Taylor and I are sprawled on a sea of wax paper in our parlor. We are covered in icing and graham cracker crumbs. We are spending the afternoon, as one does, creating sculptures of our beloved music director and his baby grand piano out of egg glue and cheap snacks from the dollar store. And of course, love. Lots of love.
I hop up and am en route to the kitchen to examine the rotted clementine peels for potential usage as epaulets for our model music director's costume when I happen to glance out our front window. I note a large rock at the base of our apple tree. I slow my step and furrow my brow. I am fairly sure I have not noticed a rock there before. Then the rock's ear twitches. The rock's two-an-a-half foot brown hairy ear.
OMG. A dream is actively coming true.
"Taylor! TAYLOR!" I hiss. "Get up. Get up and come to the window RIGHT NOW."
Taylor, deeply invested in applying intricate icing detail to the licorice sliver representing F#7, doesn't leap to his feet immediately, so I persist.
"TAYLOR. YOU HAVE TO GET UP AND QUIETLY COME TO THIS WINDOW RIGHT NOW TO SEE WHAT'S IN OUR YARD!"
Instantly on high alert, Taylor springs to his feet and, turning to me wild eyed, gasps "Is it the Thai Food guy?!?"
I consider for a moment how very disconcerting it would be were that the case. But back to the matter at hand.
"No, no, no! Come look!"
Taylor tiptoes to my side. I gaze meaningfully into his eyes: "Taylor. It's happening."
We turn as one to rest our eyes upon the MOOSE IN OUR FRONT YARD. The moose casually napping. Under our apple tree. Ten feet from our window.
There is squealing. Quiet squealing, of course. Frantic cursing and silent scrambling for dead cell phones and phone chargers.
I critically evaluate this moose with my utterly untrained eye.
Obviously a baby, I think, as it is not the size of a Forerunner. Also lacks antlers.
We take hundreds of zoomed in photos on our phones. Unsatisfactory. I want to pet it.
I squint. Approximately the size of an adolescent stegosaurus. Nothing to be intimidated by.
"Taylor," I announce in tones muted and deadly serious, "I think we should go outside."
[It should be noted here that we absolutely should NOT go outside. Moose do not have a history of being lap animals. And, I have since learned, can be quite violent. But I'll be buggered if I'm going to bypass the opportunity to snuggle a baby moose who has wandered onto my front porch.]
We scramble quietly for out boots. We gather in the foyer. I peep through the lace covering the cold glass of the front door. Still there. Still asleep. Taylor expresses mild concern about what we are about to do. I huff and scoff and say something very confidently and entirely untrue about how I'm sure we'll be just fine. Taylor lifts his phone, aims it at the door, and presses record.
I turn the key in the lock. So quietly. Our door is thankfully silent as it opens. I step onto the porch; Taylor follows.
In a voice suddenly three octaves higher, I address the creature.
"Hi, Moose!"
Nothing.
"Hello, Moose!"
Utter stillness.
"Here, Moose Moose Moose!"
I turn to Taylor and his camera, unable to keep an enormous grin from my face. "There is a moose! Right there!"
I decide to approach. Taylor, in turn, decides to retreat to the kitchen to hunt for apples or spinach or candy corn or something with which to entice our new pet.
I step boldly off the porch and directly into a four foot snow drift. Well. This will never do. Being hip deep in snow four feet from a moose- while absolutely awesome- will not serve me well should he fall into an ill temper and decide to gore me to death. I decide to use reason.
"Moose?" I trill. "Are you a vegetarian?" He lifts his head. Yes! Progress.
He blinks tennis ball sized eyes at me. Having read many, many books wherein people meet tragic ends by fiddling around with the offspring of violent wildlife, I feel it prudent to inquire:
"Where is your mom? Your dad?"
He continues to stare. I stare back. Three minutes pass and those three minutes may have easily turned into three hours had I not become suddenly and painfully aware of the late-stage gangrene rotting my left leg up to the knee. I remove myself from the snowdrift and retreat to the porch.
Taylor returns. "Do you think it would like peppers?" I am not sure whether or not moose like peppers, but I have become sure, while standing and thawing my shin out, that if we advance down our sidewalk and then along the fence on the front of our yard, we will then be only two feet from the moose. Which is much better than four.
