The Show Must

"I don't..."

"What the fuck, Danny?"

"I just don't want to talk."

"Danny, what were you doing?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he says as he drops sideways on the leather couch in his dressing room.

Someone pokes Gus in the back. He turns to see some little blonde intern holding her hand over a phone. Behind her, maybe a dozen gawkers crowding over each other. Some of them look scared, most of them look curious, like those assholes slowing down by the big accidents on the highway. They want to peek a little red on the pavement, thinks Gus. He shoots them all a hard glare and closes the door. They'll have to wait.

Danny is soaked in sweat, flopped face down across the couch like a rag. His shirt is half ripped. His belt, unbuckled. He lost his jacket somewhere out on the set. Gus makes a quick note on his clipboard. Someone's going to have to get that back to costumes.

Gus watches him lie there. He's not moving at all. Maybe he's holding his breath, like a toddler turning blue for an extra cookie. Gus has been in this business a long time, sweeping up shit from all the talent. This was new, though. Gus never saw anything like what happened out there.

"Danny, you know we have to talk about this."

Gus pulls a stiff, wooden chair over. He sits right next to the couch. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Delicacy is a very important thing in this business.

"Danny, I want you to start talking to me."

He coughs and sucks a deep breath in, "This couch smells."

"The couch is fine. I want to talk about the show, the show you just did."

"It smells like mold," Danny finally rolls on his side. His face leaves a wet imprint on the leather, "like mildew,"

"Well that's where people sit. Their butts go there," Gus keeps his voice even, not a hint of sarcasm. You never really know with talent.

"It's not a fart smell,"

"Yeah, Okay. Listen Danny. I need to know if something is wrong. I have to spin this somehow. So you need to talk to me so I can get on the phone and save our jobs,"

Danny turns his face back into the wet leather.

A tremor cramps up Gus's arm. He takes a couple of breaths.

"Do you want to do something different with the show? Do we need to change things up?"

Gus taps his pencil on his thigh. He places the clipboard on the floor. Danny is motionless again. There is a timid knock at the door.

"Not now," snaps Gus. He turns back to the couch, "Is this it man? You want to kill the show? We can do that if we have to."

Another knock.

"Fuck off!"

The door opens anyway. That little blonde intern inches into the room holding that phone like it was a gun to her head. Poor girl. This place will chew her up like a spitwad.

"I'm sorry Gus, but it's..."

"I know who it is. Tell him I'm talk... I'm working here and I can..."

The girl winces and holds the phone away. Gus can hear it squawk from all the way across the room. Someone is screaming into the other end.

Danny rolls back, his eyes look wet, "I don't think I exist,"

Oh for christ's sake.

"Danny, let's take a moment to clear our heads and figure this thing out."

"I can't get it. I can't believe it anymore. I don't know what's going on,"

"Gus, what should I tell..."

"Delay. Keep him busy. I'll get the phone in a sec," then turning back to the crumpled mess on the couch, "Danny, you're stressed, you're falling apart. We can fix this. We can get you cleaned up, get you to a shrink."

"I don't think I'm really here Gus. I don't think I'm anywhere,"

"Well here," Gus places his pencil next to Danny's face on the moldy cushion. "You can pick this up, right?"

Danny pinches the pencil with his thumb and forefinger, lifting and looking at it like some odd bug.

"I guess." he speaks softly, like a child slowly waking.

"Well you have to be here, right? I mean, I'm talking to you. I can see you," Gus jerks a thumb over his shoulder, "She can see you. Who are we talking to if no one's here?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're fucking crazy."