This is the eleventh installment in a series of short essays inspired by the 22 Trump cards, featuring original artwork by Greg Erskine (Click and scroll down for large version).
Years ago when my sister Leah applied for a job as a bank teller, she was caught off guard by one of the interviewer’s questions: “What’s the craziest costume you’ve ever worn?” She figured it was just one of those insidious getting-to-know you questions meant to give insight into her character. Ever the good sport, my sister admitted to having been a bag of jelly-beans once, for Halloween. She got the job -- but instead of ending up at a regular bank like she’d expected, she was assigned to one embedded in the side of a Wal-Mart. She didn’t draw a connection back to the interview question until the day her boss sent her wandering up and down the aisles of the store with a giant sombrero on her head, handing out fliers for free checking accounts.
Surrendering control over one’s appearance to another party is an exercise in humility that few adults are willing to endure -- and with good reason. We’ve already wrenched that control away from our fanciful (if well-meaning) parents. We’ve outrun the image-obsessed peer pressure of high school. We’ve fought damn hard for the right to determine our own self-image, even those of us who rarely change out of our bathrobes. We curate ourselves like overpriced historical exhibitions, a conferring this responsibility requires a lot of trust; otherwise, you’re just letting someone trot you around in a funny Mexican hat in exchange for a paycheck, making everyone who looks at you feel very sad.
This fall I found out that a friend of mine who's an opera director was desperately looking for a tenor for his upcoming show. I’m not an opera singer by anyone's standard, let alone what you’d call a tenor. I average about a C+ on karaoke exams. I’m not even really an performer anymore; I abandoned the idea in my early twenties when I left Arizona, a place where the local community-theatre pond was much smaller and safer to paddle around in. All of these details are the basis for a very funny joke I decided to make, in which I sent Scott a message offering my services. Wouldn’t it be hilariously awful, I wrote, if you tried to pass me off as a real singer? Just imagine.
When I woke up the next morning, there were an emails from Scott containing a rehearsal schedule, a synopsis, and a full vocal score.
This was no classical piece, it turns out -- it was an original work of operatic satire written by a thrice-Grammy-nominated composer. The part Scott was desperately trying to cast was the titular “know-it-all, full-of-himself, sadomasochistically well-endowed hog” who flees the farm to become a famous painter. Rehearsals were to begin in five days. Opening night was in three weeks.
I felt ill, felt as if I’d accidentally swallowed some kind of poison bait. Just as I was about to induce vomiting, the phone rang -- Scott calling to follow up. Despite my misgivings I picked up, afraid that if I didn’t answer he might start showing up at my house.
I have to wonder sometimes if Scott's success as a director is completely owed to his supernaturally mellow voice and light, rational demeanor. He may have missed his calling as an obstetrician. “The conductor and I have agreed that having a trained singer in the role isn't important,” he reassured me. “An actor would be just fine -- someone who can dive into the character and keep up with the rhythm. You can just speak-sing all your lines, just like Rex Harrison in My Fair Lady!” Scott had directed me once, years ago, he reminded me. I'd been part of his chorus of horny sailors in a community-college rendition of South Pacific. He was charmed at the idea of working together once more, and seemed convinced that I could pull this off.
Also, the job would pay five hundred dollars.
I stalled at the edge of this decision quite miserably. I was terrified of humiliating myself and disappointing a friend -- maybe even ruining his career by casting permanent dispersions on his judgment. I'd have to seriously upset my work schedule to account for the show’s three-week run. And not least of all, I was intimidated by the costume, which would include, as he gently put it, “a full-body leotard and a fourteen-foot prosthetic dick.”
But then I remembered how wistful I get whenever I go to see a play. I always leave feeling so proud of the actors, and so jealous, remembering the excitement I used to feel onstage. I wasn't about to actually go out and audition for anything, but I’d always thought that if an opportunity ever “happened along,” I’d be game.
And again, five hundred dollars.
"I'll do it!" I said. I expected that once I committed to the project, I’d feel much more at ease; what happened instead was that I barely slept for the next three nights. Scott’s endless affirmations aside, I could not come to terms with the fact that I had accepted a lead role in an opera -- a sexually explicit one, no less. The only explanation for this seemed to be that I was mentally unstable and could no longer be trusted to care for myself. I lay awake those nights as if I was awaiting the executioner's axe, imagining the dismay my classically-trained cast members would feel the second I opened my mouth. The bewildered silence of the audience. The gleeful bitchiness of the theater critic. The sight of my thirty year-old, sedentary ass in pink spandex. For the first time since high school, I prayed for God to kill me and spare us all.
By the evening of the first rehearsal, I was definitely holding out hope that Scott would realize his error and replace me while there was still time. To my delight, everyone else in the cast seemed just as nervous as I was. A petite soprano named Melanie put me at ease by anguishing over how drastically under-prepared she was. “I’m going to be the person here who makes you feel much better about yourself,” she groaned as we prepared for the conductor’s signal. A moment later, she leapt into her part, singing gloriously and fearlessly through the opening scene. I couldn’t help feeling betrayed. All around me, voices braided in harmony, perfect to my ignorant ears. When it came time for the Pig to enter the farmyard, I growled and sneered through my lines like a good sport. It was as though I'd tracked mud into the music box, but nobody seemed to balk.
