This is the twenty-fifth post from my NaNoWriMo Life Story Crafting project (find first post here). In the “12 Questions to Help Us Realize Our Potential,” it continues question six: “Tests, Allies, Enemies.” Name some tests you faced. Who were your (internal or external) allies? Who were your (internal or external) enemies? The “transformation” I chose to write about was how I came up with the Well-Being Toolbox.
I flinched a little at the Chicago Bears ad-libs that replaced my lines during the Thursday performance. But no self-respecting improv group could let a home-team Superbowl victory go unjoked upon. It completely disrupted the show’s tone, but the audience loved it, so, whatever…
Unfortunately, while there is no such thing as an Actors’ Equity director, Sheila was a card-carrying stage manager. And it’s the stage manager’s job to maintain both the director’s and the playwright’s intent throughout the run of the show. Changing blocking and lines were verboten. She told me she would be keeping the cast after the performance for notes and it would be a good idea if I didn’t stick around because none of this had to do with me.
I’d only been there that night because a couple of friends were coming and I thought it would be cool to hang out with the cast afterward. Oh, well.
I got a call from Sheila the morning the Trib review came out.
“Did you read the review yet?” Sheila asked.
“Yeah,” I said.
Sid Smith had mentioned that a parade of characters had it in for the victim but the question wasn’t so much whodunit as who cares?
“It actually says more good things about the production that we can use in pull quotes than the Sun-Times review,” I said.
“It was really unfortunate that the cast chose that night of all nights to go off book. I’m sorry about that.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Besides, the audience ate it up.”
“I know, but at the expense of all your suspense and pacing.”
“Or maybe he just doesn’t like whodunits. I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“Not especially. Doesn’t mean I can’t write one.”
“You are so weird.”
We went over the pull quotes from both the Sun-Times and Tribune reviews to suggest to Linnea for the first ad Players Workshop had run for any show they’d ever produced. We both agreed that the ad was probably superfluous because we were already selling out most performances at the tiny theater based on the title and the initial positive Sun-Times review. But it was something for our scrapbooks.
As I set the review aside and got back to the work I was paid to do, I thought of a third possibility for the review’s opening indifference. Maybe this is what happened when you bullied a critic into reviewing your show.
When I handed Linnea a copy of Escalators at the closing night party suggesting it as something we might do together in the future that could incorporate improv, she had a PTSD response. “Would you excuse me? I have to…” And she was gone.
Although both she and the cast had warmed to Sheila, maybe she hadn’t forgotten that this all began with me stepping on her producer’s toes by firing the company’s director, then proceeding to trample over the rest of her producer’s body by taking over virtually every other aspect of the production. Or maybe she wasn’t able to get the stain out of her opening night dress.
Sheila didn’t ask “What’s next?” because I’d already told her.
The week after Who Shot Captain Dark? closed, Sheila invited me to dinner.
Before she opened her copy of Stage Kiss, a romantic comedy three-hander, I’d written about a young couple who fall in love during a college theater production, then awkwardly meet years later during auditions for a professional show, Sheila seemed unusually positive.
“Before we start, I want you to know that you’re the most gifted playwright I’ve ever worked with.”
This was troublesome. We’d gotten as far as we had because I knew what to do with criticism. Praise should be reserved for putting asses in seats.
“And…” I said.
She smiled. “And I really love this play, but I have more notes than last time.”
We went through what you call a page one rewrite, where the notes for revision start on the first page, and don’t…ever…stop.
During dinner, Sheila’s husband made an observation. “So, Sheila’s been putting in quite a lot of time working with you, Bruce. Do you think it’s appropriate for you to start maybe paying her at some point?”
I paused before taking my next bite of food.
Sheila quickly stepped in. “There’ll be plenty of money down the road. Bruce is my ticket to Broadway.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. I lost my appetite.
It took me two weeks to completely rewrite Stage Kiss and set up a slot on the calendar to do a reading at Chicago Dramatists. Sheila was able to attract top-notch professional actors.
This time Greg called me on the Monday before the Saturday reading.
“So, I just got a call from Actors’ Equity telling me they were excited about working with Chicago Dramatists. I told them they must be mistaken, but where do you think they got that idea?”
“I guess from Sheila. She did an Equity staged reading of Who Shot Captain Dark? at Northlight.”
“Don’t you think you should have cleared it with me, first?”
“I haven’t seen you around here since the preview of my show. I put it on the schedule with Russ. He was okay with Sheila directing.”
Greg sighed. “Look, Bruce. We use Equity actors all the time. But we can’t afford to pay the actors at the Equity rate.”
I laughed. “It’s $25 per actor,” I said. “I’ve got three in my cast. I’ll pay them. They’re totally worth it.”
“You’re not getting the point. We’d have to pay them at that rate going forward.”
“I can have Sheila tell Equity that it’s a one-time thing. We’re just using the space. I can leave Chicago Dramatists out of it.”
“That’s not the way we do things,” he said. “What if three months from now they send a union rep to see a reading and we happen to have an Equity actor in the cast? You’d be ruining it for everyone.”
“That was not my intention,” I said.
“Look, I know you didn’t mean anything, and I hate to do this, but I’m going to have to cancel Saturday’s reading.”
“That’s two for two, dude!” I said.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve done two readings with Chicago Dramatists and you’ve canceled them both.”
“Bruce, it’s out of my hands.”
“Yeah, maybe it’s about time it should be.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I didn’t answer.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I hung up.
