Early that spring
semester another bombshell was dropped.
Ok, not necessarily an incendiary device, but something that would
definitely affect the rest of my academic, and you could say my professional
life altogether. Lane called an
emergency meeting for all theatre majors.
We assembled one weeknight in a space that was affectionately known as
NNB, which stood for Nowhere Near Broadway.
NNB was a little black box theater in the basement of the Fine Arts
building. To the uninitiated, that
literally means it was a small square room, with no stage, and the walls were
painted black. There was a small
platform with two or three rows of folding chairs for an audience, but we
almost never did anything there.
Strangely it always smelled like fresh paint, though the walls hadn’t
been touched in years. I chalk it up to
poor ventilation, or else some painter died in that room and that was his
haunting legacy. NNB was so rarely used
it had become a storage room. Lane and
some of the other majors had attempted to clean it out and start utilizing the
space again. It would be a great spot
for student productions, along with comedy or improv nights or even musical
performances. The problem was it was
currently being used as storage for all the Fine Art departments and you know
how bitchy artists can be. Nobody would
come get their shit out.
That night we all
gathered awaiting the start of this strange impromptu meeting. The older students and upper classmen
conferred among themselves. It seemed
like they had at least some inkling why we were there. I on the other hand, along with the other
younger pups was clueless. Comedy of
Errors had gone well enough, despite the fact that we had trash bags for a set
and crappy costumes. The actors’
performances had been good, I guess, more or less. Actually, I admit that’s a lie. I’m being disingenuous now, just as I had
been then. The truth is for my first
college production, I’d been completely unimpressed and shocked by how shitty a
number of the actors were. Especially
some of my fellow Theatre majors who had at least a couple years of experience
under their belts.
Chip, was of
course fantastic. He just had flawless
comic instincts. I’m still casually in
touch with him. He went to L.A. and
tried to make a go of it, but from what I know his mom got sick and he moved
back to Ohio. Not exactly an
entertainment hotbed. I really hope he
tries again one day, even if not as an actor as a director or a producer. The world needs a good laugh. He made me laugh constantly off stage and
right there under the lights while I tried desperately not to break
character. Stacy was good as usual. He could be stiff and sometimes his
inflections were somewhat rehearsed, but it seemed to work for him. Other performers were flat out dreadful. And let me reiterate, I hated no performance
more than my own. Just for different
reasons. There was another actor named Matt,
who was also an alum brought back by to play the twin to Stacy’s
character. They looked nothing alike,
save they were both tall (in fact this Matt was clearly a couple inches taller)
and they both had dark hair. Even after
Matt, who looked like Michael Medved the film critic, shaved off his moustache
a few nights before opening night, the illusion of a shared womb was nowhere
near complete. Matt was a really sweet
guy but he was just not a great actor.
Half of his lines sounded as though he were reading them off of cue
cards, and he ended every sentence with a very nasally exhale that sounded like
a nervous laugh. In fact it might’ve
been.
Cast as Chip’s
doppelganger was a junior, also a major and also, coincidentally Stacy’s
roommate, Phillip. He was a doughy,
jawless fop with round spectacles and a dream of being the next Cary Grant. He had a better shot at sucking off Hugh
Grant, but enough with the compliments.
Phillip’s time will come in this tale, but for now suffice to say I had
an uneasy feeling the very day I met him.
I tried very hard to like him, as we would likely be spending a great
deal of time together on-stage and off.
He came off as silly and aloof and often liked to say his life was like
a character in a John Hughes movie. That
was all an affect. The real Phillip had a mean, even violent
side. I remember specifically an
instance where out of nowhere while just goofing around, Patrick decided to
start “play fighting” with me. He kept
telling me to hit back and how he had been raised with older brothers, and as
he said so the punches got progressively harder. And I could see in his face that his grin
looked forced, even painful, and he really wanted to hit me. I don’t know if was really me he wanted to
hurt, or he just wanted to hurt someone.
Anyone. I’m not a fighter, but I
have a survival instinct, and if he’d pushed me hard enough I was more than
formidable enough to have driven his face into the painted cinder block
wall. Instead I sort of shoved him off,
forcing laughter, and walked away.
Clearly he didn’t like that I’d come into his territory. I was another male actor in the program, a
threat to his high seat in the court.
And I was also taking his roommate’s attention away from him.
On stage all of
his performances were essentially the same.
He always played every part as befuddled and confused, and his finger
was always up with every line like he was either making a point or attempting a
question. Phillip also bore no
resemblance to Chip, not in looks, not in talent, and not even close in
character. But he’d made a habit out of
sucking up to (or maybe just sucking) Lane so he got all the choice cuts of
meat. He also always seemed to be in the
know as to what was going on in the department.
Including that night as we were all waiting in Nowhere Near
Broadway.
