The clouds had somewhere to be. Lying on my couch last night in the storm-induced early-settler conditions, I watched them out my wide open windows. Steady progress across the sky. Like covered wagons with horses going at a fast walk. I thought about- what if the clouds were the dark parts and the sky was the white parts. I closed my eyes and thought obsessive compulsive disorder thoughts. When I opened my eyes, the clouds didn't look like a prairie caravan anymore. They looked as one. Like a thick, bumpy slug moving along the horizon.
I had just walked home from hearing Ali Thibodeau sing some wonderful, self-composed songs. Ali with her beautiful new guitar which looks blue in certain lights but is reportedly not. Ali can really, really sing. Opera all the way to yodeling. Yopera? Singing also are a girl named Hannah who I know I've seen before and another girl with an orange guitar bigger than she was. The last girl could produce natural reverb when she sang particularly strong notes and dropped her jaw particularly far (as one is instructed to do). I sat on a tall stool across from Mr. Paul and we both sat up poker straight so as not to get our noses or chests into the frame of the video Matt Shofner was shooting of the concert with his phone. Just outside the window behind Mr. Paul, a very smartly attired news anchor was standing waiting to shoot his spot about the large tree which had just fallen across the street outside of the bar. Passerby were astounded. I had never even noticed that tree. It may have been a plant. The news anchor waited quite awhile. Crew persons kept running to their cars and returning with various garbage bags with which to shelter the camera from the rain. He may still be standing there. I saw a boy shooting video of the concert who I once pretended to be in love with under a tree. He wore a white shirt that day and until he donned said shirt and threw some gel in his hair I thought he was the person in charge of gaffe tape and ordering pizza. I had to walk through bramble strewn fields and have my legs chewed to bits as part of the exercise.
My boots and socks got very soggy on my walk home last night. I applauded myself for wisely choosing not to wear my hamburger socks. And on having the foresight to always, always carry my kitten umbrella.
Last night was interesting even before all that, though. Rewind.
I put on as few clothes as is decent and walk to Agecroft Hall. I am covering for Jonathan Conyers tonight so he can go to his school's graduation. What I'm doing so he can go to this graduation is playing someone called Fabian in "Twelfth Night," which Agecroft is currently putting on as a cover for the operation they run every summer to see how many gallons of human sweat they can accumulate over an 8-week period. I am not clear on if this Fabian person is kind or evil, sad or funny, male or female- i.e. if I will be permitted to wear my silver sequined beret. But I do know all the lines.
Adrian kindly fetches me off the street and saves me walking the last quarter mile. We drive deep into the woods behind Agecroft to park the car. Looks like the place where the R.O.U.Ss are in "The Princess Bride." I go sit on the Astroturf bleachers and take a great Instagram shot of Liz and Elisabeth and Noah, in which they are giving sass. Evan and David and Thomas arrive to run over "the boxtree scene" with me. I don't know why it's called "the boxtree scene." All it seems to involve from what I can tell is a speech, some curtains, and The Three Stooges. Back in the dressing basement I crankily wiggle into my costume. Crankily because it involves tucking in not one, but two shirts. I hate tucking in shirts. The shoes are very comfortable, and I'm excited about the suspenders until I realize I've not a clue how to operate them. I flail them around until Evan takes them from me and tries to apply them to my person. They are broken, we decide. Now that that's off the table, I am free to devote the rest of the hour and a half before I go onstage to deciding if I want to wear my hair like a French aristocrat, Pollyanna, or Lady Godiva. Too bad you weren't there to see what I decided.
The dressing room is boisterous and full of energy drinks. People are playing guitars, ukuleles, ouds, harps, harmonicas, Pokemon, whist....heaven knows what else. I think some of these instruments are artifacts. Liz is over at the other end of the room turning into Elizabeth Katharine Grace Taylor Hepburn Kelly with some assistance from the ever-angelic Jackie Cook. That fairy-like blond girl from Live Art who played a fiddle is there too. She has a very elegant neck.
Once the play starts, the dressing room is very quiet. I talk to a boy who looks just like Jesse Mattes. He tells me Eric Stallings is at the play tonight. This is great. I haven't seen him since we both lived in Chicago and he and Jake Ashey got me thoroughly hooked on the San Francisco Giants. Eric is funny and stalwart and has red hair and is a very accomplished snowboarder. There's a whole other tale about Eric and Matt Shofner and me going skiing seven years ago during the run of "The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee" which I'll have to tell later. High point is Matt and I flying down the intermediate slope NOT doing pizza feet and having our eyes closed the entire way because goggles hadn't occurred to us and the snow machines were on full force. Thinking in my head "thisisdangerousthisisdangerousthisisdangerous." And then there's skiing in Idaho. See: David Janeski- aka The Patience of Job.
