It was a week before opening night and Bub was still flubbing his lines.
â€œI donâ€™t understand,â€ said Bub, â€œWhy canâ€™t I have a feed? Why do we have to memorize our lines?â€
â€œYou have to memorize your lines,â€ said Daven, clenching his hands into fists â€œbecause that is the way actors in the old days did things.
â€œBut no one will know!â€ complained Bub. â€œNo one will know that I donâ€™t have a feed inside my head! I could download the entire script and have it running behind my eyes. Iâ€™ve done it that way for every other performance Iâ€™ve ever been in. I did that at Cambridge!â€
â€œWell, this is not Cambridge.â€ said Daven.
Bub threw up his hands dramatically. â€œDavan, 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 donâ€™t understand why it matters what is going on in my head!â€
Daven climbed up onto the stage. â€œIt matters because Iâ€™ll know Bub, and more importantly, you will know. You will know that this performance isnâ€™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.â€
Bub sighed. Daven was a method man, and you could never argue with one of them. â€œNow is the winter of our discontentâ€ he said. â€œMade glorious summer by this sun of York. . .â€
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