He was standing at the gate when I walked up. East 7th and Concho. This looked like the place.
"Is this where the play is?"
He looked me over.
"Yeah. Go ahead. The house is open."
Yes, it was open. And it was a house. Dark inside, with rough fabric curtains hanging between the entry and the kitchen, and then between the kitchen and the living area. Cooler this time, with an air conditioner laboring away in the depths of the room. Singly or in couples, the audience gathered. Friendly enough. Waiting, though. Quietly murmuring.
The lights dimmed, a curtain moved aside. Barely visible in the low light, a man in a scruffy suit stood there, then lurched forward toward us, into the playing space.
"Now is the winter of our discontent. . . ."
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