(This will be a two-parter. Mainly, because I’m still feeling a bit green and hazy and such.)
All right. It’s Monday, but let’s pretend it’s last Friday. The morning of our drama camp’s not-so-grand finale.
Now, curtain is scheduled for 11:00 a.m. But this is theatre, folks, so something has to go wrong.
It’s 10:08. We are (still) waiting for our keyboard player to arrive for the final run-through. We futz about, but cannot get the air conditioning to work. It’s growing downright tropical in the room and I’m starting to sweat through my “No Refunds” t-shirt. Droplets of moisture dance across the plastic-covered eye holes of my Macy’s bag.
It’s now 10:11 and we are also waiting for one no-show little girl. Rehearsal continues without her and the keyboard player, but my thoughts are pounding. My armpits are now a rainforest; my head, a jackhammer.
Strangely, right at this moment, I recall an old joke:
Seems a famous Revolutionary War general had an unusual habit. Believing that morale would fail if his troops saw him bleeding and thus wanting to hide his blood at all costs, he would call his assistant to him on the morning of battle, yelling:
“William …. bring me my RED pants!”
Well, on the morning of what he knows will be a decisive battle, the general looks out his window. Horrified at the vast ocean of enemy troops before him, realizing defeat is certain, in his loudest, tremblingest voice, he bellows:
“WILLIAM …. BRING ME MY BROWWNNN PANNNTS!”
Just then, the thick pounding in my head thins out to a high, pathetic whine: Where is my William? Where are my brown pants?
I snap, go kamikaze. Little Miss No-Show is out. But she has a line in the show. I need a Go-To Kid and pronto. I march up to one of the boys who is not beastly and practically bark at him:
“Jack, do you think you can do Jessica’s line?”
His eyes blaze.
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Tracey! I can do it!”
“Okay. Great. Uh, do you think you know the line?”
He says he does. He’s sure he does. I ask him to recite it for me. He’s not even close. I’m creeping ever closer to that brown pants moment. I feel another bark coming on, but it’s not Jack’s fault. Swiftly, I try to remix the bitter blend of words brewing in my head to something that will go down more smoothly, a bit of verbal hot chocolate with puffy marshmallows:
“Okaaay, Jack. We-elll, why don’t you try saying this instead?”
Bypassing that the line was completely wrong, I simply feed him the correct one, hoping I sound human. It’s a very short line, 5 words. We run the scene so he can try it. He gets it wrong. We run it again. Sweet Lord, it’s worse. The edges of his face redden and are quickly smushed under his pudgy, dough-boy hands. He stands there for a split second and then …..
We haaavvve a GUSHER!
It’s now 10:23. My Go-To Kid just might be gone, unless I can stop the gushing. Our pianist has finally arrived, but is now waiting for us, surveying this gentle scene of calm and control. And all the other kids, watching poor Jack blub, suddenly become like a pack of hunting hounds excitedly surrounding the fallen prey. I swear they smell blood, because they rush me, clamoring like the good, compassionate, Christian kiddies that they are:
“Can I have that line?!”
“Mrs. Tracey, I can do it!”
“No, I wanna have it!”
“Give it to meeeeee!!”
ARRRGGGHH!!
WILLIAMM …… BRRINNGG MEEE MY BROWWNN PANNTS!!
to be continued …..
Man, I don’t envy you one bit, Tracey. Not one bit.
Hey, I read this a couple days ago!! Where is part II??
bring on PART II!!!
You know, Tracey, I did this for a while too, worked with little kids…we did a play called “Alice in Funky Wonderland” with a rapping White Rabbit on rollerblades and a terrific set of twins who were Tweedledee adn Tweedledum…but this…what you describe here, reminds me why I never want to do it again.
Oh, no! Already a rerun! Drat!