The Anguish of an Unrecognized Talent

______________________________________________________

Notice

         Due to a an unscheduled leave of absence for a certain cast member, the part of the “Assistant Duke” will be played by rotating personnel from the cleaning crew for the remaining performances of the production.

 _____________________________________________________

Fresh from my triumph treading the boards as the “Dumb Waiter” in the Metro-West Chamber of Commerce presentation of  Quadruple Entendre…And Then Some!, I stumbled into a supporting role in the office production of The Duke, the Duchess, and the Dope.

I was tasked with interpreting afresh the vital character of the Assistant Duke, often played too broadly or too narrowly, or sometimes, too hot, or too cold, instead of just right. I rose to the challenge of giving life to a fictitious being so often given short shrift, and to do so in the company of lackluster colleagues, many new to the world of the thespian arts. As luck would have it, my boss was cast as the Duchess. Some lackey from marketing played the Dope, and various no-name types from accounts receivable rounded out the dramatis personae as townsfolk and miscellaneous lepers.

We had rehearsed for weeks wherever we could find space:  the copy room, or the adjacent half-kitchen -- squeezed in amongst the carcinogenic sweeteners adorning the countertops and the “tree” of exotic coffees compressed into little testosterone-killing plastic tubs a penny toss from the microwave. Lost in our concentration, we would block scene after scene for who-knows-how-long without a soul pausing to dip into the over-sized bowl of stale pretzels.

After previewing the show for the cleaning crew and other denizens of the sub-basement, and after cutting a few of the draggier musical numbers, like “I’m as Corny as Alfalfa,” we were ready for the big time, to wit: the freshly re-carpeted auditorium of the Abraham Lincoln Middle School. 

The first two performances nearly filled the 110-seat hall to capacity. No surprise. The reviews from the Rotarian newsletter -- overlooking the foibles of the lesser players in our midst -- were outstanding: “This show is a harmless way to kill two hours and the tickets are cheap” was just one of the many glowing superlatives that found its way to print.

By the third night, we could be forgiven for feeling entitled to reap the harvest  of accolades cascading from the Fourth Estate. Could this mean box office gold? Even the make-up lady’s penchant for overly-liberal appliques of rouge (making the players all look like Raggedy Annes and Raggedy Andys on steroids) could not dampen our esprit de corps.

But something that had happened at the office earlier on the morning after the second night’s performance had been distracting me all day: I had asked Walter to replenish the staples in my stapler, and he just snapped like a man consumed with hatred of mechanical wire fasteners, screaming at me, “Do I look like a stapler replenisher to you!? Well, do I!?” 

Everyone has their hair trigger; this was his.

Before I had the chance to reply, “Well, kinda, yes,” he was out the door and down the hall, smashing the water cooler angrily with his two good hands and muttering expletives. 

Though Walter did not exactly report to me, or even work in the same department, or on the same floor, he was, technically, my junior, given that he had been at the company three weeks fewer than had I, and his office was smaller by 1 and 1/8 square feet. I was, therefore, stunned by his rogue display of insubordination.  In fact, I began to obsess over it.

I was still obsessing over it later that night prior to the next performance of the “Duke,” and then, all throughout vocal warm-ups backstage, and continuing through the overture pulsating from the electric piano in the orchestra “pit.” (In actuality, this consisted of a few seats roped off in the front row reserved for the part-time organist from the minor league ball park. So skilled was our concertmaster with his electric “ensemble” that he could cause it to mimic 27 different musical instruments and to make metallic-sounding voices that were supposed to put one in mind of the Vienna Boys Choir, but mostly sounded like car alarms whose batteries were dying in dulcet tones).

I was still obsessing over it all throughout Act I, even at the moment when the entire cast was supposed to effect a goofy grin, slap their foreheads in unison and shout “Oy Vey!” (always a riotous crowd pleaser).

Indeed, so shaken had I become by Walter’s crude bent towards usurpation of the workplace hierarchy that I was now fully in the grips of fixation.  My cast mates, deaf to my inner turmoil, ploughed on unawares.  They were to be forgiven.  After all, how could they feel my pain? They had not witnessed the whole sordid stapler affair and knew nothing of the revenge fantasies playing out in my head.

By now it was the second scene of Act II during my boss’ character’s big solo – a mini operetta in which she was to sing to the character of the Dope with the memorable refrain:  “You are such a Dope!”  I wasn’t supposed to be out of the wings until after the conclusion of the number, immediately following the Dope’s line, “Begging pardon, Majesty, I was born that way!”

But still lost in my trance,  I wandered onto center stage just as my boss as the Duchess was belting out the lyric: “I am sick of your amateurism/ You will give me an aneurysm!” (one of the show’s many thrilling denouements!).

As soon as my boss saw me straying from the script and invading the mise en scene, wearing a vacant stare like a pair of familiar fleece undergarments,  she stopped singing. Cold. Right in the middle of the song. There was a kind of hush all over the room that night.

In fact, there was so much silence that one could hear the patrons fiddling with candy wrappers, discussing their children's prowess on the soccer field, and texting – sounds typically drowned out by the actors’ dialogue.  My boss gave me a look.  I had seen it in every other community theatrical production in which I had ever participated. I knew that look.  It was the look that said:  “Idiot!  What are you doing on the stage!? Get off!  Get Off!  You’re not even in costume! You’re ruining everything!  Get Off, now!”

Relying on some primordial dramatist’s instinct, summoned, perhaps, from a past-life stint as a journeyman in an ancient Greek chorus, I did what I had always done in these situations; I improvised a few lines.

“What seems to be the fuss here, M’lady?”

I delivered this line with a stage wink, hoping against hope that my boss would pick up on my subtle cue. She was cueless. 

She continued to glower at me.  I turned to the hapless junior executive from sales playing the part of the Dope.

“I heard yelling.  What gives, Imbecile?” 

He just froze like a je ne sais qois  caught in the headlights.  He simply didn’t have the acumen to think on his feet.  I turned back to my boss (a/k/a the “Duchess”):

“Who’s hungry?  How ‘bout a sandwich?”

Nothing.

She walked up to me and whispered in my ear: “Are you out of your mind!?  Get off the stage! Stop being a jerk!  You’re ruining the whole show!”

I sized up the situation quickly, and thought:  ‘Hmmm. You may be my boss in the office, but here on this stage, I am the Assistant Duke and you are just the Duchess. In this show, you are not the boss of me!  I am the boss of you!  Or, if not the boss of you, then at least, assistant to the boss of you!’”

Just as I was about to speak my latest improvisation:  “You are not the boss of me!” some klutz in the lighting booth tripped, and the entire theater was plunged into darkness. Then I heard a loudmouth coughing into a microphone about waiting for the lights to come up before heading for the doors. But the exodus was already well in progress.

I was asked to leave the show that night.  The vote was unanimous. 

The scuttlebutt on the street is that the rank amateurs who stayed on with the production and forced me out are so blinded by self-adulation, so enamored with their own mediocre talent, that they haven’t even noticed the precipitous drop in quality since my departure. It would not surprise me one whit were the show to close before completing its scheduled nine-performance run, and its backers to suffer a loss. Outrageous, indeed, are the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  But, that's life; you're riding high in April, shot down in May.

Me? I’m planning to audition for the upcoming extravaganza: Flummoxed, the Musical. Maybe this time, we can assemble a team of real professionals, class acts who take their craft seriously, who can roll with the punches, and who know the appropriate response to  the call of their muse or an improvised line now and again.

Heaven knows, the community deserves it.