THE ACTOR

"Life's but a walking Shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage"

(Shakespeare)

Give Shakespeare credit. He knew about life - the big act. The look, the hoax. The ultimate put on. We all strut and fret upon a stage and spend every waking moment putting on a show. Some people are good at it. Some even get paid for being good at it.

My friend Jim is an actor: homeless, nameless, a compendium of personalities, personas, conceits, deceits, false starts and fresh hopes. Because he does not possess a beautiful face, the world does not adore him. You'll never see Jim's name on a marquee or in a movie palace. Rather, Jim moves in obscurity, playing big roles in small places.

And yet I believe his face to be his greatest asset. It is mobile and fluid, never remembered for itself but for what it can become. Now it is tragic, his fiery eyes glowing with a fierce conceit ; now comic - the nose and mouth working words in a harmony of delight. In a flash he can turn ironic; on a whim he has the look of a love - bitten pup. In short, it is a real actor's face: a smirk for a jester, a mask for a king, a shroud for a dead man.

I suppose that it was this dramatic energy that drew me to Jim in the first place. We have been friends since childhood. Not the everyday - call - you - on - the - phone - how - are - you friends -- indeed, years often pass between our meetings -- and yet friends all the same, drawn together by a bond that is both affection and need.

Jim was always an actor. His stylish clothes and easy manner set him apart even in High School where he exuded an air of worldliness that shimmered star - like beyond the horizon of our common headed group.

I recall one day when I was walking with Jim from class. All around the atmosphere hummed with the innocous chatter of fifteen - year olds. Jim turned to me in all sincerity and asked:

"So. How are you getting along with women?" This to a juvenile whose only acquaintance with the subject had been gleaned from the pages of half - read books!

I studied his face; its sky blue eyes betrayed no hint of ignorance. I found myself transfixed by his earnestness, suddenly sure that I was in the presence of one who understood the dark mysteries that surrounded the opposite sex. Jim knew why Guinevere was unfaithful to Arthur; he had fathomed the secret of Dido's cave; he understood the passion of Romeo as though he himself had tasted the cold poison on sweet Juliet's lips.

How could I make a suitable answer to one such as this?

I lied. "Great...I'm doing great".

Jim laughed dramatically, spotting my weak pretense: "What a good fellow you are," he coaxed. I quickly changed the subject.

Not long ago, my wife called me from my books. "Isn't this your friend the actor?" she asked producing a newspaper and unfolding it on my lap.

Indeed, it was. Although Jim had been out of town when we were married, I had often mentioned his name as an antidote for boredom.

While my life seemed aimlessly commonplace, Jim had always remained a figure couched in romance -- a man of the stage, a man of the world. I had hoped that some of his glow might touch me by association.

After reading that Jim was to play the lead in a local production of HAMLET, Meg turned a skeptical eye in my direction.

"He hardly looks the part," she objected.

The picture did him no justice. Here was Jim as "non persona". Jim between roles. Not really Jim at all. Nonetheless, I assured her that he would make a fine Hamlet.

"Then we must go see for ourselves."

Somewhere a bell tolled, a doleful bell that rumbled down deep within me. How would Meg react to this prince of the stage? How would Jim react to this woman I had taken as my wife? Once, he told me that marriage was really nothing more than melodrama, neither comic nor tragic. Simply melodrama. And Jim never consented to do melodrama. He was sure I would someday marry. I was positive he never would.

So it was that I came to be in Delaware Park feeding blood thirsty mosquitoes while the Prince of Denmark articulated a fine madness that touched the deepest corners of my soul.

I heard the audience laugh over his antics with Polonius, sniff when he held Yorrick's worm eaten skull, gasp when he embraced sweet Ophelia cold in her grave, and weep when he died in brave Horatio's arms: "Goodnight sweet Prince. Ado." Truly this was Hamlet, noble and doomed.

Once I asked Jim why he was an actor.

"To imitate humanity," he replied. I was strangely moved by this answer and the affectionate pat on the back that followed. Now I knew why .

Jim is a spirit that cannot be contained by the singular pursuit of the self. My friend is a flicker in the great fire of humanity. His lot is to evoke and illuminate for others. Because of Jim, none of us remained shadows that night.

The play ended.

The stage was littered with bodies.

The audience waited in stunned silence.

Finally, Meg cleared her throat and urged: "Let's go backstage and meet your friend. He is a wonderful actor."

High above the sky had clouded over. The audience made thunderclaps with their hands.

For Jim, this would be enough.