A Report

You already know one of the unfortunate consequences of an Actor’s taking on a role for an extended period: said Actor begins to succumb to said role. This is not a weakness of one or another Actor; it is in our NATURE. Let me please remind the Management that those of you who exercised your preferment for me—that is, those of you who foresaw the inefficacy of recruiting a vile and mercenary Soldier—knew full well that this task would be made more difficult by the challenges I undertake in my presentation. For the Soldier, though, the task would be impossible. Do not think that, by stating these givens, I mean to disparage the previous efforts of The General. Rather, I plead that you not be so quick in your censure of my seeming.

My report of that day’s events--not an apology in either sense of the word--is as follows:

Stevenson had lent me several books when I saw him last. Of these books, one in particular had caught my attention: The Stranger, by one Albert Camus. I had just finished reading a scene wherein the main character takes a stroll on a beach when I myself fancied a constitutional. Or, rather, I found myself walking in the woods not far from Stevenson’s house. As I approached Rosemary Manor (now ignobly renamed Casa Stevenson), I saw a figure sitting on a stump. I approached within fifty yards of the figure, ascertaining that it was, in fact, Stevenson himself. He was sitting with his back turned to me, smoking a cigarette.

A breeze pushed me onward. I wanted to stop, but I found myself blustered along by wind. I took a few steps toward the stump. Stevenson didn’t move. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and the heavens seemed opened up. Waves of light and heat poured down on me as if a fiery demon was bathing me in anti-providential fires. I felt perspiration beading on my forehead. The zephyr still pushed me onward, but the waves of light and heat crashed down on my head and shoulders. The heat poured, the breeze pushed, the sweat stung my eyes. The sun was the same as it had been the day I’d buried Rosemary, and like then, the veins in my forehead throbbed painfully beneath my ill-fitting skin. I could stay or go. I struggled to think through my drunken fever. The rifle butt fit came to rest against my shoulder. I could shoot or not shoot. I waited. The waves crashed down on me, tongues of fire piercing and carrying me out of myself. I felt the far-off klaxons of my throbbing temples. My hands tensed as my slippery-skinned finger applied pressure. The trigger gave.

Click. There, in that noise, is where it all ends. I had left the rifle’s safety catch on. Clouds once more passed before the sun. I shook off the sun and sweat, dimly aware that Stevenson was now in the throes of an apoplectic fit. I stood for a few moments, cooling from the sun and sobering a bit, still locked in the same bodily position.

“What the fuck are you doing, Wilbur?” With these words, my surroundings came crashing back into focus, and I realized that I was still pointing my gun at Stevenson. From his movements, I ascertained the presence of Mr. Martin Pangloss. Giddy at finally seeing the extatick ruination of Stevenson, I called him by the name of Pangloss. You can read the rest on Stevenson’s blog: how I had misjudged his fit, how he reacted to the rifle, how he decided that I had been trying to kill him.

You will be happy to know that I have just now re-entered the good graces of Mr. Stevenson. I came to his door, presented him with several dead hares and a raccoon, and duly convinced him that I had been hunting when I came upon him. As for my utterance of “Pangloss,” my explanation was so rooted in the character of Wilbur that he gave no thought to any ulterior meaning. He was finally able to accept my sincere apology for leveling the rifle at him.