My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [93]
I asked Stacey if I had to prepare in any way, but her only advice was to wear comfortable pants. Done. The shows are being performed in the Steppenwolf garage, which confused me because I couldn’t figure out if they had to move the cars or what. But apparently there’s a whole theater built within the parking structure, which I find vaguely disappointing. I mean, what’s more stripped down than workshopping scenes in front of an old Astrovan with an oil leak?
The stage is set up as a square between two seating sections, each accommodating about forty people. I imagine this’ll be a challenge for the actors, as they’ll have to be superconscious to make sure they’re always properly in profile, lest half the audience stare at the back of their heads. Now that I’m a bit of a theater veteran, I know to make a beeline for the chairs in the last row in the back corner because (a) no one can cough on my neck there182 and (b) I’m not sharing an armrest with any strangers.
The first show is called Honest, which is about a James Frey-type author who may have taken liberties in retelling his life’s story. I immediately connect with the subject matter, and I’m so impressed that the playwright actually learned not only how publishing works but also what it’s like to write a memoir. I’m on the edge of my hard plastic seat for the whole show. When it’s over, I happily engage in the postproduction discussion and praise the playwright on his uncanny accuracy.
Stacey and I break for lunch, returning for the four o’clock show. The seats we’d been in are empty, so we settle in there again. The second show’s called Sex with Strangers, and it’s about a male blogger who catapulted to Internet infamy for detailing all his sexual exploits online.
During the first scene change, I lean over to Stacey. “This play is totally about Tucker Max!”
“Who?”
“Um, he’s a male blogger who catapulted to Internet infamy for detailing all his sexual exploits online.” Then I go on to describe a host of similarities between the protagonist and the real guy.
Stacey gives me a little moue of disapproval. “There’s an actual man who behaves like this?”
“Yeah, he wrote I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. It’s been on the Times list, like, forever. I think every fraternity guy in America has read his stuff. What’s funny is that for all Tucker’s success, not one of these fancy theater people has any clue that Tucker exists. What’s even funnier is Tucker would probably be pissed if he knew there was a play where a character based on him was secretly a nice guy.”
Despite strong performances, I don’t love this play, and when it’s over, we dash across the street for dinner, figuring our time would be better spent eating pork chops and not struggling to find something polite to say.
When we return, our seats are taken, so we walk around the stage to sit on the opposite side. The row in the back is completely empty when we sit. This time, Stacey gets the corner; it’s only fair.
Not more than two minutes later, I’m checking my BlackBerry for the hourly Shit the Thundercats Broke update. Aw, man, I frown to myself, I loved that potpourri bowl. While I try to tally up this week’s damages, I notice a shadow over me.
“That’s my seat,” says the shadow.
“I’m sorry?” I reply, glancing up to see a pale, disheveled man, clad in ill-fitting clothing.
“I was sitting there.” He points at my lap, which causes me to giggle inadvertently. Seems like if there were a homeless guy sitting on my knees, I’d have noticed, right?
When I realize he’s not joking, I ask, “Did you leave something here? There was nothing on the