We tiptoe down the walk- darting glances left and right in search of parental moose units.
Success! We are standing, near disbelievingly, two feet from a moose! And we are safe! There is, after all, a twelve-inch antique wrought iron fence serving as a barrier betwixt us. We feel confident in attempting a selfie. I scoot my icy boots six inches closer to our new moose and am turning to face Taylor with a cheek-splitting grin-- but those six inches. Those six inches were the straw that uncomfortably invaded the moose's comfort zone, as the old saying goes. He lurches to his feet and trots toward our house. I am miffed. Hands on hips. The moose turns to us. Levels his gaze. Lowers his head and takes a step in our direction.
"Audra?" Taylor is backing slowly up into the street. "I don't think he's very afraid of us right now."
I feel that I must appear brave. "Oh, I don't think he's going to hurt us," I announce confidently.
Immediately following this announcement I think, "Why did I just announce that? I know nothing about moose. Is it meese? Oh dear." I decide appearing confident will be the best course of action. Unless of course moose are like bears and want you to act submissive. But I really don't think I want to lie down in the snow right now. Yes. I'm sure I don't want to lie down in the snow. I'll take my chances.
Taylor whispers to me that he thinks we should go around back of the house and let ourselves in that way. We glance back at our new moose. He is busy eating sticks off a bush.
"Ok," I say. "I'll go around back and you stay safely out here on the other side of the fence to distract him."
I tromp quickly to the back of the house, all the while envisioning myself astride our new moose. Up the ramp to the door. Door is locked. Well.
I'm going to have to go in the front door. And our moose, when last I saw him, was chewing on a tree less than six inches from the front porch.
[I am secretly nervous for three seconds. Don't let it smell your fear, Audra, don't let it smell your fear. I can't not go in the house, after all. My warm blue socks are in the house. And all my faux fur hats from Albertson's.]
I spit pine needles out of my face from the low-hanging branch just outside our dining room and peek around the front corner of the house. The moose has not budged. Taylor holds his post in the street.
"Taylor? The back door is locked. We are going to have to go in the front."
I make this announcement with a very confident tone as well, hoping this will translate to Taylor as well as to the moose, and that any thoughts he may have of crossing me will evaporate immediately. The moose. Not Taylor. Taylor may still get back at me for insisting that we go outside.
Well. This is it. I might die now. And miss the 7PM show. Are moose teeth sharp? I'd be kind of embarrassed if I died by moose. I decide instantly to stop thinking about that and instead start walking boldly forward.
"Moose," I say sternly as I walk, "we have locked ourselves out of the back door and have to go in the front and you are going to stay right there." I can't make eye contact. Probably best. Deep breath in, eight steps, up the stairs, into the house.
Yes! I turn immediately to survey the hostage situation in the front yard. The moose, obviously intimidated by my confidence and domineering presence, has turned tail and is all but trotting around the side of the house. Taylor nips up the sidewalk and into the foyer behind me. We run to the windows to track the progress of our moose and follow him with our eyes as he moves like an exceptionally leggy giraffe through liquid caramel along the snowy drifts behind the house and down the alley. He heads back to the mountains.
Later tonight at the theater, I excitedly show our director the first photos of our new moose. He smiles and shakes his head- "Very cool. I'm just so glad you guys stayed inside the house."
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
Sunday, December 18, 2016
Fur and Horns
Scene: I have four fur hats.
I'm wearing most of them. The combined degrees of the extended 10-day forecast for Hailey, Idaho add up to negative seven. I sent a screenshot of that weather forecast to my brother and he replied simply, "Don't die, please."
I zip past the back entryway and dumpster of A Taste of Thai as quickly as one can safely zip down an alley covered in ice. Zipping in an attempt to avoid any encore interactions starring myself in a dark, snowy alley and a giant bearded man popping out from the shadows of a dumpster and growling, "Are you finished?"
This evening, I am successful at slipping in unsolicited and stomp my boots smartly on the rug just inside the stage door.
