SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY, REALLY WANT? -PART 34

 

SO TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, WHAT YOU REALLY, REALLY WANT? -PART 34

When I first got the job, there were whispers about me. Rumors. Apparently, I came with a reputation—difficult, they said. I had heard it too, echoing back through green rooms and dressing rooms, secondhand through colleagues who always started with, “They said you’re…” and I’d fill in the rest. But still, I was hired. Despite the gossip, despite the caution flags others may have raised, I was given the job.

Now, sitting ten feet away from The Director in a sterile rehearsal room that smells faintly of old coffee and dust, I can feel it all unraveling. He adjusts his glasses, peering at me over the frames with narrowed eyes. His shirt is wrinkled, his blazer barely clinging to any sense of professionalism. His hair is wild, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times too many today. He looks exhausted. He is exhausted. And still, somehow, his disdain for me manages to break through the fog.

“When I first hired you,” he says, voice dripping with fatigue and a certain smug satisfaction, “I heard you were difficult. But I hired you anyway.”

He slumps back in his chair, letting the words hang in the air like smoke from a dying cigarette. I stay quiet, watching him. The space between us feels immense—ten feet of tension.

“You’ve got talent,” he continues, almost begrudgingly. “That much is clear. And for a while, it worked. You were electric. Engaging. You brought something.”

There’s a pause. A shift.

“But then, you became a giant pain in the ass.”

Ah, there it is. The axe has been raised.

He leans forward now, elbows on knees, voice low and weary. “I have so much to deal with. Too much. And then there’s your sour attitude… always gathering people, forming these little cliques of negativity.”

The axe is higher now, gleaming in the overhead light.

“You’re making it harder for everyone else. The energy shifts when you walk into a room. It’s heavy. We feel it. And frankly…” he stops, lips tightening, then spits the words out, “We feel that you’re not happy here.”

There’s spittle on his lip, and I can’t help but wonder if he knows or if no one tells him anything anymore. I sit up straighter. “I’m not,” I say, simple and clear.

His mouth curls into something almost triumphant. “Good,” he snaps. “You’re fired.”

And just like that, it’s over.

I stand up slowly, no dramatic exit, no outburst or speech. Just a simple pivot on my heel and a walk toward the door. I don’t even look back.

Outside, the world keeps moving. I check the time. There’s just enough of it to grab a coffee before I’m driven to the airport. My castmates react in waves—some come to hug me, to whisper soft goodbyes, while others keep their distance, glancing at me like I’m a contagious idea they’d rather not catch.

This was my first time getting fired. In all my years of performing, I’d never been dismissed. Not once. And yet, here I was.

I knew why they thought I was a pain. It wasn’t just the attitude, and it wasn’t ego. I was the “Equity Deputy”—the person responsible for ensuring union rules were followed, that working conditions met standards. I was the voice when others felt silenced. I was the one who raised concerns when the fog used in our performances was found to contain toxic chemicals. I flagged it. I pushed back. And I guess, for them, that was the final straw.

So I flew home. Quiet. Broken in ways I didn’t fully understand yet. For three months, I stayed in the shadows of my own apartment. No visitors. No calls. No stage lights. Just the quiet hum of silence and the weight of rejection.

Then, one afternoon, I opened my email.

It was from a fellow performer. Someone I barely knew. His message was long, ranting, venting about what he called the worst theatre job he ever had. His words were raw, filled with anger, exhaustion, and that familiar ache of not being heard.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Then, I began to type.

 

THE END