My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [18]
Stacey gives me the kind of endearing, indulgent smile reserved for kittens and children taking their first steps. Since she possesses a master’s degree in an arts-related field and was the educational director at the Goodman Theatre for seven years, I guess Stacey might already be familiar with the power of art. “Listen,” she says, “if you like dance that tells a story, I can get us tickets for Marta Carrasco.”
“What’s that?”
“Marta’s a who, not a what, and she’s the leader of a very cool Spanish dance troupe that does really artistic pieces. I’ve seen her a few times at the Goodman and she’s amazing.”
“Neat! I’m totally in.”
We finish watching the show, and at my insistence, view some quality Flavor Flav-based programming on VH1.34 I finally retire to the guest room for the evening, where I watch an iPod Touch episode of Living Lohan before falling asleep and dreaming that Bret Michaels and I win Dancing with the Stars.
Stacey and I go out for pancakes in the morning. When I note that my breakfast probably would be better topped with a bacon-maple butter compound, she smirks in response.
I totally love when they do Latin dances on So You Think You Can Dance, and I’m all excited to see what I imagine are a bunch of flamenco dancers with all the flounce-y shirts and castanets and eyeliner. Stacey used to work here and still knows everyone, and since we have time before the curtain rises, she takes me around to meet important people.
All of the Important People gush about how wonderful Marta Carrasco is, which piques my interest. And, frankly, my curiosity, because each of them mentions we might not want to sit in the first few rows. As soon as the production designer we’re talking to steps out of earshot to eat a quick dinner35 before the show, I ask Stacey, “Why do they keep saying stuff about splash zones? Is this going to turn into a Gallagher show complete with sledgehammers and watermelons?”
Part of Stacey’s old job was to teach local gang members to appreciate the Bard, so her patience level is infinite, and this isn’t the dumbest question she’s ever been asked.36 “No, I’m sure it has more to do with sight lines. My guess is we don’t want to be too close so we can take in all the action on the stage.” I’m glad for the warning because I’ll surely be uncomfortable if I can see the dancers’ underpants.
We find some seats toward the back, and as my eyes adjust to the light, I take in the detail on the elaborate set. The backdrop is kind of fascinating—on the far wall, there are dozens of antique white garments hung from ropes at various angles, including a straitjacket. Staircases lead to a platform midstage with lots of little doors built into it.
Four old, crooked bookcases are spotlit at the front of the stage, and they’re filled with a variety of items, like inflated latex hands and sparkly shoes and Kewpie doll heads. They take on a sinister quality grouped together like that. Honestly? The set kind of reminds me of my grandmother’s attic. She lived in a creepy old house, and because she lived through the Depression, she tended to keep everything she got her hands on, and I mean everything. As soon as I took my first psych class in college, I diagnosed her with a hoarding disorder, but my mother said I was being ridiculous. Yes, because it’s perfectly normal to keep three broken fridges in the kitchen for thirty years. My bad.
The accumulated junk in my grandparents’ house wasn’t what made the attic so eerie, though—it was the perfectly preserved, neatly wallpapered bedroom up there in the middle of all the chaos of forgotten possessions. I once asked my noni if she ever kept hostages up there, but she told me I was being fresh.37
Anyway, I feel like these are odd surroundings in which to showcase flamenco dancing, but what do I know? The lights in the theater go down, the audience politely applauds, and then the show starts. The bookcases slowly part and a pretty woman slides onto the stage