pours it in the punchbowl.

BERT enters, half carrying MARY.

JACK Better than dopesick.

BERT doesn't say anything and exits towards the hallway.

BERT returns a few moments later.

JACK You made sure she was sitting up?

BERT gives him a look. He ladles himself a glass of punch and sits down.

BERT She told me you fixed the show, Jack. You should be happy. Her first show alone, she couldn't do it without you. Bet you're really happy about that. (tasting the punch) We have some grapefruit juice in the fridge, would you?

JACK enters the kitchen and opens the fridge. He takes out the bottle of grapefruit juice and returns. Everyone's in the living room. JACK pours half the carton of grapefruit juice into the bowl.

Jack returns to the living room, he stops in the entryway, near ROD and LOUIS. Everyone is watching MAURICE.

MAURICE And that's when I said, that's not a swimming pool that's my wife!

Laughter! ROD (To Jack, quiet) I haven't seen his wife in 10 years. I think he might've murdered her.

LOUIS (To Jack, even more quiet) That poor woman.

WYATT addresses the crowd.

WYATT I really want to thank you all for what I can only describe as my favorite production to work on in 15 years.

Knowing laughter.

WYATT And I want to thank Mary, wherever she is, for throwing us this bash even if she couldn't be bothered to show up to rehearsals!

More laughter as JACK goes back into the dining room. Rod and Louis follow JACK goes and serves himself a glass of the punch but doesn't drink it.

LOUIS Are you even old enough to drink?

ROD picks at the food.

ROD Jello, jello, jello.

JACK That one right there? The light green one with the limes? Try it. It's surprisingly good.

ROD I don't have a death wish, kid.

LOUIS laughs.

LOUIS Thank you for saving our show, kid.

JACK shrugs.

ROD I'd never expect from how you spoke to the dancers that you're real humble and shy.

JACK I'm not.

LOUIS You seem shy to me.

ROD and LOUIS laugh.

LOUIS You want a cigarette, kid?

JACK I don't smoke.

ROD Of course you don't.

ANNE enters. ANNE Maurice is telling the story about Bob Fosse again.

LOUIS Oh, God.

ROD He tells it all wrong.

ROD and LOUIS go into the living room. ANNE pours herself another glass of punch.

ANNE It's a different color now. How special. I'm sure everyone's thanked you tonight, so I'm not going to. But you seem real miserable for someone who is about to blow up. You'll have a Tony before ‘70, mark my words.

JACK takes the carton of grapefruit juice and goes into the kitchen. He puts it into the fridge. He pours his glass of punch into the sink and fills it up with water.

BERT enters. He is carrying a plate of deviled eggs. He puts them down on the counter and opens the fridge. He takes out a can of beer.

BERT No one's touching these. I guess real food doesn't compare to jello.

JACK Jello is the perfect food.

BERT You're nuts. You intend to stay here tonight?

JACK Where else would I go? Sandy's pissed at me and Ben told me to go fuck myself.

BERT leans against the counter. He takes a swig of the beer and looks at Jack.

BERT You need to learn to negotiate your salary. They should've paid you a lot more to come in and fix it.

JACK I didn't fix anything.

BERT I know that. But do they?

JACK They'll figure it out eventually.

BERT I don't doubt it for a minute… Jack, I'll loan you a couple hundred to get you into an apartment. Having you hang out around here is only causing problems.

JACK I don't have work, unless Mary’s working. I wouldn't be able to pay rent.

BERT She has a problem, kid.

JACK I'm not blaming her.

BERT You love to bite the hand that feeds you.

JACK I didn't say I'm blaming you.

BERT (Quiet, intense) Alex, how many times have I kicked you out of this house? You want to count it out for me? Go slow, use your fingers if you have to. I don't want you here, Mary is the only reason I put up with you. You came in and made sure no one will ever work with Mary again. She might finally be on my side on day. You need to be prepared.

JACK You can't call me Alex anymore. It's legally changed.

BERT I can call you whatever I want.

BERT leaves. JACK grabs the plate of eggs off the counter. He leans over the sink and eats them.

Enter PETER, he's about Jack's age, twinkish, educated, and well-bred.

