The next day we give a read-through for the administration, so they can see what we're working on and determine how much funding we'll get. But the scripts we're using aren't the same ones we had the other day - they're all handwritten and bound up, thanks to one of my old Drama Club cronies ("CL", this girl who bugged the shit out of me back in the day). So when it's time for my monologue, I come out to the front of the stage somewhat late because I can't follow the cues, and when I read the script it's written in total gibberish. And so I speak the gibberish, indicating that it's gibberish and that I can't possibly begin to understand what the hell I've been given to read. We end the first act and the administration is, understandably, non-plussed - they've just witnessed a bizarre Russian experimental piece, and the star actor (me) read nothing but gibberish and scribbles and, if I remember correctly, something that looked like a URL. So everybody's down and depressed, and CR tells everyone that it looks like the show's gonna get canceled, and she's sorry she let everybody down. And out of nowhere, I get up and give this rousing speech, like:
"Hey, come on, guys, we only did one act of the thing, and I couldn't even read my script. And it's a tough piece. We can't expect them to understand what we're doing. We've only worked on it for a day, folks! What the hell are we giving up for?"
Which is wierd because I hate the fucking play. By this point we're all sitting around near the front of the auditorium, and one of the kids who was younger than me in high school is like, "Hey man, great speech, I guess now that the band is over you really need a spark." And I'm like, yeah, I guess, and I take off my glasses to wipe my eyes, and I see that my glasses are really badly scratched, and I hold them up to the light, and everyone comes over to look, and I see that one of the scratches is actually a face, that might even sort of look like Jesus, or maybe Skeet Ulrich.