At the end of the night, our director gave us a pep talk. “I know this is scary, but we have no time to indulge in insecurity," Scott said in dulcet tones. "I guarantee you, veryone has something unique to contribute. At this point we all have to sort of drop our pants, look around, and get an idea of what we collectively have to work with.”
That evening he and I went costume shopping, hitting up Times Square's few remaining adult boutiques. He’d already rigged up a long coil of pink PVC hose to serve as my megafaunal shaft, he told me; now we just needed a way to anchor it to my body, and something to cap the end. And we must be very picky customers, as whatever we bought had to last the full run of the show. There were nothing left over in the budget for replacement “parts”.
After comparing several different strap-ons, both in and out of their boxes, Scott proclaimed a winner. He was afraid the black faux-leather belt might clash with my pretty pink leotard, but, he mused, it could always be painted to match. I eyed the thing begrudgingly. “Scott, the belt has a vagina,” I complained, pointing out the easy-access gap positioned just below the nubby dildo attachment. “It’s made for a woman. Don’t you think it’s going to look… well, strange on my body?”
“Oh, it’s going to look strange all right,” he grinned, lapping up my discomfort. He held up a round magenta knob from a nearby bin. “How about this for the end? I want it to be something that fits in your mouth, in case we work that into the blocking. You know, for when they gag you during the trial!” I weakly admitted that I could probably manage to make it work. No doubt impressed by Scott’s natural air of authority, a passerby interrupted us to ask for recommendations. “For my wife,” the old man clarified, “...She likes ‘em pretty big.” My acting may be pretty rusty, but I still know an exit cue when I hear one.
The next evening I came to the studio early to try on my stretchy pink leotard. It had little pajama footies at the bottom and a zipper up the back, and was just close enough to the color of my actual skin to make me look strangely naked, like a carcass in a butcher shop. “You’re going to have to wear different underwear,” Scott observed. Looking down, I could see my dark briefs showing through, the seams standing out in bas-relief, like welts. I might as well have been wearing them on the outside.
Hearing voices approaching in the hall, I began struggling back into my clothes. “I just need a minute to change before everyone comes in!” I grunted. “I think you’ve misunderstood,” said Scott. “From now on, this is your rehearsal gear.” He tossed me two pairs of black socks to cover my hands and feet -- my “hooves” -- and then opened the door to let the others in. My humiliation lasted only as long as it took for the rest of the costumes to be passed out; there were enough udders, frilly tutus and rubber animal noses flying around that I managed, even in my preposterous state, to blend in.
Over the next two weeks I struggled to grow into my costume; I figured out exactly how to spool my cumbersome yards-long hose over one shoulder so that it would unroll from my groin in perfectly flaccid coils. I learned how to adjust the cords of the nightmarish strap-on belt so that everything looked… well, symmetrical at least. In the final scene, after the Pig was slain by the greedy Farmer, I had just a few seconds backstage to wriggle into an enormous pair of feathery wings, re-emerging as a filthy porcine angel. I got through these rehearsals by pretending I’d been cast in a John Waters movie, where there were no rewards for a half-hearted or self-conscious performance: only through an unwavering commitment to pure nonsense would I be redeemed.
It was in this spirit that I decided to perform a little surgery on my crotchless strap-on garment, counterbalancing its feminine construction with a huge set of fuzzy pink testicles. Crafted from a three-dollar pair of ankle socks and pinned dangerously close to my real anatomy, I had to admit that the balls were quite eye-catching -- a final absurd touch which I hoped would give me an extra boost of confidence on opening night when I finally faced the firing squad. I submitted my new junk to Scott for director-approval.“Those are… well, they’re really out there!” he said. If even he seemed doubtful, I knew I had to be on the right track.
As I crouched behind a dark curtain on opening night, awaiting my cue from the orchestra, I practiced blocking the audience from my mind entirely. I planned to go onstage as if I was diving into cold water; I'd jump, swim to the edge in a panic as soon as I landed, and get out as fast as I could. And then I'd cover up with a towel.
When the moment arrived, I held my breath and walked out onstage. Instantly there was a brief pause as air was sucked out of the room by gasps, followed by a whoosh of laughter as it was exhaled. Laughter! I'd been taking my dilemma so seriously, I totally forgot there would be laughter. When the Farmer yanked my schlong out of my hoof-hands and unrolled it so that the chorus-girls could use it as a jump rope, the hoots from the crowd drowned out whatever inhibitions I had left, like a balm spreading over my brain. It ought to have been the ultimate humiliation (by my mother’s standards it probably still is) but my fears of exposure were laughable as well. I was invisible -- my real persona was perfectly hidden behind a veil of snout and fuzzy balls and gravelly pig-voice, to the point that I vanished utterly the moment eyes were laid upon me. It was, after all, just as Scott promised. All they saw was the cartoon, not the screen it appeared on.
The spell only lasted as long as the performance itself. During the audience meet-and-greet after the curtain, I received heartfelt congratulations from my friends, but among the lingering strangers there were few who could look me in the face; everywhere I looked I saw eyes skim over and past me, smiles shyly averted. Crap, I thought. Without the "magic of the theatre" lending credibility to my skinny shanks and unforgivable protuberance, I realized, it had turned out to be just another one of those sombrero moments after all.
No comments:
Post a Comment