(Untitled)

[yourladyship]

Every exit is an entrance somewhere else -- and the case in point, a certain, squeaking Cleopatra -- a blonde Elizabethan player-queen, in skirts and frills and silly shoes that make him trip the moment he steps backstage. But this is not backstage, not the one he expected, not the court, but the tavern ... or not

Comments

[outofdepth]

It's not a picture one is apt to forget.
It didn't have to be... obscene.
So when Guildenstern, from his table along the (for him) empty wall, sees the young player stumbling by the door, he merely pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

"Alfred, wasn't it?" he asks without looking up.

[yourladyship]

It's not a voice one's going to forget, either -- Alfred hears it, starts and squeaks. If he could disappear, he would, but it's not something he's ever quite mastered; he settles for hiding his face in hands, peering over at the table through his fingers.

"S - Sir ... ?"

[outofdepth]

He cracks open an eye and sees the poor boy in a state of terror, quaking in his skirts.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Alfred," he says exasperatedly, "get out of that dress and have a beer. Might do you some good."

[yourladyship]

"I --"

This is how wrong ideas are had, and Alfred would definitely like to disappear about now. Perhaps there's a crack in the floorboards --

"Sorry, sir?"

[outofdepth]

"Yes, I'm certain you should be, for some offense or other. However, I'm not in the state of mind to press the issue. Sit. Beer. Drink."

[yourladyship]

Well, at least it's straightforward. Rather on cue, Alfred sits down at the table, fiddles anxiously with his skirts, and tries very hard not to stare at the dead man.

[outofdepth]

Guildenstern moves quickly to the bar and returns with two pints, sliding one to the actor.

He drinks in silence for a moment, then takes pity on the young man.

"Ask the three most burning questions on your mind, and I'll provide clear answers. After that, no guarantees."

[yourladyship]

Alfred manages to catch the pint, a little neatly, and looks at it for a while, not quite sure what to do (or say).

"Are you --" He hesitates. "Am I --" Try again -- "Where are we?"

[outofdepth]

"Yes. I sincerely hope not. Milliways, the Bar at the End of the Universe."

Yes, Alfred, that was three.

[yourladyship]

Figures.

And this would be Alfred with a rather long, rather speechless, rather lost-little-boy look. Very quickly, he decides a drink might not be such a bad thing after all -- if only to hold on to. "Wh - Why --" he tries to start to say --

[outofdepth]

"Why not? Did you have something better to do?"

[yourladyship]

Meekly, "I'm supposed to be on-stage ..."

[outofdepth]

"And I'm supposed to be in the Almighty's bountiful Heaven. Of the two of us, whom do you suppose has more right to complain?"

He takes a long pull from the beer.

"The show will go on, regardless."

[yourladyship]

"-- Oh." That sounds like a Point. Alfred nods, to show that he's got it, and tries to take a sip of his drink, having to tilt it with both hands. "I'm s - sorry. About that." Anxiously, "Sir."

[outofdepth]

"You were not the hangman, as I recall. And," he adds in a syrupy sweet voice, "if you call me 'sir' once more, I shall have to box your ears. Rosen-- Guildenstern will do, or Guil, if you must."

[yourladyship]

"Oh --" He smiles -- helplessly and ridiculously, but it's a smile. "Oh, of course, si -- Of course, Guildenstern. Sorry, sir, I --"

Alfred will be attempting to hide behind the beer until further notice. "Sorry. I -- I d - didn't want to be on-stage, a - anyway," he mumbles more than says.