It was a week before opening night and Bub was still flubbing his lines.

“I don’t understand,” said Bub, “Why can’t I have a feed? Why do we have to memorize our lines?”

“You have to memorize your lines,” said Daven, clenching his hands into fists “because that is the way actors in the old days did things.

“But no one will know!” complained Bub. “No one will know that I don’t have a feed inside my head! I could download the entire script and have it running behind my eyes. I’ve done it that way for every other performance I’ve ever been in. I did that at Cambridge!”

“Well, this is not Cambridge.” said Daven.

Bub threw up his hands dramatically. “Davan, I understand what you are going for here. I mean, the cloth costumes, that makes sense, and the painted sets look very rustic, very historical. I get the feel you want, but I don’t understand why it matters what is going on in my head!”

Daven climbed up onto the stage. “It matters because I’ll know Bub, and more importantly, you will know. You will know that this performance isn’t authentic to the old twentieth century style of acting. The only way it can be authentic is if you struggle just like they struggled, learn just like they learned. Now, get over your cheap self and take it from the top.”

Bub sighed. Daven was a method man, and you could never argue with one of them. “Now is the winter of our discontent” he said. “Made glorious summer by this sun of York. . .”