I trot downstairs and survey the snack table. Impressive array, as always. I cram myself into my tights- working up only a minor sweat- and decide that intermission will be a fine time to have someone come in with their iPhone to photograph the baseball-sized bruise on my right hip. For posterity. And to show to my mother. And to remind me how cool it is that I get to walk around pretending to be Alice from "A League of Their Own" in the montage sequence where she bruised her hip sliding into third base.
Sound check. I've shimmied into my shiny purple bloomers, purple skirt, purple t-shirt, and tap shoes. I head upstairs. Where I find everyone else onstage clad in identical attire. We're like a troupe of shapely Grimaces. I attempt a couple of tap steps from a 2005 VA Rep production of "Anything Goes" and are therefore of no use to me at this time whatsoever. I try to keep my fingers off the shiny baby grand because my greasy fingerprints show up under the spotlight.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my fanny. Interesting.
"Oh my gosh," David gasps. "You aren't Aly!"
This case of mistaken fanny identity is entirely understandable. We are after all, dressed as identical eggplants. Calls to mind the question, though- was it the consistency of fanny which clued him in to its owner's identity or something else? I'll generally ask any question which is called to mind, so:
"David? Was it a difference in fanny texture which made you realize? Or something else?"
David states that glancing up and seeing my brown hair made him fully aware of his error. Which is great. If I'm going to be fanny twins with anyone, I'm honored to have that person be Aly Wepplo.
Sound check goes well. I sing some notes which are at no point featured in this production and we all head downstairs to pass my eyeliner around and apply our fake beauty marks.
Once the show starts, I spend a lot of time endeavoring to appear classy and composed and like I'm confident in my ability to walk down stairs in high heels. I salivate for the first tap number to arrive because I know once that happens, I'll be too busy whacking my toes against the floor to notice that my liver has frozen over. I sing a forty-five minute power ballad in pants and pretend I am Debra Wagoner. I remove said pants and play an evil waitress, a beleaguered housewife, and some chopsticks. Then Aly comes out with her saxophone and everything becomes fantastic.
You see, Aly has learned to play the baritone sax for this production. This is funny for several reasons. One- the saxophone is larger than she is. Two- she plays it to the tune of "The Good Ship Lollipop." Three- she plays it very well and no one in the audience is expecting that dainty little lass to nail a gritty sax solo about bon-bons on the Chesapeake Bay. Tonight though- especially good.
As Aly is winding up her number, she prepares to hit the big finale note- a low X-flat - and suddenly, from the dark of the audience, we hear a woman rapturously whisper, "It's beautiful!"
Now- it should be noted that Aly plays this solo exactly correctly. But it should also be noted that you can be to the baritone sax what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was to the piano and it still will not change the fact that, at any level of executional finesse, the baritone saxophone sounds exactly like a water buffalo delivering a mini-fridge out the urethra. So- beautiful.
And that was just the top half of Act I.
I'm wearing most of them. The combined degrees of the extended 10-day forecast for Hailey, Idaho add up to negative seven. I sent a screenshot of that weather forecast to my brother and he replied simply, "Don't die, please."
I zip past the back entryway and dumpster of A Taste of Thai as quickly as one can safely zip down an alley covered in ice. Zipping in an attempt to avoid any encore interactions starring myself in a dark, snowy alley and a giant bearded man popping out from the shadows of a dumpster and growling, "Are you finished?"
This evening, I am successful at slipping in unsolicited and stomp my boots smartly on the rug just inside the stage door.
I trot downstairs and survey the snack table. Impressive array, as always. I cram myself into my tights- working up only a minor sweat- and decide that intermission will be a fine time to have someone come in with their iPhone to photograph the baseball-sized bruise on my right hip. For posterity. And to show to my mother. And to remind me how cool it is that I get to walk around pretending to be Alice from "A League of Their Own" in the montage sequence where she bruised her hip sliding into third base.
Sound check. I've shimmied into my shiny purple bloomers, purple skirt, purple t-shirt, and tap shoes. I head upstairs. Where I find everyone else onstage clad in identical attire. We're like a troupe of shapely Grimaces. I attempt a couple of tap steps from a 2005 VA Rep production of "Anything Goes" and are therefore of no use to me at this time whatsoever. I try to keep my fingers off the shiny baby grand because my greasy fingerprints show up under the spotlight.
