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Hairless B29 wasn’t anybody’s first choice to direct Fort Stockton’s first-ever outdoor Shakespeare production, least of all his own. But he was the only one with a degree in English, a booming voice that carried over diesel engines, and the kind of presence that made even Pastor Peterson hesitate before offering unsolicited notes. He’d earned the nickname “Hairless” from his smooth dome and “B29” from the tattoo of a Super Fortress bomber going down in flames across his back—a permanent reminder of stories he claimed were classified and mostly involved Navy bars, landlocked countries, and two dishonorable proposals.

Sister Thelma called him on a Thursday.

“Hairless,” she’d said, voice crackling over the Ground for Divorce black wall-phone. “We got ourselves a grant.”

“Congratulations,” he replied, not looking up from his proofreading the new menu. “Is it contagious?”

“Five thousand dollars to bring culture to Pecos County. They wanted a puppet show about groundwater, but I said we could do better.”

“You told ‘em Shakespeare, didn’t you.”

“I did. And I told ‘em you’d direct.”

Hairless paused. “Did you also tell them I ain’t read Macbeth since Bush was in office?”

“Which one?”

“Exactly.”

But that was how it started. By Friday, a hand-painted banner fluttered above the empty baptismal tank behind Almost United Methodist Church: “SHAKESPEARE IN THE STOCK TANK – A GRANT-FUNDED PRODUCTION.” Lucinda had already dropped off two sheet cakes with “Break a Leg, Y’all” piped across the frosting, and Principal Pough loaned out stage lights from the high school’s production of Oklahoma! which still had red gels stuck to the housings.

Hairless surveyed the scene with the solemnity of a man wondering where it all went wrong. The baptismal tank—a concrete depression with two sets of steps, cracked tiles, and a light crust of lime—was about as acoustically optimized as a shipping container filled with beanbag chairs.

“They say Shakespeare wrote for the common folk,” Sister Thelma reminded him.

Hairless lit a cigarette and muttered, “I don’t think he meant common folk this damn common.”

Auditions were set for Sunday afternoon, following the post-sermon coffee hour and before the youth dodgeball tournament. That was when the neighborhood got its first dose of theatrical glamour in the form of a low, rolling growl and a flash of white on chrome. Trixie arrived in her 1960 Buick Electra 225 Convertible, top down, red vinyl seats glowing like the inside of a maraschino cherry, the tailfins catching the sun like they had somewhere to be and wouldn’t take kindly to being late.

She pulled into the church gravel lot like it was the red carpet at Cannes, scattering pigeons and Baptists alike. The deuce-and-a-quarter idled with the confident thrum of a 401 cubic inch Nailhead V8 that had seen more action than most of the town’s husbands. Trixie emerged in a leopard print jumpsuit, red heels, and a cloud of Aqua Net so thick it left a chemical trail across the sky.

“I’ll be your Lady Macbeth, or a witch, or both,” she announced. “Hell, I’ve been called worse.”

She read half a line before stopping. “Do I need a Scottish accent or am I just supposed to be slutty?”

Hairless looked at her for a long moment. “Yes.”

Delgado arrived next, uninvited but not unwelcome. He held a worn paperback of Macbeth and a mug of black Folgers from the Grounds for Divorce, which he drank with pinky extended.

“I just want to help,” he said. “Maybe with blocking or wardrobe.”

“You volunteering or auditioning?” Hairless asked.

Delgado sighed. “I was gonna be a tree.”

“That’s Birnam Wood, son,” Hairless said, flipping through his dog-eared copy. “Not Birnam Shrubbery.”

By the time sunset rolled in, the cast had been “selected” more or less by proximity, availability, and the ability to say three lines without cussing. Angus Hopper would play Banquo because he brought his own sword, and Vice Principal Lutz insisted on being King Duncan despite having only one facial expression and a voice like wet cardboard.

Sister Thelma had no role officially, but still managed to be in every scene. Mostly off to the side, holding a clipboard and whispering, “Now remember, we are the stewards of this grant. We need photos.”

Rehearsals took place Mondays and Wednesdays at dusk, the only time it wasn’t unbearable to stand outside in full Elizabethan regalia. Costumes were pieced together from high school theater closets, old Halloween bins, and one donation from the Lucky Lady Lounge that came with a note that simply said, “For the witches.”

Lucinda brought refreshments to every rehearsal: off-brand orange soda, styrofoam bowls of Frito pie, and plastic-wrapped brownies with toothpicks jammed in them like flagpoles. The brownies were labeled “MacDeath Treats,” a pun nobody appreciated until week three.

Hairless was doing his best. Really, he was. But between trying to get Lutz to memorize more than one scene, keeping Trixie from rewriting her lines to include more double entendres, and answering Sister Thelma’s weekly emails to the Texas Cultural Enrichment Council, he was fraying faster than a church potluck tablecloth.

One night, a possum crawled into the spotlight mid-rehearsal.

It stared at the actors. The actors stared back. Nobody moved.

“Is that in the script?” whispered Delgado.

Hairless muttered, “It is now.”

That same night, the stage collapsed on the left side, sending the witches tumbling into the cracked baptismal trough with a yelp and a series of unholy shrieks. Lutz yelled “Hell hath no fury!” and tried to ad-lib, but tripped on his robe and landed flat on his crown.

They called it early and spent the next rehearsal reinforcing the stage with lumber Rusty claimed fell off a truck bound for Odessa.

Week four brought real disaster: the grant committee was sending a representative.

“To see the show?” Hairless asked, blinking in disbelief.

“No,” Sister Thelma said. “To see if we’re properly utilizing the funds.”

Hairless counted in his head: twenty-seven folding chairs, three broken spotlights, one donated bucket labeled “cauldron,” and a half-dozen actors whose commitment varied depending on whether the Dairy Twin was open late.

He lit another cigarette. “We’re gonna need a miracle.”

Trixie stepped forward, holding a garment bag.

“Good news,” she said. “I’ve been working on my costume.”

Hairless raised a skeptical brow.

“It’s all fringe and suggestion,” she said proudly. “With just a hint of doom.”

Hairless exhaled slowly. “That’s pretty much this whole production.”

Sister Thelma clapped her hands. “Rehearse, people! Our date with destiny is two weeks out. The back drops are painted. The flyers are printed. The meat for the concession stand is defrosting!”

Someone asked if it was ground beef.

“No,” she said. “Shakespearean brisket. It’s thematic.”

Hairless didn’t even bother questioning it.

Later that night, sitting on the lip of the stage with a warm can of RC Cola and the sounds of crickets louder than Lutz had ever been, Hairless B29 looked up at the dusty stars.

“I swear,” he muttered to no one, “if Shakespeare were alive, he’d sue.”

Just then, the familiar low rumble of the Electra echoed off the concrete lot as Trixie rolled past, her tailfins slicing the night and her silhouette lit by dashboard glow. The Buick paused just long enough for her to shout out the window:

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, baby!”

Then she peeled out and disappeared into the haze of Fort Stockton night, taking a little piece of the Bard and half the gravel with her.

Hairless smiled. Just a little. Because somewhere in all the chaos—between the possum, the collapsing stage, and Trixie’s doom-fringe—he saw it: a glimmer of something noble. Or maybe just hilarious.

And sometimes, in Fort Stockton, that was the same damn thing.

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