PETER There's a whole party going on out there. With some very sweet punch.

JACK puts the plate of eggs into the sink and plays it cool.

JACK I can't look anyone in the eyes.

PETER Why?

JACK Because it looks terrible.

PETER Well, if she didn't want it to look terrible, she shouldn't have given you only 2 weeks to fix it.

JACK They're all going to blame her.

PETER What? For it looking good?

JACK It's awful. I had no idea what I was doing.

PETER Maybe. But it was better than her's.

JACK No it wasn't.

PETER And everyone owes you. It's a Maurice Travlian show, it was never going to be good.

JACK is suspicious.

JACK Who even are you? What did you do?

PETER My father's the producer, the mother's the director, my uncle's the composer, and my father's lover is the lyricist, so I'm probably something or other... I just graduated, my mother wanted to show me how a broadway show works before getting me my first job on one.

JACK Ah.

PETER How old are you?

JACK pauses to do some mental math.

PETER Last time I saw you, Mary said you were 26. But last year, you said you were 26, and two years before that you were 18.

JACK shakes his head.

JACK 21. I want people to take me seriously.

PETER You might not believe it, but no one is having a hard time taking you seriously tonight. You might be the most serious person at this party. You're even brooding in the kitchen stuffing eggs into your mouth. That's very serious.

JACK starts to leave.

PETER Look, I hate old people's parties. Where do you live? We can share a cab.

JACK Here. Mostly.

PETER (Disappointed) Oh. You're Mary's lover. That makes sense.

JACK That's an awful thing to say.

PETER So you're not?

JACK No! Fuck off.

PETER Good, because I was about to invite you over, I wouldn't want to do that if it caused drama.

JACK You're welcome to invite me over, but I'm not coming.

PETER Why not? You really want to hang out here all night?

PETER'S NEPO-BABY APARTMENT. Jack is sitting on Peter's sofa, watching him as he puts on a record.

PETER Where are you from?

JACK Here.

PETER Really?

JACK No. But I wish I was.

PETER sits next to him.

PETER It's not anything special.

JACK Yes it is. Believe me.

PETER You're right. It is. I shouldn't pretend. Can I be honest with you, sweetheart? My parents asked me to be friendly with you tonight so you don't get bitter about not getting credit. But I brought you here to sleep with you, which they didn't ask me to do.

JACK That would be odd. If they did.

PETER I can never tell when a dancer is a homo, because they kinda all are. Do you like this album? I love Connie. She's the best singer in history.

After a moment, JACK nods.

JACK I like music.

PETER You're a real radical.

PETER gets up.

PETER You want something to eat?

JACK I'm fine. How'd you afford this place?

PETER My dad pays for it. My dad's a homo. He feels guilty about leaving my mother because he was her one true love. So now he pays for everything. Kinda makes me crazy. But, I like my apartment. I used to have a roommate, and he just.. left, went to Europe… so it's all mine now. It's kinda lonely. I'm going to have a glass of overpriced whiskey my dad bought me, would you like a glass?

JACK No thanks.

PETER Oh, shit you don't drink?

JACK I do, just… not right now.

PETER laughs and pours himself a drink. JACK takes a blister pack of pills out and pops two, then quickly puts it away.

PETER What'd you take?

JACK Just some uppers.

PETER So you don't drink but you take uppers. That's really interesting. How do you come down? Pot? Valium?

JACK No. I try to never come down.

PETER (amused) You must never sleep then.

JACK is enjoying this.

JACK If I could I'd spend all my time in the studio.

PETER Why?

JACK Because maybe then I'd be able to fix that fucking show.

PETER You're so fixated on that.

JACK What else am I supposed to think about?

PETER I don't know. You tell me. What are we doing?

JACK sorta shifts away uncomfortably. PETER gets the deal and gets up. He looks through his records.

JACK I don't know.

PETER What's– uh, Mary like when she's not all doped up?

JACK Doped up? You're fucking crazy.

PETER My dad's the producer, he talks. And I'm not an idiot. I know what nodding off looks like.

JACK Actually, maybe I should have a drink.

