Trifucta Trois

The last in a three part series of…

The Three Most Awful Things I’ve Done in the Pursuit of Thespianism
(or How Rude Can One Girl Be in Rehearsal or Onstage?)

Okey dokey, smokey pokey…here we go down the randy road to hell…and Georgia.

One of my first gigs in theater was at Augusta Opera as Maria in West Side Story. Since I made the leap from opera to theater rather late in life, I felt a little like Bette Davis attempting the role. Since my Tony (a pal from opera shule) was only two years younger, we dubbed him David Niven and a grand twosome was borne.

We played lovers, shared a house, meals and a car. It was a recipe for disaster yet we got along brilliantly. I actually lost my voice I laughed so much. Mix that with the fact that we shared the attention span of a challenged gnat, and we would get lost on our five-mile trip to rehearsal on a daily basis. But I ask you, how can you not love someone who upon seeing you after the first time you’ve driven in 15 years declares, “We have to find something scary for you to do every day because you’re beautiful right now.”

It was a recipe for disaster and it finally struck…a real beauty.

The creative team thought it a fantastic idea to have the two of us spazzes as the center couple in the “Somewhere” pas de six. This is not an easy feat, people. When we finally nailed it, with moves we coined “corkscrew,” “jesus on a stick” and “cooch smooch,” we actually wept for joy.

Two days later, we were calling the waahmbulance for a different reason.

Perhaps I’d had too much TaB. Perhaps he was frustrated because he missed his girlfriend and a pixie-faced pinhead was shackled to him 24/7. But we went for the first lift and he dropped me, muttering, “Stop running at me.”

Second lift? “Stop RUNNING at me.” Plop.

Third lift? A charming “I said STOP RUNNING at me.” As my skinny-ass feet slammed the floor for the third time, I looked at his bare shoulder (Why DO men wear wife-beaters?) and…

I bit him.

I actually bit him.

Did I miss kindergarten altogether?

With Noel Cowardesque repartee consisting of bon mots comme “The bitch bit me,” and “That fucker dropped me,” in front of a cast who had the desperate look of soon-to-be-orphans whose parents were not making it through their marriage alive, we were sent to our corners to await the decision.

It was a draw.

We still had to go home together…for another two weeks.

Scary.

As we approached the car, I murmured, “I’m really sorry I bit you, Matty.”

His response? “No…I’m sorry. I deserved it.”

Beautiful.

Ipso facto, I drove home with my de facto and David Niven and Bette Davis lived happily ever after.

For two more weeks.

Which for me is a long-term relationship.

Thanks for reading. It was nice to get these blatant analities off my chest. I am happy to report I never strike twice.