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my fanny. Interesting.
"Oh my gosh," David gasps. "You aren't Aly!"
This case of mistaken fanny identity is entirely understandable. We are after all, dressed as identical eggplants. Calls to mind the question, though- was it the consistency of fanny which clued him in to its owner's identity or something else? I'll generally ask any question which is called to mind, so:
"David? Was it a difference in fanny texture which made you realize? Or something else?"
David states that glancing up and seeing my brown hair made him fully aware of his error. Which is great. If I'm going to be fanny twins with anyone, I'm honored to have that person be Aly Wepplo.
Sound check goes well. I sing some notes which are at no point featured in this production and we all head downstairs to pass my eyeliner around and apply our fake beauty marks.
Once the show starts, I spend a lot of time endeavoring to appear classy and composed and like I'm confident in my ability to walk down stairs in high heels. I salivate for the first tap number to arrive because I know once that happens, I'll be too busy whacking my toes against the floor to notice that my liver has frozen over. I sing a forty-five minute power ballad in pants and pretend I am Debra Wagoner. I remove said pants and play an evil waitress, a beleaguered housewife, and some chopsticks. Then Aly comes out with her saxophone and everything becomes fantastic.
You see, Aly has learned to play the baritone sax for this production. This is funny for several reasons. One- the saxophone is larger than she is. Two- she plays it to the tune of "The Good Ship Lollipop." Three- she plays it very well and no one in the audience is expecting that dainty little lass to nail a gritty sax solo about bon-bons on the Chesapeake Bay. Tonight though- especially good.
As Aly is winding up her number, she prepares to hit the big finale note- a low X-flat - and suddenly, from the dark of the audience, we hear a woman rapturously whisper, "It's beautiful!"
Now- it should be noted that Aly plays this solo exactly correctly. But it should also be noted that you can be to the baritone sax what Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was to the piano and it still will not change the fact that, at any level of executional finesse, the baritone saxophone sounds exactly like a water buffalo delivering a mini-fridge out the urethra. So- beautiful.
And that was just the top half of Act I.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
IDAHONAKER: 4. La Mancha, Thailand
Thai food runs rampant in Hailey, Idaho.
This is not a problem.
I'm a recent convert to Thai food, having - no exaggeration - spent my seventeenth year of life ordering the Chicken & Broccoli Combination Platter with White Rice instead of Fried Rice every other day. It got to where I'd be paying with stacks of quarters and dimes. But I was obsessed. I had somehow not experienced takeout Chinese food until I was that far along on my journey and it was love at first mouthful.
That said, I've recently been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of other Asian takeout and- after some serious consideration by my tongue and intestinal tract - have become a fan. I'm still seeing Chinese food seriously and am fully committed, but am now open to the possibility that vehicles for my growth and development as an individual are not solely limited to eggrolls.
I'll admit this development has a lot to do with the facts that, a. reading the Thai food menu out loud is a hoot and b. there exists a dish called Pad See Ew, which- in addition to being fun to say out loud also bears a remarkable resemblance to my beloved Chicken & Broccoli. Only exception being: instead of rice you are served fat blobbly* slabs of noodle which are delectable and melt in one's mouth (if one is able to overcome the initial urge to smash them all over one's face).
So. One shop down from the Liberty Theatre here in Hailey is a Thai Restaurant called A Taste of Thai. It's green.
I remember this restaurant from my last Idaho experience because Leslie, our choreographer, strode in one day after dinner break in one of her fantastic crushed velvet track suits (I believe this one was amber colored) waving a bag of takeout.
"Who wants this? This has pineapple in it and I DON'T EAT PINEAPPLE."
Never one to turn down free food, I accepted it gleefully and spent a good long time later that evening staring into the takeout box trying to decide if I wanted to be unfaithful in my relationship to Combo Platter #6.
