I think for a moment. My super-objective was to not play this kind of role. I guess if you go against yours, then bad things like Joshua Downs happen. “He wanted to be himself.”

“You’re transgender, like Ajax, correct?”

“I am transgender,” I say, tensing up, ready for an attack—verbal or otherwise.

Joshua stops pacing. “Then why can’t you connect with Ajax?”

“I don’t connect with my characters, I become them.”

Joshua laughs again. His laughs are menacing. “Become and connect are different?”

“To me,” I say.

“How did it feel when you came out to your parents?”

If he only knew the whole story. “I was scared,” I say.

“Use that.”

“But Ajax isn’t scared?”

Joshua throws up his hands. “Then what is Ajax?”

“He’s defeated.”

“Defeated,” Joshua repeats. “We can make that happen.”

His words send a chill down my back.

“Run the scene again,” he demands. Betty and I reset and hug. This time, I deliver each word with a raw desperation, hoping that this will end soon. The lights come back up.

“Do it again.”

I’m like a boxer going to the corner of the ring between rounds and coming back bruised and exhausted. This must be our tenth run. The others must be mad at me, and just want to move on. He is making them dislike me. Maybe I am worthless. Maybe I’m not an actor. “Ready?” Betty asks, and gives me another hug.

“I can’t do this,” I say.

“Yes, you can,” she says. “Let’s go.”

I can’t tell if Betty is annoyed by me. “You’re okay. It’s all over,” she says, then the scene starts again. Anger comes through; every line is seething with anger for Joshua, for this scene, for myself. The lights go off. I shut my eyes and ready myself to hear “do it again.”

“August,” Joshua says instead. “What was your name before August?”

“Joshua,” Betty says with a tone. “That’s not appropriate.”

“My bad,” he says, holding up his hands. Betty turns and walks backstage.

“August, what’s that line before the end of the monologue?”

“There’s no reason to be here.”

He shakes his head, frustrated. “No, the next line.”

“I can’t do this anymore?”

“That’s the line. Take center and give me that line.”

I walk into my limelight, but it doesn’t feel so warm anymore, and say, “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Again.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“Again.”

After three more agains, I get desperate. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Three times in a row.”

We continue this for a minute, but it feels like forever. He tells me to shout it. To scream it. Whisper it. My throat hoarse, my voice going, I say it over and over. And then I yell it loud enough that all of New York can hear. “I CAN’T DO THIS ANYMORE.”