ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 40
That's my cue. A mini-prayer and a reassuring push from my right foot
sends me on stage, into the world of ultimate self-consciousness. I'm tempted
to check my zipper again. Adrenalin runs faster than blood on stage. A bunch
of it fills my stomach drowning all but a few butterflies. God, I feel good!
That audience cheers as I come into view. The kind-hearted bench
warmer was introduced in the beginning as the hero. Somewhere in my
head, amongst all the fear of humiliation, the awareness of all those people
looking at me, and yearning for the end of the play-somewhere are my lines.
Here comes one now.
"Excuse me," I say, kind-heartedly, "May I come in? The father eagerly
welcomes me. I am their only hope in stopping this beast. Only I know the
secrets ofhis past deeds. If only I had the courage to bring these secrets into
the light and confess my love towards Mimi. But ifI do either, Bart will put
Freddy through a wall.
Fearing Bart, Freddy chickens out and I explain that there is nothing
I can do to help them. Mimi comforts me. Now the dialogue is between the
father and Bart. A few last futile pleas upon unsympathetic ears. In a few
moments Freddy will find courage and I will remove the comb from my
pocket. It is the comb from Bart's questionable past. This will get a laugh.
I do have the comb, don't I? Back stage I took everything else out. Did
I put the comb back? The butterflies leave the stomachs of everyone else on
stage in order to fulfill the demands of mine. Visions of reaching into my
pocket and pulling out a pinch of lint fill my head. If the comb isn't there, I'll
have to improvise the scene.
That won't be hard, I've been covering up mistakes like this all my life.
But do I need to? Must I take the time to plan out an improvisation and risk
forgetting my real lines?
God? Have I got my comb? Hello?
I've got to check. I've got to know it's there so I can stop thinking about
it. I've got to know ifI will need to improvise the scene without the comb or
go ahead with the intended lines. (Whatever they are.) But my left hand is
around Lisa and my right hand is slowly rubbing my chin. It's in the script.
I'm too far down stage and everyone else is holding too still. One little move
from me and the attention will shift. The punishment for upstaging is death
by firing squad. Inner panic sets in.
Time to get creative. The moment Bart moves down stage for his final
speech of bad intentions, I'll slowly take my left hand from around Lisa's
shoulder and brush it against my pocket feeling for the comb.
"Why?" sobs Mother.
"Why, you ask?" Bart begins his speech as he moves down stage. "Why
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