Spotlight on a bale of hay. I clomp in, slowly, pausing just outside the circle of light. I step forward.

“You’ll never amount to nothin’, Chesnut!” That’s what Mama always said. She always told me I was chasing a wild dream—that Broadway wasn’t built for a horse like me, and that I wasn’t built for it. I knew she was wrong. At night, I would watch Billy Eliot on the TV through the window of the farmhouse. I knew that one day I would soar. I would fly. Just like Billy.

You know what Pa’ said when I finally left that hick farm? He told me to just keep running. “Keep running til your legs can’t run no more, Chesnut!”

I trot in a circle on stage to show the location is changing.

New York. 1999. The city bustles with energy. I’m paying rent for a fourth-floor walk-up I don’t live in because I can’t climb stairs. But hey, that’s just the Big Apple for you, right? Every day I trot to auditions. Secretariat? Rejection. The Horse Whisperer? Rejection. War Horse? Rejection. Regional Charmin Ultra-Soft commercial?

The lights turn green. Call. Back.

Regional Charmin Ultra-Soft commercial callback? Immediate Rejection.

I try to become an alcoholic, but no bars will serve me. “No arms, four legs, no service, Chesnut!”

I trot in a circle on stage to show time is passing. I look tormented as sound effects play. Voices echo: “You’ll never amount to nothin’, Chesnut!” “Just keep running, Chesnut! Keep running!”

I find myself sleeping underneath a bridge, letting horse perverts brush my hair in exchange for apples. I can’t go back to the farm. Not like this. I try to get a job, but no one wants to hire a horse that’s slept on the streets.

I lie on my back and snort slowly through my horse nostrils. That’s not air that I’m breathing. It’s ketamine. And it was running this town. Hell, no one knew what it was. We were kids. And the more we tasted, the more we wanted. I trot in a circle on stage to show I’m doing lots and lots of ketamine.

And then, just when I think I’ve hit rock bottom my phone rings.

“Hello? Ma? Pa? Is that you? I failed, Ma. I need help.”

“Are you sitting down, Chesnut?” It was the casting director for Charmin Ultra-Soft. I’d recognize his voice anywhere.

“I can’t sit down. I’m a horse.”

“Our lead actor kicked a man in the chest and is going to jail for 20 years. We need you.”

“I’ve Got a Golden Ticket (Slowed / Reverb)” plays.

You don’t make it in this town by waiting your turn. You clomp in. You neigh so loud the critics can’t ignore you. You shit in the elevator of the Lincoln Center and do as much ketamine as you can. And eventually, someone notices.

Which brings us...to now. To you. To me. To this stage. Lights come up. The line between actor and audience is blurred. We are all one.

Because when mama says, “The world out there ain’t built for horses, Chestnut,” you know what I say?

I say I’m gonna build one that is.

The stage collapses under my unbelievable weight.