The elusive of
late Lane finally appeared. It didn’t
take long for him to make the big reveal.
He was leaving Euphegenia College at the end of the year. Apparently this was less surprising to some
than others. Lane had been fighting
battles with administration for years, trying to push the envelope and put on more
challenging, artistic (controversial) material.
The school didn’t like him. He
was too liberal and wanted to put on art.
They just wanted someone to put on Hello Dolly and Brigadoon so the old
farts on the board would be happy and the alumni would donate more cash. I can’t say for certain but I believe he
resigned, but the situation was untenable for him. If I had to guess it was probably a “quit or
be fired.”
However as Lane
informed us that night, he had already accepted a position as Theater Director
at Calvin College in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
And he had no compunction about encouraging us all to leave Euphegenia
and follow him. He described to us the
virtues of a more liberal Christian
school where we’d have more freedom to explore our craft. To be quite honest it sounded kind of
nice. As he explained the arduous
battles he’d waged with administration over the years, it was clear he was
truly frustrated and just wanted to put the whole place in the wind.
Sadly, that would
take a toll on us. He had no control
over our education or development now, not if we were staying there
anyway. And I’m sure there was some
concern as to not knowing where everyone’s allegiances were. As to the fate of our scholarships, those of
us who really needed them, he had no idea.
But he did grimly tell us not to be surprised if budget cuts were made
that would affect us. Oh, and rather
than go out on some high note, leaving them with one last great production,
there would be no spring play. Sorry
guys. Looking back, I completely get it,
but I won’t like. I was pissed, as were
others. Not exactly what I or any of my
fellow actors wanted to hear. It was the
reason we were there. It was the thing
we looked forward to the most.
Regardless of anything else going on, we had that stage. We lived and breathed to be on it. And now we didn’t even have that to look
forward to.
For a while I
considered making the transfer the next year.
Why not go to school in Michigan,
I figured? But then, I figured I’d been
fortunate (interesting choice of words) to get into this school. Did I really want to roll those dice
again? So instead I went in search of
distraction from contemplating this change in the department and what it
spelled for my fate. I fooled around
with Bailey here and there in the shadows, until I soon found another little
playmate. She was a droopy eyed little
thing called AJ. She was fun to talk to
and kept me warm, but there was no real connection with her or Bailey. I admit they were but distracting ports in an
emotional storm. After all, if you feel
the English Navy on your trail, nothing soothes the spirit like a stop in
Tortuga!
Meanwhile early
that spring semester I began what would be a downhill slide academically. I had signed up for a bunch of classes I
hated. Not the least of which being my
first attempt at a college Algebra course.
It was to be, and still is, my kryptonite. I got to where I just wasn’t going to class
much. The funny thing about Euphegenia
was while they didn’t really pay attention to your class attendance, they kept
close tabs on your chapel record. We
were expected to attend chapel three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday from 10 to 11. The Euphegenia
chapel was the centerpiece of the campus, and actually was really nice. I often thought it a perfect building for a
wedding. Its design aesthetic was
contemporary yet comfortable. Still,
that alone wasn’t enough to motivate me toward perfect mini-church
attendance.
What did was a
very tall, large, bearded gentleman in spectacles named Winston. Winston Atherton was an English Professor and
also the Chapel director. He would have
fared well in any Bear bar in the city.
While physically imposing, Winston was funny and sardonic. Long before I ever took his class, I’d had a
few encounters with him, as he and his wife were the house parents of the
girls’ dorm. Since AJ and I had enjoyed
the dim lighting and soft couches of their lobby, I always had one eye open for
Winston to appear around the corner while I was copping a clandestine
feel! If I was going to use his parlor
as my personal bump & grind room, I figured I’d better try to adhere myself
to his good side by showing up to chapel, even if I hadn’t gone to my two
classes before it. Plus, I just liked
the guy. When I eventually did take his
English class, he passed out Nutter Butters the first day. Mad respect!
Aside from getting
my rocks off, as best I could in this puritanical environment anyway, what I
really wanted was to be on stage. Lane
had decided that since there was to be no spring production, he would combine
the Acting 2 course with his Directing class.
The plan was at the end of the semester, we’d put on a series of one act
vignettes, open to a public audience, as our final. Two students from the acting track would be
paired up with one of the Directing students, who would then choose what piece
they would be putting on. As fate would
have it, I was assigned to Phillip as my director. And being the faux-Strasberg he was, he’d
selected the third act of the scandalous Norwegian Henrik Ibsen’s A
Doll’s House.
I get it, Ibsen’s
a theater god and it’s one of his masterworks.
