My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [41]
So, I signed up for theater class as a college freshman. But after a brief, mandatory internship in the costume shop, my dream died. Since I couldn’t design or tailor or even sew a straight line, I got stuck spending hours with an industrial iron, smoothing out enormous sheets of muslin, which were the costumes for the casts of Medea and Oedipus. I remember telling the director, “Jocasta accidentally did it with her son. You really think she gives a shit about wrinkles?”
Oh, wait, maybe I was asked not to be a part of the theater department.
Regardless, I’m absolutely sucked into everything happening onstage until I hear a weird sound. What is that? Is something supposed to be going on in the background? The acoustics in here are perfect—I can hear even the softest of Eben’s sighs and the rustle of Abbie’s skirts. So what is that noise? Is it stomping or marching? No, that can’t be it. Why would anyone march? There’s no war in this play. The sound is too close and familiar but I can’t identify it. It’s almost like a . . . grinding?
Or crunching?
I crane around in my seat, spot the source of the noise, and hiss in Stacey’s ear, “That kid is eating Cheetos!”
She leans in close to me. “Distracting, right?”
“It’s making me stabby!”
She shrugs. “That’s why they don’t allow popcorn.”
“Point taken,” I whisper.83
I shouldn’t be surprised by the crunching because there are a few very rude people in here, all of whom are drawing my attention away from the stage. Phones have been ringing, hard candies unwrapping, and two assholes a couple of rows back are having an outside-voice conversation about where they’re going for drinks afterward.
How can this be? I’m essentially a theater virgin and even I know this stuff is verboten. And this is opening night. You can’t just be some guy off the street and get tickets to opening night; they aren’t for sale. Opening night is by invitation only. You have to have a friend in the production or be a member of the media or be an actor yourself. Ergo, every single person in here should know better. They’re all theater veterans. None of these people should even dream of talking or chewing or texting because their family, friend, colleague, or client is part of the production. We should all be watching this play with our undivided attention. Yet here we are. This lack of common courtesy is astounding and disrespectful and marginalizes everything these poor actors are trying to accomplish.84
Hey! I think I just had an epiphany about the importance of social graces!
And yet before I can ponder it further, one of the actors strips naked onstage. I cast a sidelong glance at Stacey, who’s all squinty and shaking silently. I guarantee she won’t look at me for fear of laughing out loud.
After the final curtain call, I turn to her. “Apparently I have the ability to make shit happen just by mentioning it before the curtain goes up. Tonight? Naked. At the Marta Carrasco show? The watermelon. I’m a frigging psychic. Next time I’m totally going to worry in advance about people throwing five-dollar bills at me.”
“I was dying for you,” she admits. “When he stripped down, your eyes were saucers. You’ve got to admit though, since it was Pablo, it was good naked.”
“I’ll be honest, after Pablo turned into Senor SansHisPants and Carla went topless, I got real worried about seeing Dennehy in the buff. And, fine, I can’t argue that all the nudity didn’t make sense in the context of the story. The story was supposed to be raw, and what’s more raw than being completely nude onstage? I get it. I’m okay with it. Plus, we didn’t have any nonsensical dry-cleaning film moments.”
As we make our way to the cast party at Petterino’s next door, Stacey listens to me go on and on about how much I enjoyed the show. The set was spectacular and the acting was top-notch. I loved how the tension built and built and I appreciated the few comic