PETER pours him one, hands it over, and goes back to looking through his albums.

PETER I like that you don't ask for things. Do you like Elvis?

JACK He's fine. I really just listen to whatever's on the radio.

PETER Then you're fine with Connie? I'm always so nervous.

JACK downs the drink.

JACK Yeah, it's good.

PETER Geez.

JACK You're in luck, the last time I got drunk, which was Christmas a couple years ago, I gave a guy a blowjob on the patio–

PETER I'm not trying to get you drunk–

JACK –I’d say who but it'd get me into trouble.

PETER Oh, God, it wasn't my uncle Rod, was it– No, he wasn't there–

JACK shakes his head.

JACK I won't say… You want to know all my secrets? I have better ones than that.

PETER I bet I know a lot of them.

JACK I doubt it.

PETER My mom might not talk to the press, but she does talk to me. Same with Rod. You can ask them to keep their mouths shut but that doesn't include us. I know a whole lot about you. And I have an encyclopedic memory when it comes to people. I might know more about you than you know about you.

JACK That's fucked up.

PETER Want to quiz me?

Jack shakes his head.

JACK Not particularly.

PETER You're from somewhere in the Midwest. You were Mary’s ward for 5 years. You dropped out of the last show you were in and haven't performed since. You used to crash on Sandy Vaughn’s sofa all the time and you asked her out five times and she refused each and every one because you're too young for her. Your real name is something long and Greek.

JACK is thoroughly creeped out.

JACK All that but you didn't know my age.

PETER No, I did. I just wanted to see how many times you'd lie about it.

JACK gets up and starts to go.

PETER You want my number before you walk the 15 blocks home?

JACK Why would I want that?

PETER So when you do want to fuck, I'll be easier to reach.

JACK turns and looks at him.

JACK You're actually crazy.

PETER But right, right?

JACK sighs. Peter scribbles it down on a piece of paper and hands it to him.

PETER I promise I'm pretty regular. I just try to be open with my quirks from the moment I meet someone.

JACK You're also pretty open with your intentions.

PETER Does it bother you?

JACK No.

PETER And it doesn't bother me that you aren't, sweetheart.

JACK Don't call me that.

PETER Sorry, darling..

JACK Do you know stuff about everyone or just me?

PETER I'm not a stalker. I know everything about everyone. You're not special. You're just in the room with me.

JACK Really?

PETER Hope that doesn't bother you. A lot of people want to feel special. But I like a few things in life: Connie Francis, trivia, and dancers with nice shoulders and pretty eyes.

JACK is a sucker for flattery. He takes out his wallet and puts in the number.

JACK I'd stay tonight but a glass of whiskey, two dexies and a half a dozen hardboiled eggs is– Just, not tonight.

PETER That's why I wrote it down.

This is a remarkably human interaction for Jack.

LATER. THE COREY HOUSE. Jack enters, sure to be quiet. The party is well over, but the lights are still on. He flicks the living room light off, then the dining room, then the hallway, then he goes out to the patio, quietly closing the door behind him.

It's one of those cool late winter or early spring nights. Well, not cool, it's pretty cold. But Jack is choosing to be okay with it. He takes a seat on a chair and looks up at the gray city sky.

A light turns on inside and Bert comes through the doors, tired, wiping his eyes.

BERT Oh, good it's just you.

JACK That loan still on the table or did I fuck that up?

BERT That's a morning question… you're right, you wouldn't be able to pay rent when Mary's not working. I'm done fighting with you, Jack. Mary doesn't want you living out of the Y or on someone's couch.

JACK I'll get a job. I could wait tables. That's what everyone does.

BERT There are some people in this world that are built for one thing and one thing only.

BERT lights a cigarette and sits next to him.

It's a shame that you and Mary are so alike but so different. She was your age when I met her. She was on top of the world. I gave her everything she needed and she's thrown it away but she had a few great years…. See, I think you're designed to choreograph, and Mary was always designed to dance. Shame that she never really got her second chance.

JACK Do you want me to climb over the fencing, throw myself off the building?

BERT I wouldn't stop you.

JACK Yes you would.

BERT How about you try me then?

JACK doesn't budge.