In the end, I held strong, and thusly cost myself four years of Thai food enjoyment. But- I knew about this restaurant. So, two days ago, on dinner break, I whisk over in the lightly falling snow. I am the only patron. Everything is green. I am beckoned by a tiny crooked pinkie to the back of the restaurant to place my order. I take a seat to wait. Two employees pass me, giggling loudly. "Hello," one of them says. "How are you?" I smile and reply that I am well. He places a hand on my shoulder, smiles hugely and replies, "That is FANTASTIC! This is the best day IN. THE WORLD!" They giggle away. Awesome. This town is great.
My food is ready near instantaneously and it's delicious. Which-
Inspires me to order more Thai food last night even though my roommate has whipped up a tantalizing pot of goulash.**
I wasn't hungry at the time of initial goulash completion, so I call in some delivery.
The phone call goes as expected, a kind gentleman takes my order and then asks me to please hold for the delivery driver. I am sliding around on the hardwood in my socks and thinking about the Olympics when a loud, gruff, and deep voice sounds in my ear. "Hi. I speak English."
"Okay," I say. I start to launch into detailed instructions on how to arrive at my house and am cut off.
"Yeah, yeah, I know exactly where that is- be ready! I might have to call you to come out and change my tire HAHAHAHAHAHA."
Hmm.
He continues. "What's your phone number just in case?"
I provide my digits. I hear a large intake of air.
"804. What's that area code? That's....Seattle. Right?"
"No sir, that's Richmond, VA."
"VA, huh? Where in VA?"
Sigh. I repeat myself. Then-
"Well, I know ALL about Virginia. I was there for college. What are you doing here?"
Having met nothing but kind and lovely people here, I feel fully comfortable telling him I'm here with Company of Fools doing a show, but barely get the sentence out when-
"Oh, you know, that's great. Just great. As a matter of fact, I have done FOURTEEN MUSICALS. Fourteen pieces of musical theater. And some of them in Richmond. Lots of people think I'm homosexual because I enjoy doing theater but I just tell them- you know what I tell them? I tell them that it's like sports. I've played every sport there is- baseball. I've played baseball. But it's just like theater. You learn to work together as a team."
.....
Though my stomach is slowly eating itself, I reply enthusiastically, "Well, what's your name? I may know you if you've worked in Richmond."
A pause.
"No. I'll tell you when I get there."
The line goes dead.
I walk slowly into the parlor and sit down next to Taylor. I tell him about the phone call. He immediately exits upstairs to make a phone call.
I unlock the front door for David and Aly, who are due to arrive over for an evening of board games at any moment. I return to my seat in the parlor.
Fourteen minutes later, I'm watching "Family Feud" and goggling at the audacity of the producers at what is allowed to be said on that show nowadays when I hear the front door fly open. I rise, smiling and am mid-nimble leap off the couch to greet my friends when I am taken fully aback by the sight of an elderly Paul Bunyan in my foyer. I hold very still.
The giant grizzled man is stomping his snowy boots on the welcome rug. He steps further into the room and lowers a giant cooler to the floor. He begins to remove his gloves.
O.M.G. I mean, I'm not even wearing a bra.
I'm hoping very hard that the cooler leaking all over the floor is full of my dinner and not moose organs when the large man speaks.
"So the main show I did up here was up the road apiece- not the theater you're at right now- how did you get a job there anyway? I figure you're a professional?" I nod. "Yeah- see, I'm not a professional or anything but I - it's a team, you know? So I did "The Man of la Mancha"- I don't know if you've heard of that--" More nodding. "Yeah, so, I did that show up the road a piece and I played what was really the anchor of the show. I was a prisoner, you see, a prisoner who held the whole thing together. I was the bear, the anchor, the stability of all the prisoners, you see? I don't like to have a lot of lines though. So then, they bring in this blonde gal to play the lead. And I'm thinking, oh, she's blonde, she's going to be a dummy, you know? You know? But, and get this- it turns out that she's the first one to not need her script at all! And she's the lead, so, you know, she has way more lines that anyone else. So, she and I became friends. But it was (insert here: I am starving. Are you ever going to stop talking?) so funny because--
At this point my hand shoots out and snatches the check out of his hand. I am hopeful this will remind him that he is working and might have other deliveries to make. Nope.