Whatever! Never before or since
have I ever been so bored by or felt more disconnected from a piece I had to
perform. And I’ve done some shit! The way Phillip explained it, I was playing
some overbearing Victorian husband who finds out his wife has had an affair or
something. In fact, she’s forged some
bank documents to get a loan because in those days a woman needed a male
co-signer. And of course she’s taken
this loan from her husband’s arch-enemy The Joker or some such shit. Actually his name is Frogstead, which may as
well be a Batman villain. The husband is
pissed because it will make him look bad.
I’m
over-simplifying, but the drama was completely lost on me. I was 18.
I had zero motivation to play this guy, except that I had no choice if I
wanted to pass the class. And at that
point, I figured I needed to make sure I passed at least one of my courses.
The only plus side
was the casting of my wife. Kristiana
was cast to play Christine, my beautiful (and ‘til then) subservient young
wife. Kristiana was ideal for the role. She was unbelievably beautiful. Way too skinny, but her face rivaled any
super model. She had this great wavy
chestnut hair, and a lot of it, with subtle blonde streaks here and there. She was also as dumb as a box of hammers. It was forgivable just to sit next to her on
one of those small lobby couches and breathe her in. Kristiana was basically the only thing that
got me to rehearsals on time. I was
constantly blocking (or re-blocking after the fact) the scenes so I could be as
close to her as possible and touch her, whether the script called for it or
not. I knew out in the real world, this
girl wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire, so I was going to have fun with her
while the assignment lasted. Ironically,
now I look back and see I wasn’t so different from the part I was playing.
The unfortunate
side of working with a dimwit is she couldn’t learn her lines to save her
life. I confess even I had trouble with
the text, as the dialogue was so foreign even if had been translated to
English. Even notoriously difficult Shakespearean dialogue at least had a flow, once you learned it properly. This shit was unnatural and clumsy, which I
suspect is the reason Phillip chose it, as it seemed like a more cultured and
artistic choice. We rehearsed for weeks,
and after rehearsal I would run the script with her over and over again,
sincerely trying to help. Ok, yes I was
just trying to maximize my time in close proximity to this retarded goddess,
but also sincerely trying to help her! I
could sense things were not going to go well for our little production. Philip was ineffective as a director, as he
gave her little instruction. He merely
suggested she learn her lines before we opened.
Me of course he had plenty of notes for.
Phillip wanted to tell me where to move, how to move, gave me constant
line readings, down to the vocal inflections he wanted. Perhaps it was really Phillip who should have
played this psychologically abusive husband, as he seemed to know him so
well. And of course, that would play out
later in his life as well . . . allegedly.
Our dress rehearsals
went terribly and I remember a constant feeling of nausea the day we were to
premiere in front of an audience. I
tracked down Kristiana and convinced her to run lines with me multiple times
right before we were to go on. Our scene
was somewhere in the middle of the rotation.
I just wanted to get it over with.
I was pacing back and forth praying some miracle would occur, like the
building would catch fire. Maybe the
Heavens would open up and send down an angel with cue cards visible to only Kristiana
and me. Apparently all the stagehand
angels were booked that night, because no such apparition ever descended. And for about 20 minutes, neither did my
testicles. We did our scene, and it was
abysmal. Kristiana got through the first
half well enough. I was able to lead her
to some forgotten lines by improving or rewording my own. I can still clearly see the moment, about ten
minutes into our performance, if you want to call it that, when it all went to
hell. We were in a heated argument in
the scene, and at one point she was supposed to set an envelope or something
down on a little end table. There was a
glass ash tray on the table, and somehow she accidentally knocked it off. It hit the floor loudly and smashed into
pieces. Lest you’re confused, this
wasn’t in the script. Kristiana looked
to me with panic. Maybe because I was in
character, and because I was already freaking out inside, she suddenly broke
character and went to clean it up.
Trying to keep things flowing, I barked at her in character “Leave
it!”
I continued on
with the next line, but Kristiana just looked at me with a terror more real
than the character she was playing could have conveyed. I could see tears forming in her eyes. She had completely lost it again, and she was
not going to get it back. Sheer panic
took over her face. She just stared at
me petrified. It was the most awkward,
uncomfortable feeling I’ve ever experienced in my life. I had no clue where to go from here. I couldn’t turn the rest of the scene into a
monologue. I’m not that good now, and I
certainly wasn’t that good then.
I became painfully
aware of the audience sitting just a few feet away. This particular night all chairs were filled
and there were people standing as well.
The front row was nearly close enough to touch, and I could sense their
uneasiness. I could hear the nervous
shifting in metal chairs and throats clearing.
My focus kept switching from this terrified girl in front of me to the
presence of all these eyes boring down on us.
We had to get the hell out of there.
Fight or flight kicked in and flight was the only option, but the
question was how. Bailing out gracefully
was obviously not an option at this point.
The silence had gone on long enough that most of the audience had to
have realized this wasn’t a beat. We
weren’t making a dramatic choice. We had
fucked up somewhere and were clearly lost.
