Ben's depression, after his break-up, was so severe it caused the off-Broadway production of 'ET: The Musical!' to close before it even opened. Ben was not in the new musical. Ben was not associated with the new musical. Ben did not have tickets, yet, to see the new musical. But after Gordon left him—taking the dog, of course—the density of the empty space surrounding Ben became so concentrated that, inevitably, unrelated victims were sucked in and crushed.
Or something. Elliott would not perform the second-curtain encore of 'He's Alive!' because Gordon had packed up his belongings—and the dog—and moved in with a woman twice his age, twice Ben's age, and many decades older than the dog.
Not the first time Ben's depression had unmounted a mounted production. A few years earlier, as his relationship with another, less Gordon-like man disintegrated, the Met announced the cancellation of its production of Lohengrin. “We regret,” said a spokesperson for the Met, and Ben didn't bother to read the rest of the statement in the Times. “We regret,” to Ben, was all that needed to be said.
Ben was in bed and not yet aware of the influence his gravitational depression was exerting on the orbiting worlds of the performing arts. Ben stared at the ceiling. He stared at his left index finger. He stared at the empty spot in the middle of the bed where the dog would be if Gordon had not taken him.
To be honest, Ben didn't like dogs, didn't know the missing dog's name, and certainly did not know if the dog was male, female, or neutral.
But he missed the dog because he missed Gordon. He said Gordon's name aloud and listened to it bounce around the Gordon-shaped void: “Oh, Gordon,” he said in a voice he imagined tinged by despair and inconsolable loneliness. The spokesperson for the Met, however, would recognize the true sound of Ben's voice immediately. “We regret.”
Indeed, several blocks downtown from Ben, the spokesperson for the Met, a diminutive young woman fresh out of Julliard with a penchant for perfect pitch and no training in media relations, was preparing another announced cancellation of Le Nozze di Figaro. The longer Ben stayed in bed moaning “Gordon” over and over, the more dense his depression became, and the more performances orbiting him fell into, then crashed into, his depressional field.
The diminutive young woman sat at her desk, drafting the required statement, and wondered why it was necessary to state anything at all. One opera is the same as another, really, when one gets right down to it, so who truly cares if they're seeing Figaro or seeing Carmen, so long as there are pretty sets, impressive notes, and bodies moving about on stage in a way that resembles—but isn't quite like—the way normal humans move about when not on stage? On January 15th, there would be a lot of bodies moving about the Met stage. They just won't be moving about to Mozart's score.
The diminutive young woman typed, and typed, and searched for the right words to please the patrons and the public, considered her life-choices, pushed away from her desk, spun her chair around, stood up, and marched out of her office. She was never heard from again.
Ben, unaware of anything other than his right shoulder-blade at the moment, became aware of a bleating alarm clock. Rather than wake up, he dreamed he was both Scottish and wandering the Highlands.
Ben didn't know he had fallen asleep, and was surprised to be awake. His right shoulder-blade winked at him.