Enter MARY. Soberish. She sits on the other side of JACK. JACK stands up and faces them.

JACK I don't want to argue either, Mr. Corey. I don't. I won't do it anymore. I did a damn good job on that show, I know I did. And people take me seriously and I'm going to fine without you. I'm going to be better than good. You two can go fuck yourselves.

MARY What's this about? What are you arguing about?

JACK leaves.

A phone booth on the street. JACK is holding Peter's note from earlier as he dials. He closes his eyes as he speaks.

JACK Hey- No, Peter, it's Jack. Sorry, my watch died– I took a long walk– Listen, are you interested or not? Great. See you in a bit.

Jack hangs up.

We see then over the next few weeks, a bunch more similar calls, from various locations, to various people, all with the same goal. Some get rejected and Jack immediately dials someone else.

A RESTAURANT. 3 months later. JACK and WYATT sit at a restaurant. They have a stack of paper between them.

WYATT I know this would be your first real independent show, but you did such good work on Candlesticks for Marie that I am confident that you'd be able to do it.

JACK Mary just signed for another show. She'll want me to help her.

WYATT Compensation is fair. Beyond fair, actually. I need a solid choreographer who can get the work down and do it quickly. Especially someone who is used to working with divas… Look, this show might not be a big success, I won't lie to you. Rod and Louis’ tunes are phenomenal and Anne is set to direct, but the libretto is actor Geoffrey O'Doherty, it's his first show, but it's quite good. I'm taking a risk on him and I'm more than willing to take a risk on you.

JACK Why?

WYATT Because you've done good work for me and I want to pay you back by putting you to work. We won't start production for at least 6 months.

Jack looks uncomfortable. He examines the contract. He doesn't understand what he's reading at all.

JACK I might have to bring this to… I guess Mary and Bert to take a look at. I've never signed anything like this before. Not that I don't get it, I just don't know what's normal…

WYATT My son tells me you're living a pretty hectic life right now.

Jack looks like a deer in the headlights for a moment, then adjusts in his seat and goes back to reading the paper.

WYATT That's why I'm giving you so much up front… Kid, theater has always been a family affair to me. My ex-wife’s directing, her brother's the composer, my son's gonna be the stage manager. This production might be a risk, but it'll be close knit and drama-free. It's the perfect place to get your bearings. Even if we close in Boston.

Jack looks at him again, then sits back and tries to look confident.

JACK I'll sign.

Wyatt smiles.

WYATT Glad to have you join the team.

[neo-contemporaryfailure]

In 1963, Mary faces Jack for the first time after firing him from her comeback musical.

TW: Domestic violence

Mary hated doing this. As long as she'd known this kid, she'd hated playing this part the most. She'd known it was part of the deal, that by getting this wonderfully talented dancer in her life, developing him into a protege, she'd occasionally have to put her foot down and talk to him like he was, she wished he wasn't, a teenage boy.

Mary and Bert had been home for 2 days. Shirley, the maid, had confirmed on the phone that Jack had arrived over a week ago. She'd also reported that she found him drinking straight from a bottle of creme de menthe. Mary doubted this till Bert and her got in, and found every bottle in their liquor cabinet completely empty. Jack had been nice enough to toss a couple of them out, too.

Bert had lost his lid, hissed that he'd throw the Jack out. They'd argued about it. Then they fought about it. He'd shoved her by the pantry door, her back struck the handle. There was a nasty bruise there, now. She'd conceded to him, told him to feel free to throw Jack out. Jack, who'd been in the ICU only a few weeks ago. She stood in the hallway listening when he went into Jack's room to argue with him.

Jack didn't argue, and Bert didn't yell. Bert approached her a few moments later, closing the door behind him, nose scrunched, looking dull.

“We gotta send that boy back to Minneapolis.” He sighed, “Or we're going to be in real trouble.”

Mary didn't know what that meant, and didn't ask as he swiped her off her feet and brought her into the living room, his hand pressing into her bruise. The weirdest things made that man want to love her.

It had been two days since then, and Mary hadn't actually seen Jack. She'd heard him leave the room late at night, going to the bathroom maybe, but she'd yet to actually see his face or hear his voice. It was getting nerve wracking. She didn't want him to hate her.