I take one step back. Now my right foot is on the carpet and not the hardwood. He is standing rather close to me to deliver this monologue.
"Right, so, it's funny because I was next to her when she had to sing her big big song, you know, and, do you know, I had to turn my face away like this (he shows me) each time she sang that song because this would happen--"
He takes a big step toward me and, raising his right hand, takes the first two fingers and trails them slowly under his eyes and down his cheeks. These are to be tears, I assume.
I step back with my left foot. Is the carpet safer? Probably not.
"Wow," I say. She really was doing her job very well then!"
He looks at me. I look back. We are silent for a moment. I can hear Taylor merrily chatting on the phone upstairs.
Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, Mr. Bunyan snatches up his cooler and strides to the front door, growling back over his shoulder, "Well, maybe I'll come see you all, then."
Slam.
It should be noted that my food was delicious. And that, having heard the tale, David remarked first thing upon witnessing my arrival at rehearsal this afternoon that he was very pleased to see me at rehearsal and not chopped up into bits in a cooler.
*It's a word now.
**Goulash- if you don't know, is noodles and tomatoes and sugar and cheese. And beef. It's beautiful.
This is not a problem.
I'm a recent convert to Thai food, having - no exaggeration - spent my seventeenth year of life ordering the Chicken & Broccoli Combination Platter with White Rice instead of Fried Rice every other day. It got to where I'd be paying with stacks of quarters and dimes. But I was obsessed. I had somehow not experienced takeout Chinese food until I was that far along on my journey and it was love at first mouthful.
That said, I've recently been dragged kicking and screaming into the world of other Asian takeout and- after some serious consideration by my tongue and intestinal tract - have become a fan. I'm still seeing Chinese food seriously and am fully committed, but am now open to the possibility that vehicles for my growth and development as an individual are not solely limited to eggrolls.
I'll admit this development has a lot to do with the facts that, a. reading the Thai food menu out loud is a hoot and b. there exists a dish called Pad See Ew, which- in addition to being fun to say out loud also bears a remarkable resemblance to my beloved Chicken & Broccoli. Only exception being: instead of rice you are served fat blobbly* slabs of noodle which are delectable and melt in one's mouth (if one is able to overcome the initial urge to smash them all over one's face).
So. One shop down from the Liberty Theatre here in Hailey is a Thai Restaurant called A Taste of Thai. It's green.
I remember this restaurant from my last Idaho experience because Leslie, our choreographer, strode in one day after dinner break in one of her fantastic crushed velvet track suits (I believe this one was amber colored) waving a bag of takeout.
"Who wants this? This has pineapple in it and I DON'T EAT PINEAPPLE."
Never one to turn down free food, I accepted it gleefully and spent a good long time later that evening staring into the takeout box trying to decide if I wanted to be unfaithful in my relationship to Combo Platter #6.
In the end, I held strong, and thusly cost myself four years of Thai food enjoyment. But- I knew about this restaurant. So, two days ago, on dinner break, I whisk over in the lightly falling snow. I am the only patron. Everything is green. I am beckoned by a tiny crooked pinkie to the back of the restaurant to place my order. I take a seat to wait. Two employees pass me, giggling loudly. "Hello," one of them says. "How are you?" I smile and reply that I am well. He places a hand on my shoulder, smiles hugely and replies, "That is FANTASTIC! This is the best day IN. THE WORLD!" They giggle away. Awesome. This town is great.
My food is ready near instantaneously and it's delicious. Which-
Inspires me to order more Thai food last night even though my roommate has whipped up a tantalizing pot of goulash.**
I wasn't hungry at the time of initial goulash completion, so I call in some delivery.
The phone call goes as expected, a kind gentleman takes my order and then asks me to please hold for the delivery driver. I am sliding around on the hardwood in my socks and thinking about the Olympics when a loud, gruff, and deep voice sounds in my ear. "Hi. I speak English."
"Okay," I say. I start to launch into detailed instructions on how to arrive at my house and am cut off.
"Yeah, yeah, I know exactly where that is- be ready! I might have to call you to come out and change my tire HAHAHAHAHAHA."
Hmm.
He continues. "What's your phone number just in case?"