Standing under those hot lights, the sweat causing the little bit of
makeup I had on to run, I started frantically fast forwarding the scene in my
head, sifting through the remaining lines.
I literally remember visualizing myself flipping through them on mental
index cards, casting the unusable ones away.
I started going
into one of my longer paragraphs and changing the words, adding in things she
was supposed to say as well, trying to summarize what had happened thus far and
wrapping it all up, pausing here and there in the hope Kristiana might jump
in. Finally, she caught on and snapped
out of her fear coma enough to interject.
It wasn’t pretty, but we fought our way through and finally when I felt
the creative tank completely dry up, I just ended it, I jumped ahead to my
final lines and just turned away from her with my head down. She jumped on this and ran off as if it were
part of the scene. Whoever was on lights
had gotten on board with us as well and after a few seconds the room went
dark. There was strained, uncomfortable
clapping that eventually built to polite applause as I headed for zee hills! It was the worst theatrical experience I’ve
ever experienced.
When I got out
into the hallway, curtained off for the cast to wait around in Kristiana was
nowhere to be seen. Other actors offered
me encouraging words, patted me on the back, tried to make me feel a little better
about the whole debacle. Even Phillip
said something to the effect that at least I’d tried to salvage the scene and
hadn’t just run off stage. I wasn’t
angry with Kristiana. I actually felt
really bad for her. The look on her face
when she stared into my eyes with a look that begged “please save me” made me
want to protect her from any more humiliation.
I was soon told she had left the theater and hightailed it back to her
dorm, still in costume, crying her eyes out.
I just let the whole thing go for the night. I changed clothes and left the building. We were supposed to hang around for notes,
but I had no intention of sitting through a post-mortem that same evening.
What was worse was
we had to do the whole show again the next night. It was a Thursday and Friday night run. I was determined that we would rise like the
phoenix from the ashes the next day. I
tracked Kristiana down early the next day.
I gave her a hug and said it was ok, and we were going to do better that
night. We ran our lines, and it was
clear she still didn’t know them, but she did better than at any other
rehearsal before. I was hopeful that we
had a shot at redemption. What concerned
me is she began to say she didn’t feel well.
I wanted to respond that I didn’t either because we’d made asses of
ourselves the night before, but I refrained.
I told her go back to her room and get some rest. I let her know that I hated the scene as much
as she did but we had to get through it.
We had to beat it. She assured me
she agreed and we would be victorious that night. Then came show time.
The audience was
filing in. I was in costume, an
ill-fitting second hand suit jacket and an old polyester neck tie that Phillip
had attempted to turn into an ascot.
Kristiana did not arrive. Phillip
called her room. She didn’t answer. We actually asked another girl to run to her
dorm and try to find her. Apparently she
didn’t answer the door if she was in there.
Finally, a few minutes before the first scene started, Kristiana’s
boyfriend appeared and informed us that she was terribly sick and couldn’t do
the show. I know Phillip was pissed, as
was Lane when he heard the news. They
basically both sighed, resigned to the fact we’d be skipping our scene,
obviously. It wasn’t like we had
understudies.
I was quietly
relieved. I’d spent the day going over
“what if’ scenarios. What if she fucks
up here? How will I get us out? We weren’t ready to do the scene. We’d probably never be ready. Kristiana wasn’t committed and to be honest, even
though I knew my lines, I wasn’t either.
The scene sucked, at least with us in the casting. Sometimes you just don’t connect to the
material and you can’t force it. When
you try, you may fool a few less astute audience members, but overall you’re not
fooling anybody. If I were writing a
self-help manual, I might say the same goes for life. If you’re not connecting to what you’re
doing, the scene you’re in, you aren’t fooling anybody and you’re just going to
make yourself sick. Look for me on tour
with Tony Robbins in a city near you soon!
So the spring one
act series or whatever the hell it was ended a night early for me. One performance shy, but I was fine with
it. Lane wasn’t. He was insistent that whenever Kristianaa
recovered (and resurfaced) from her mystery ailment we were going to perform
the scene in its entirety for the class.
When that day came, knowing the class was over and that he couldn’t
really fail me, I just refused. She
still hadn’t bothered to learn the lines.
It would be an exercise in futility and I was just done. Lane was noticeably annoyed, but to his
credit he didn’t push the issue. I think
he was done too. I had no interest in
ever playing that part again. The worst
part was it was an intense theatrical experience, but it filled no need within
me. The closest comparison I can make is
being so hungry you hit some shitty fast-food drive in and order way more food
than you want, and when you’re finished, you feel bloated and disgusted with
yourself, and despite the discomfort you’re not even satisfied. I was desperate to get on a stage and chew
the fuck out of it. It was the only
thing I could do at that school that I knew I could do well. And that is why I had no choice but to agree
when a girl named Marilyn asked me to go Looking
for Love.
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