Oh that's right, I'm in a play tonight. I ask someone to alert me when I should make my way backstage. I stand around on the cobblestones behind the risers and think, "I had no idea 'Twelfth Night' was a musical."
I try to tear a wayward string off David Janosik's vest and think better of it when that string almost severs the top joint of my left pinkie.
There are some lovely flowers behind those risers. I touch some of them. They are not as soft as they look. Hardened sweat drippings, I suppose. Also I hear the snake count is on the rise around this joint. I wonder about that job assignment- to go out and count the snakes. That could take forever. And you probably die. When I saw "Richard III" here many years ago, I sat on the back row of the risers. Joseph Papa was either stage-managing or there with me. But I remember thinking, "ooh, I'll be rebellious," and peeping over the back of the risers, where I saw Rick Brandt walking to make his entrance. He was so very good in that show. He seemed in character even behind the risers. That's a lot of character.
Seven hours later, David and Evan do a faux-drunken cross up the driveway from the back courtyard and I know it's time for my entrance. Evan hiss-reiterates, "just remember to be loud!" Don't worry. I yank out my wedgie- these lacy panties are for the birds- and follow David onstage.
I have a great time. David is wonderful at Shakespeare- so boisterous and passionate and well-learned on the subject. And Evan is a fireball - his character in this, as it turns out (I hadn't had a chance yet to see the show) is a lot like a tipsy rabid weasel, so standing between the two of them and watching them say some stuff was a hoot. They are yammering on about something or other and I am standing there adopting different stances involving my pockets and shifts of my weight and trying to figure out how I feel like this Fabienne should be standing and thinking about Eric Stallings and Liz Earnest (who is sitting house right) when suddenly Elisabeth Ashby enters wearing admirable eye makeup and tells us to go hide behind the curtains. But see- in this production- you don't go hide behind the curtains when she tells you to (more's the challenge for those just stepping in) you have to wait until the end of her monologue when she re-iterates that we should indeed go hide behind the curtains and do it stat because Thomas Cunningham is about to come onstage.
Behind the curtains is fun. Thomas is onstage doing an excellent piece of acting. He's so very good. And sweet. And must have moved to Kentucky because I used to see him like, every single day on Robinson St. in the fan walking to and from Starbucks and that hasn't happened in months.
During this part of the show, David, Evan, and I are to pop out from behind our respective curtains repeatedly and interject taunts against Thomas and shush each other and do lots of physical comedy. Thanks to Thomas' impeccable diction, I hear everything I need to hear. I grip my curtain tightly in my right fist. I shush with alacrity. I glance over at the guys midway through the scene- happy to have this adventuresome opportunity in my life. Dave's face is bright and laser-focused. He is fully engaged in what he is doing. I hear my next cue. I pop out, screech at Dave about cars and illustrating and shove him back behind the curtain. Suddenly Evan appears to my immediate right. I know it is not time for us to switch curtains. He is adamant. His eyes are wild, his neck veins abulge. He gestures strongly for me to cross to his curtain. All this is going on in the space of about four seconds. I think, "Hmm. I am 100% sure it's not time for us to switch yet. But, you know, we've never rehearsed this full speed and it's my first time in, and maybe I'm wrong. Evan does look very determined. But I'm pretty sure. I really don't like these underpants! I think I'm going to stick to my guns." I ball up my face and shake my head "No" at him. His eyes widen and I can tell he is going to whisper something very stern but then he freezes- "You right!" He scampers back to his curtain. In the fifth second, it's my turn to shove David behind his curtain again while I scream something about ponies and tendons and the fruits of the spirit and then it's time for us to switch. I say something condescendingly to Thomas' back about an alcoholic woodcock (whatever that is) and then scoot quickly behind the center curtain so I can pop my head out for a line and then have Evan and David sit on top of me so they can pop their heads out on top of mine. The gents are very hip to the fact that I'm not actually Jonathan Conyers so they are not putting their full weights on me. Evan is trying in some fashion to hold me up as they pile on, but all I've really got to cling to for purchase is someone's kneecap so overall, all this part of the scene taught me is that I need to do more planks.
That bit done, I say my last few lines and then we do some audience acting, which I enjoy. We get to watch Thomas. Thomas is later going to wear some bright yellow socks festooned with bright red ribbons of which I am very envious.*
As Thomas is giving the latter 27th of his monologue and we're watching from the audience, I can see the sky over his head splitting with thin lightening. We are definitely not going to do Act II.
As we head for the dressing rooms, David says his favorite bit was when I said "bear-biting" instead of "bear-baiting." I agree. I didn't realize I'd said it at the time, but it tended to slip out in all the rehearsals I'd held with myself alone on my couch, and upon reflection, the image of Fabienne gnawing vigorously on a furry, furry bear is well worth it.
Then it stormed and all the trees fell down and here we are.
*Private asterisk just to remind me of something come October.
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