I provide my digits. I hear a large intake of air.
"804. What's that area code? That's....Seattle. Right?"
"No sir, that's Richmond, VA."
"VA, huh? Where in VA?"
Sigh. I repeat myself. Then-
"Well, I know ALL about Virginia. I was there for college. What are you doing here?"
Having met nothing but kind and lovely people here, I feel fully comfortable telling him I'm here with Company of Fools doing a show, but barely get the sentence out when-
"Oh, you know, that's great. Just great. As a matter of fact, I have done FOURTEEN MUSICALS. Fourteen pieces of musical theater. And some of them in Richmond. Lots of people think I'm homosexual because I enjoy doing theater but I just tell them- you know what I tell them? I tell them that it's like sports. I've played every sport there is- baseball. I've played baseball. But it's just like theater. You learn to work together as a team."
.....
Though my stomach is slowly eating itself, I reply enthusiastically, "Well, what's your name? I may know you if you've worked in Richmond."
A pause.
"No. I'll tell you when I get there."
The line goes dead.
I walk slowly into the parlor and sit down next to Taylor. I tell him about the phone call. He immediately exits upstairs to make a phone call.
I unlock the front door for David and Aly, who are due to arrive over for an evening of board games at any moment. I return to my seat in the parlor.
Fourteen minutes later, I'm watching "Family Feud" and goggling at the audacity of the producers at what is allowed to be said on that show nowadays when I hear the front door fly open. I rise, smiling and am mid-nimble leap off the couch to greet my friends when I am taken fully aback by the sight of an elderly Paul Bunyan in my foyer. I hold very still.
The giant grizzled man is stomping his snowy boots on the welcome rug. He steps further into the room and lowers a giant cooler to the floor. He begins to remove his gloves.
O.M.G. I mean, I'm not even wearing a bra.
I'm hoping very hard that the cooler leaking all over the floor is full of my dinner and not moose organs when the large man speaks.
"So the main show I did up here was up the road apiece- not the theater you're at right now- how did you get a job there anyway? I figure you're a professional?" I nod. "Yeah- see, I'm not a professional or anything but I - it's a team, you know? So I did "The Man of la Mancha"- I don't know if you've heard of that--" More nodding. "Yeah, so, I did that show up the road a piece and I played what was really the anchor of the show. I was a prisoner, you see, a prisoner who held the whole thing together. I was the bear, the anchor, the stability of all the prisoners, you see? I don't like to have a lot of lines though. So then, they bring in this blonde gal to play the lead. And I'm thinking, oh, she's blonde, she's going to be a dummy, you know? You know? But, and get this- it turns out that she's the first one to not need her script at all! And she's the lead, so, you know, she has way more lines that anyone else. So, she and I became friends. But it was (insert here: I am starving. Are you ever going to stop talking?) so funny because--
At this point my hand shoots out and snatches the check out of his hand. I am hopeful this will remind him that he is working and might have other deliveries to make. Nope.
I take one step back. Now my right foot is on the carpet and not the hardwood. He is standing rather close to me to deliver this monologue.
"Right, so, it's funny because I was next to her when she had to sing her big big song, you know, and, do you know, I had to turn my face away like this (he shows me) each time she sang that song because this would happen--"
He takes a big step toward me and, raising his right hand, takes the first two fingers and trails them slowly under his eyes and down his cheeks. These are to be tears, I assume.
I step back with my left foot. Is the carpet safer? Probably not.
"Wow," I say. She really was doing her job very well then!"
He looks at me. I look back. We are silent for a moment. I can hear Taylor merrily chatting on the phone upstairs.
Suddenly, in a flurry of movement, Mr. Bunyan snatches up his cooler and strides to the front door, growling back over his shoulder, "Well, maybe I'll come see you all, then."
Slam.
It should be noted that my food was delicious. And that, having heard the tale, David remarked first thing upon witnessing my arrival at rehearsal this afternoon that he was very pleased to see me at rehearsal and not chopped up into bits in a cooler.
*It's a word now.
**Goulash- if you don't know, is noodles and tomatoes and sugar and cheese. And beef. It's beautiful.
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