The cast members are celebrating their final performance of Thoroughly Modern Millie at a nearby actors’ bar. They are young, drunk, and vibrant.
They are showing red.
Martin, who is none of these things, sits in a corner by himself with a whiskey and notes this last feature of his cast mates without surprise.
***
A head trauma suffered at age fifteen sent Martin to the hospital with amnesia. His memory recovered within two days, but an odd aftereffect lingered: many people he encountered had a dull red glow to them.
The doctor said it was likely a temporary vision issue that would resolve over time.
When it didn’t, neurologists ran tests but could never come up with a definitive answer.
One day as he was leaving for school, Martin noticed their ailing family dog, Rila had taken on a reddish hue. By the time he returned later in the evening, Rila had died. That’s when Martin understood when someone faded to red, it meant it was the last time he’d ever see them again.
He cried for Rila, and he cried again when, during his high school graduation ceremony, he found himself in a sea of red. He would not miss Deerbrook, but it was difficult to realize this block of humanity would disappear from his life forever.
In college, Martin studied acting, appearing in productions which allowed him to dissolve his melancholy in characters. He had friends, boyfriends, and chemical dependency, but nothing eased the sting when the tell-tale redness came, and someone dear left his life.
In 1983, when his close friend Betts showed red one night at a city bar, Martin became upset, demanding to know if she was moving away. Betts assured him she wasn’t going anywhere, and refused to let him see her home, but on the way to her apartment her cab was involved in a collision, and she died.
This precognitive ability led Martin to dismiss most strangers he encountered as bit-players in his life, here one minute, gone the next. Service workers, subway riders, strangers passing on the street. So many people . . . disposable as paper cups.
Martin continued to act, but prominent roles eluded him. The more bitter he became, the less jobs came his way. A vicious circle.
When the few people he truly cared about faded to red, it was a gut-punch delivered by an uncaring universe.
Some days it was too much to take.
***
It was commonplace for actors in theatrical performances to promise they’d keep in touch, see one another soon, work on a new project together, etc. but they rarely did.
Some would make it big, some would make it small, and some would not make it. Martin could see by scanning the bar, whatever production the Modern Millie actors scurried off to would not include him.
As a young man, Martin was so sure of his talent, he thought fame inevitable. Back then he couldn’t imagine himself old, playing dinner theatre for suburbanites in such an undesirable and insignificant role as “PARTY GUEST”. But here he was. It was an undeniable reality.
Martin finishes his whiskey, dons his raincoat, and leaves the bar without notice. A terrific downpour is in progress, and he is soaked through by the time he acquires a cab to ferry him home.
After he keys into his apartment, Martin hangs up his coat, towel dries his hair, and gets into bed clothes.
He enters the bathroom, picks up his toothbrush, and turns on the faucet.
In the mirror, he sees a new, undeniable reality.
Martin puts down the unused toothbrush and shuts off the water, his face creased in grief.
“Goodbye, old friend,” he says.
John Howard Matthews is author of the short story collection, This is Where it Gets Interesting.
His work has appeared in anthologies and several literary and humor publications including McSweeney’s, The Chicago Reader, SlackJaw, Points in Case, and The American Bystander.
John lives near Chicago with his wife and their Boston Terrier.
