Arena Stage

This was all a convoluted process that few realized a stage production went through—this adjusting of the written script to meld with a particular production of the play. And the process this time was almost farcical. Handelsman sat in the third row of the theater and put the actors through their paces. Most of them still had scripts in hand, but we were getting very close to the “scripts down” rehearsal stage, and most the actors were weaning themselves away from these props already. The end of this stage would also pretty much finish the need for me—and for Mr. Masters, for that matter—although the playwright would, of course, remain lounging at the back of the theater, basking in the beauty of “his” lines, scowling occasionally when he thought a golden line had been swallowed, clearing his throat when Handelsman—or anyone else—made a suggestion that sullied “his” brilliant prose, and otherwise making himself insufferable to the director, who, when he then was being mastered by the playwright in the bedroom could deny him nothing.

Mr. Masters sat three rows behind Handelsman and to the side far enough that Handelsman only needed to turn his head to consult. Mr. Masters’s function was to take notes on changes Handelsman was requesting in the scripting as he went along for a complete rework of that portion of the script overnight to be available for another run-through the next day. At least the was the theory of what Mr. Masters was doing. In reality, he was doodling on his pad, drawing fanciful castles in the air, while I, sitting just behind him and to his side, was taking the real notes. Because it was I who was going to be staying late that evening to recast and recopy the script pages for the morning. Mr. Masters hadn’t polished or recast—or even wordsmithed—his scripts since he had taken me under his wing and into his bed three years earlier.