My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [48]
The soldier named Rat reminded me so much of what Fletch might have been like in the Army—introspective and motivated. Quietly intelligent and sick to death of dealing with the bullshit stemming from hillbillies and assholes. Rat tried to make sense of his world by reading philosophy while his bunkmate delved into comic books. Rat’s frustration with the state of affairs during wartime was nothing I hadn’t heard from my own husband a dozen times when he recounts Army stories.
The climax came when one soldier accidentally shot another. All I could think was, given the events that led up to the situation, my poor husband could have been on either end of that gun. And despite there being no pricey pyrotechnics, the moment was so real.
Silly though it may sound, I immediately e-mail Fletch when it’s over to see if he’s okay. He writes back saying: I’m watching a Rammstein DVD. When I prompt him to find out if he’s really okay, he replies: I’m having a splendid time skidding on the hardwood floors in boxer shorts and Ray-Bans, drinking Chivas Regal, and licking a frozen dinner. I e-mail back: Really? He responds: Don’t worry, I’ll keep your crystal egg safe. Have a good night.
(Sidebar: This? Right here? Is why I could never truly be a cougar, despite my deep and abiding ardor for Robert Pattinson and Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl.98 I don’t care how sculpted your abs are or how firm your jawline is; if you can’t quote a twenty-five-year-old Tom Cruise movie, well, then it looks like University of Illinois for you, Joel.)
I’m off-kilter for a while and only begin to calm down when I see the actor who played the protagonist enter the party. I eavesdrop and hear him say he can’t stay because he’s moving in the morning and he has to go home and pack. For some reason, this fills me with an enormous sense of relief. Yet I notice I’m not the only person in the room who’s visibly relieved that he’s actually alive and well. I’m even happier when I see the woman who played the heartbroken mother arrive at the party not in her frumpy scuffs and dowdy elastic waist pants, but in sparkly lip gloss and a darling floral dress. My mood further lifts when I hear some people in the party do the Jon Lovitz Master Thespian bit from old Saturday Night Live. “Acting!” “Genius!” This cast truly suspended my disbelief, almost a little too much.
Some of the folks I met at the Desire cast party gather around our table. They bring their heads in close to ours and I discover something very interesting about theater people: They never criticize whoever’s providing the free wine afterward. That is, not at that party. If they don’t like the show, they find something nice to say about it. Like if the acting is a hot mess, they’ll praise the blocking, or if the set’s ridiculous, they’ll rave about the lighting design.
“Can you believe that steaming pile of crap we saw last week?” Stacey’s friend Richard asks. “I mean, sweet Lord, O’Neill is turning over in his grave. You can’t cut that much text and not destroy the integrity of the story!” Richard clamps his eyes shut, turns his head, and splays his fingers over his heart, as though the memory is just too painful to bear.
“Wait, someone edited the dialogue? You can’t do that, right? I mean, you can’t possibly think that your interpretation would be better than the original.” I’m dumbfounded. So what if I just heard of this play a week ago? The arrogance of second-guessing Eugene O’Neill astounds me.
Stacey’s other friend Billy jumps in. “Can . . . did . . . snap! The lies that flew outta my mouth when I raved about it? Child, I am going straight to Hell-o! And that house on ropes? When Eben and Abbie get together in his momma’s parlor and they start to have sex, I turned to Richard and said, ‘If this house is—rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.’ I could barely keep from screaming with laughter. And the overacting? Girl, do not START me on the overacting, okay? Because screaming is not equal to ‘dramatic.’”
A third friend joins us. Her name escapes me, but I remember that she has something