Gus's Story

Picture, if you would, a boy. This boy is not your average boy, but more of a little old man, trapped in a boy’s body. When most boys his age are learning how to play football, or how to build things, this little boy is learning how to bake, or how a steam engine works. Naturally, this little boy is not the most accepted person in school, but he is not totally without friends. His friends consisted of other little old men, the occasional college graduate (though they were not to be trusted?), and his cat.

His kind and gentle disposition would sometimes stroll hand in hand with an odd sense of taste that was more interested in dead politicians and the movie stars of old, than those of the contemporary. 

And when it came time for this little boy to go to high school, he found himself immersed in a cold world of adolescence, judgment, and anger. He wandered around in the chilly environment for a while till he said to himself: “Gus, what is it that you are good at? Not art, nor sports, or?” When it came to him, a bolt from above (and a resulting whelp on the head). “Ah, theater!” 

There, I came to learn how to speak, walk, and carry myself in anyway I should need; how to interact with any person in any place. No longer did I close my mind to anything that was not Cab Calloway or Billie Holiday; no longer did I choose eccentricity just for the sake of it. Now I found a place to learn; where my mind could wander and my character could explore. I found myself working in a team, working towards a common goal. And not only was it donning the part of the dashing rogue riding into the night, or the tights of a Shakespearian tale from fair Verona; but the leather gloves of an electrician, and the sweaty brow (often accompanied with bruised hands) of a set builder. 

I came to learn what it was to have fervor for something; and understand that not every reward was material. As a matter of fact, I came to realize that one of the best rewards was the feeling of ensemble. The unanimity a group experiences after working on the same three pages of text for six hours, and when we looked up and realized it was twelve in the evening. And finally relief from the mind-numbing work was in sight, even though each one of us was secretly sad to have to leave. 

Now a man of eighteen, I plan on going out into the world, but I will not be alone. Standing proudly tall, I march with the same confidence and know-how of even the most decorated veteran thespian, even though I would rather listen to my Django Reinhardt albums, or watch reruns of Casablanca.