My parents were not at all backstage parents. We had none of that

Host: The rehearsal hall was quiet except for the faint hum of an overhead light and the creak of old floorboards — a space that smelled like dust, paint, and the ghost of applause.
Scattered scripts lay open across a table. The air was heavy with the residue of performance — words still vibrating in the silence they had left behind.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, his hands clasped around a half-empty coffee cup. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, his eyes tired but alive — that peculiar exhaustion only actors know, when the body is spent but the spirit refuses to rest.
Jeeny stood near the back, flipping through a well-worn copy of Twelfth Night, her voice soft as she murmured a line to herself.

Jack: “John Michael Higgins said, ‘My parents were not at all backstage parents. We had none of that in the family. It was just very clear right away that I was an actor, even from 4 years old. I've never waited a table. I taught some — I'll teach classes in improv or Shakespeare, but there's some motor in me that needs to do that.’”

Jeeny: “A motor.”

Jack: “Yeah. I get that. Some of us — we’re born with an engine we never asked for. Doesn’t matter if we want to stop. We can’t.”

Host: The light flickered. Dust shimmered like small stars caught between breaths. Outside, faint city sirens howled in the distance — life continuing, indifferent to art.

Jeeny: “You think that’s destiny? Being ‘born an actor’?”

Jack: “I don’t know if it’s destiny or disease. Maybe both. Maybe acting’s a kind of madness you inherit without a will.”

Jeeny: “Funny. Higgins made it sound like grace.”

Jack: “That’s because he never had to wait tables.”

Jeeny: “You think not waiting tables means he didn’t struggle?”

Jack: “No, I think it means he never had to question the calling. That’s a rare kind of privilege — to just know who you are from the start.”

Host: Jeeny set down her book. The pages fell open to a monologue, the words trembling in the lamplight like something half-alive.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like knowing is a curse.”

Jack: “Sometimes it is. Because when you know what you’re made for, you stop having excuses. You can’t escape it anymore.”

Jeeny: “And you want to?”

Jack: “Sometimes. Don’t you ever wish you could turn it off? That motor he’s talking about — it never stops humming. Even when you’re not performing, it’s there, running under your skin.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. But isn’t that the point? That hum — that’s what keeps you human. It’s not about applause or fame. It’s that ache to tell stories, to make people feel something.”

Jack: “Or to feel something yourself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the same thing.”

Host: The rain began to patter against the high windows, soft and rhythmic. The sound filled the space like an unscripted score.

Jack: “You ever notice how acting isn’t really pretending? It’s more like confessing, over and over, until you forget which part was the lie.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we do it. To blur the line — between us and them, between truth and performance. We live for that moment when the mask becomes the face.”

Jack: “And then we wonder who we are when the curtain closes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Jeeny walked to the piano at the corner of the room and ran her fingers across the keys — not to play, but to feel their weight. The sound was faint, raw, unfinished.

Jeeny: “You know, I admire people like Higgins. Not because they’re successful, but because they carry that motor with joy instead of torment. He didn’t resent it. He just drove with it.”

Jack: “Maybe he just made peace with the madness.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he realized that the madness is the peace.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was low, rough — a sound caught between irony and relief.

Jack: “You think that’s possible? To love what consumes you?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, why keep coming back to empty rehearsal halls like this one?”

Jack: “Because this is the only place we’re allowed to fall apart and call it art.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — each second a quiet applause. The room smelled of sweat, coffee, and courage.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to stand in front of the mirror and make faces. I didn’t know what acting was — I just liked watching myself change. My mom thought I was strange. My dad thought I was wasting time.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think they were both right.”

Jeeny: “You still think it’s a waste?”

Jack: “No. But I think it’s dangerous to need it as much as I do.”

Jeeny: “We all need something that feels alive. For Higgins, it was acting from age four. For us, it’s tonight — this moment. That motor in us doesn’t run on fame. It runs on feeling.”

Host: The rain slowed, then stopped. The sound of dripping echoed faintly, like a metronome marking the rhythm of their lives.

Jack: “You think everyone’s born with a motor like that?”

Jeeny: “No. Some people live quietly. And that’s okay. But for the ones who have it — the artists, the dreamers, the fools — stopping it would mean death.”

Jack: “And living with it?”

Jeeny: “Means constant resurrection.”

Host: The light above them flickered once more, then steadied, as if deciding to stay awake a little longer.

Jack: “You know what I envy about Higgins? Not the success. Not the certainty. The ease. The way he sounds like he’s never had to apologize for wanting it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson — stop apologizing for the fire inside you. The world needs the heat, even if it doesn’t understand the burn.”

Jack: “You think the world still needs actors?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because people still forget how to feel. And that’s what we’re here for — to remind them.”

Host: The lamplight glowed brighter now, washing the stage in gold. The scattered scripts looked less like clutter and more like fragments of something sacred.

Jack stood, looking out at the empty seats — rows of unseen faces waiting to be imagined.

Jack: “You know, I think I get it now. Higgins wasn’t talking about career. He was talking about calling. That motor — it’s not ambition. It’s gratitude.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The kind that keeps you moving, not because you have to, but because you can.”

Host: The rain had cleared completely, and moonlight spilled through the high windows, soft and pure, landing across the worn wood of the stage.

Jeeny picked up her copy of Twelfth Night, tucking it under her arm. Jack watched her in silence, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “The motor doesn’t make you great. It just keeps you honest.”

Jack: “Honest?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Because no matter how far you go, it’s still there — that reminder that you’re not doing this for applause. You’re doing it because you can’t help yourself.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, his eyes glinting in the lamplight.

Jack: “Then maybe we’re not cursed after all.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. We’re just wired for wonder.”

Host: She smiled and walked toward the door, her shadow trailing across the stage. Jack stayed behind, staring out into the dark seats one last time.

And as the lights dimmed, the hum of that unseen motor — that sacred, restless drive to create — filled the room.

It was not loud.
It was not peaceful.
But it was alive.

And in that endless hum — that unkillable heartbeat of the artist —
Jack and Jeeny both knew what John Michael Higgins meant:

that some of us are born not to wait,
not to pause,
but to be — forever in motion,
forever on stage,
forever chasing the next line that tells the truth.