"The day is ending..."
"As it does each day..."
"He is gone. His steps are many, filling other places..."
"You are gone, and here, the days grow emptier, yielding space to nothingness..."
"She, is absent..."
Apologies—it wasn't Anson speaking in riddles, but James and Seth's script. The abstruse dialogue was peppered with inexplicable Latin and French, making Anson question reality—
Did his language pack need an update after the transmigration?
The problem was, he understood every word, but strung together, they were utterly bewildering. There was no setup, no explanation—just a barrage of lines from the opening moment, leaving the audience disoriented.
Onstage, two actors stood at the left corner, facing the same direction with icy hauteur. They interrupted each other mid-sentence, like performers in a juggling act tossing lines back and forth.
Then—
James drifted ghostlike across the stage from the rear, expressionless, eyes vacant, lost in his own A Chinese Ghost Story fantasy, completely out of sync with the others.
This...
Anson glanced down at the playbill—
"The Hole."
In tiny print at the bottom, easily missed:
Two hours and thirty minutes, no intermission.
Anson wondered if his artistic sensibilities were lacking, failing to grasp James and Seth's creative vision. Where was the promised raunchy comedy?
But a look around told another story.
Chris was already nodding off, a shiny trail of drool escaping his lips.
Judd was devouring two hamburgers in secret, taking furtive bites before hiding them in the shadow of the seat in front of him, chewing slowly with closed lips.
A producer played Snake on his phone between his knees, chin propped on one hand in a facade of rapt attention while his eyes stayed glued to the screen.
A reporter studied a water stain on his seat as if it were a Michelangelo masterpiece.
As for the agents?
Their thumbs flew over phone keypads, texting and emailing nonstop even in the theater—whether about tonight's play or other clients was anyone's guess.
Was this... acceptable?
What Anson didn't know was that performance art was still art. Even if no one understood it, that was fine.
In Hollywood, not all casting directors relied on casting agencies. Many trusted their instincts, constantly watching films, TV, and theater to scout talent firsthand. Clumsy as it seemed, this method often unearthed real gems.
Some directors—Quentin Tarantino, the Coen brothers (Joel and Ethan), Noah Baumbach—were the same, as were certain top producers.
They frequented cinemas, theaters, and operas, embracing both blockbusters and avant-garde experiments, genuinely passionate about their craft while hoping to discover something extraordinary.
That was why James and Seth's experimental play had their agents' backing.
Who knew?
Maybe a producer or casting director would see potential in this play and offer them a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Or perhaps it was about crafting an artistic reputation, spreading word in Hollywood to leave a favorable impression.
Snore.
Chris jerked awake as his head lolled back, mouth agape, startled by a sudden thud from the stage. He hastily wiped his lips, straightened up, and blinked blearily at the performance, utterly lost.
Not just Chris—even Anson, who'd watched the entire thing, had no clue what was happening—
Seth, cradling a guitar like a binge-eating Cupid, sat at the edge of the stage and began singing under a spotlight.
This seemed like a pivotal scene—but why it mattered, how it fit, or why it was staged this way remained a mystery. No one dared ask.
Yet!
The moment the lights dimmed on the final note, applause erupted.
Clap. Clap-clap-clap.
It was the signal.
One second, the audience was preoccupied—texting, flipping through papers, sneaking chips, or dozing off.
The next, they jolted awake as if synchronized, leaping to their feet with radiant smiles, showering the stage with fervent applause.
One by one, then all at once.
Soon, the entire theater was standing, clapping as if they'd just witnessed a masterpiece.
Naturally, Chris and Anson followed suit.
It was Anson's first time in such a setting, but he only lagged half a beat before rising calmly to join the ovation, observing with amusement:
The masked faces around him, tearful and effusive, were performing just as skillfully as the actors onstage.
This spectacle was far more entertaining than the play itself.
Chris, now fully awake, caught Anson's gaze and scanned the room. The conversation from earlier flashed through his mind. He turned to Anson, and the two shared a look of understanding. Chris nearly burst out laughing on the spot.
Summoning Herculean effort, he restrained himself.
Then—
A figure in front threw his hands up, clapping wildly. "Masterpiece! Masterpiece!"
His voice cracked with emotion as he dabbed his eyes with one hand, never stopping his applause.
The performance was happening right before their eyes.
Pfft.
Chris teetered on the edge of losing it, ducking his head as his shoulders shook uncontrollably.
Anson wasn't immune either, but he held it together, treating the scene like a mime show.
In his past life, he'd seen fangirls weep over idol actors' wooden performances. This was child's play in comparison.
Entertainment truly was a circle—whether across the Pacific or not, the industry's essence was the same.
Just then, Anson's peripheral vision caught someone in the row ahead—
Wearing an expression of utter bewilderment, the man glanced around, his eyes screaming:
Am I the only one who saw a different play? Is it me or the entire room that's insane? What the hell just happened?
His face mirrored Truman's epiphany in The Truman Show—the moment he realized his whole world was staged.
So, there was at least one normal person in the Hayworth Theater this afternoon.
(End of chapter)