The Shakespearean Possession

“Hey, you okay” Sam asked. His friend Bill’s eye’s were twitching. “Do I need to call someone?”

“Nay…'tis fine.” Bill looked confused as the words left his mouth.

“Nay ’tis fine? Are you high?”

“Nay, I am not high. I know not what doth happen. I think someone did slip a pill in mine drink.” Bill clutched his chest and fell to a nearby set of stairs.

Bill and Sam had just attended a midnight poetry reading in a seedy subterranean club. Drinks were on the house—a mystery attendee was footing the bill for everyone. Ecstatic upon hearing this, Bill finished bottle after bottle and drank like it was going out of style. Sam had only a couple of drinks—he was there for the poetry after all.

“This is awesome! I love poetry!” Bill had exclaimed just a couple of hours ago, in his normal parlance. But something had now changed.

“Dude, what the hell? Are you messing with me?” Sam was inebriated, but he could still register the absurdity of Bill’s speech. “Or are you having a stroke?”

“Tis not a stroke. I think I've been drugged.”

“Drugged? What kind of drug makes somebody talk like that?”

“Talketh like what? I am the Bard of Avon.” Bill became agitated.

Bill lept off the stairs and onto the hood of the car parked right across from him.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!” Bill exclaimed.

“What are you doing, Bill?” Sam asked, approaching the car.

Bill paused and glared down at Sam. “I do declare, 'tis my great honor to give this here speech. Now hush up and give me your undivided attention!”

Bill went on. In that moment he became Mark Antony. It was astonishing. Bill had no former acting training. He was a waxologist at one of Wax ’n Go’s clinics in the city. Sam studied literature; Bill studied wax. Bill had only gone to the poetry reading with Sam so that he could drag Sam to a few nightclubs afterwards.

Sam stared in amazement. No, he thought, this is no drug. Drugs don’t do this to someone—drugs get you up or down. This…this was weird.

“…My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, and I must pause till it come back to me.” Bill put his hand on his chest and stared blankly down the road.

“Hey, um, Bill?”

Bill gently turned his head towards Sam.

“What bothers thee, chum?”

“Uhh, okay. You’re freaking me out a bit. At first the tis, nay, doth crap was understandable—you were drunk and had just spent hours with a bunch of poetry nerds.” Sam paused. He was reasoning with someone drunk out of his mind.

Bill noticed his hesitation. “Pray, continue,” he said.

“I just think think it’s incredibly strange that a waxologist, who’s never shown any interest in the arts, has seemingly transformed into a flawless Shakespearean orator.” Sam stood solemnly in the cold dark air. “How is this possible? What’s happening?”

“Fret not, dear friend. 'Tis of no consequence whether one is a professor of literature or a waxologist. All can take enjoyment in the arts.” Bill smiled gently.

“Fret not…like what’s that? How is this possible?” Sam shook his head in annoyance. “You’re a waxologist. Hairy people come in, they see you, and then they leave in a less hairy state. And now you’re MARK ANTONY? Unbelievable.”

“Thou dost seem to be naught but consumed by the removal of hair. My occupation matters not. Shakespeare is not only for those of high stature. 'Tis for all.”

Bill stepped down off the car and onto the sidewalk.

Bill put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I didn’t have a single drink tonight. All those vodka tonics were just Sprite”.

“What about the wine?” Sam asked in disbelief.

“Cranberry juice.”

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I wanted to surprise you. We always do things I like—nightclubs, video games, recreational leg waxing—so I wanted to do something that we could both enjoy. So I started reading Shakespeare and took some acting classes at the community centre.”

Sam was speechless.

“I was just waiting for the right moment to surprise you. Then you told me about this poetry reading. So I called the bar ahead of time and told them I’d be paying for all the drinks.”

A wave of relief washed over Sam.

“Bro…you’re the best,” Sam said.

“Thanks bro.”

Sam and Bill shared a strictly platonic hug and laughed over the night’s events.

They walked down the road, sharing in the excitement over their now overlapping interests.

The End