Jack had really messed things up for the show. Bert had cast an old buddy of his. He was taller and handsomer, and older, and really made much more sense as the male ingenue, and he could sing, but he couldn't dance. Sure, Jack couldn't do it all, but he could still dance. This guy couldn't dance. But he'd come in and he'd learned his lines in a few days and Rod added back in a few songs they'd cut and it was going to be okay, probably.

Maybe. The show felt worthless to her without Jack. Jack was why she'd done it. Sure, she wanted to be on stage, but more importantly she'd wanted Jack to be there with her. Mary could do better than musicals, she'd always known this, but to shape someone up and put them on stage is more impressive than being able to dance yourself.

It wasn't really Jack's fault. She knew that, logically. It wasn't like Jack intended it. Jack was young, he didn't know what he was doing. She'd failed to show him how to maintain himself. It was hard for her to think about him that way. Like a child in need of being told what to do. Jack had never been that to her. Jack had always been more like a friend, a colleague, his age just happened to be lower than the rest of her friend's. But seeing him collapse on stage, watching as the first aid guy tried to talk to him, and then the paramedics hauled him off, he looked like a child. Small and shaking and wide eyed…

But at the same time, she couldn't help but be frustrated at him. He could've said something. He could've done something. He could've… She didn't know. If Jack couldn't do it, he couldn't do it. She'd put so much time into thinking he could, but she must've been wrong. She kept having that feeling of anger and resentment and frustration bubble up, and she'd have to make note of it before shoving it down. They'd probably have a frank discussion about it eventually, really sit down and piece together what went wrong, but it wasn't the time.

Mary stood in the entrance of his room. She liked when Jack stayed around. It wasn't always great for her and Bert, but when Jack was around it meant he couldn't be late to meet her and she always had someone to talk to. It was company, and sometimes she really needed company.

The room was stuffy and sweaty. She crossed to the window and opened it just a crack, just enough to let the air in. Mary didn't mind stuffy but she couldn't stand sweaty. Jack, in bed, was laying face down, one hand pressed under his forehead and the other under the pillow. She twisted the knob on the lamp on the bedside table till it clicked and lit up and tinted half the room a warm white. Jack mumbled something and pressed his head harder down into the pillow.

She thought about sitting on the bed, maybe at his feet or next to him. That felt like the motherly thing to do. Like what her mother did when she was sick with chicken pox as a child. She wished Bert could've done it instead. Bert had a daughter. He knew how to deal with kids. But that also felt wrong. Jack wasn't her kid. Jack wasn't even really a child at all anymore. That ship had sailed. She didn't know if he ever really had been.

Instead, she crossed her legs and sat on the floor next to the bed.

“Jack.” She tried to soften her voice, then gave up and repeated herself normally, “Jack. Come on. Don't ignore me.”

Jack shifted to look at her, revealing his face finally. It was odd to see him with facial hair, even if it was just a bit. He looked older, especially with the eye bags, and the bit of shiny sweat on the bridge of his nose, and his dull eyes. He was sorta handsome in a greasy way.

“I'm sorry.” He said, croaking it out, pitiful and shaky, “I didn't want to mess it up.” his chest heaved as he started to sob, truly bawl.

Mary had to look away, looking instead at the mirror door on the closet across the room, catching herself in the corner. She looked old.

“I want you to come on as my assistant.” She said, “I told you I wasn't going to forget about you, and that's what I want to do. I know it's not ideal, but I really need your help on this one.”

Jack shifted away and burrowed his face back into the pillow. She reached up, and didn't know what to do with her hand. She just held there for a second, half an inch away from Jack’s head. Then lowered slowly and gave him a quick pat. It was like petting a dog. She folded her arms back over her chest.

“We can talk about it tomorrow.” She said, “If you want to think about it. But it's…” she hesitated, then let it go, “It's either assistant or you're going back to Minneapolis. You know which one I want.”

She stood up, turned the light back off, and left. Closing the door behind her, she leaned back and sighed. What did she ever do to deserve all this trouble?