I was cast to be a minor role in a local community theater
version of something very similar to “Pippin” though not “Pippin”, exactly. I
had decided to not study the role, having seen the Broadway production
recently, and felt secure enough in my ability to improvise to be able to
provide at least a capable stand in for someone who cared. On opening night,
the curtain rose, I mouthed a few bits of chorus work, other cast members
looking at me with crossed eyes. I went backstage to have a drink and read, and
while doing so I apparently lost track of time, being literally pulled on-stage
to handle a scene with was presumed to be my father (played by a man who had
the stature of Tim Curry and the face of Tommy Lee Jones with a beard). He
spoke a line to me, which I was supposed to answer, but had no easy answer to
respond. The crowd went silent and the hybrid father looked at me, with eyes
that screamed “don’t fuck this up, man”. I continued to fuck it up for at least
five minutes, spitting something out that sounded like “but, dad…I thought you
wanted the duck”.
Eventually, another extra came out in a burlesque dress and
started up what was supposed to happen, by way of a narration or “explanation”
of what had just occurred.
I had, apparently, been overcome with the notion of my
becoming a king that I was speechless and not thinking straight.
I was hurried offstage and given a good talking to by a
really withered Andrea Martin, who I recognized from seeing her on a trapeze
when I say “Pippin” earlier this year. She smacked me and pointed a boney
finger in my face, telling me that I was doing everyone who had worked so hard
a complete disservice and should be ashamed of myself.
Having always loved Andrea Martin in my youth, and being
subsequently amazed by her performance earlier on a trapeze, I was shocked
enough to try to read the script and learn a few upcoming lines.
Those lines came and went, with other side players taking my
place, while backstage I could hear the audience growing restless and
uncomfortable.
Finally, I thought I had caught up to the point in the play
where I could carry my own, knowing at least the end words to the song at the
end, and with Andrea Martin dragging me onto the stage I stood there, presented
next to my hybrid father, with the orchestra swelling under us, and I started
to sing but nothing came out.
My hybrid father turned to me and said: “Really? Even now?”
I croaked out a few lines about something I don’t remember
and the whole cast rose up behind me, singing the right lines to the right song
and all I could remember was I was shaking and the lights grew blasting and I
looked out at the audience and all I could see was my mom, after the curtain
call, with her not clapping at all.
I woke up with the sound of three knocks on the door,
feeling embarrassed and really alone. When I went to see if anything was
knocking, no one was there, no trace of a knock at all.