The B**ch Goddess

 

Today was a day of hooky, partly to recover from a lingering cough, partly to prepare for OPENING NIGHT, which is tonight, and partly because I get ten sick days in a year and I’ve only used three so far.  I lounged on the couch like a woman of leisure, cooked a fabulous omelette lunch, watched Sex and the City, and communed with my kitten (who is beginning to forget I live here).  It was great.  In less than half an hour I’ll be packing up the car with all my necessaries in order to head out to the theatre for our first show.  We have a house of 200 so far, not including the walk-ups, which is pretty big for a Thursday opening night.  I’m a little nervous, a little excited, but mostly relaxed and ready to be awesome.

 

Aaaah, the b**ch goddess, as my college director calls theatre – it has me in its thrall.  The backstage air of restless energy, waiting for the house to fill – the frantic costume changes, where you feel like your life depends on getting that damn wig on in 30 seconds or less – the big mistakes onstage that always happen, and you wait without breathing til someone finds a way to fix the problem.  It’s a rush, I tell you, pure adrenaline, and I love it all.  In one scene of this play, the lead character (the madam of the whorehouse where I play a whore) is supposed to fire this shotgun and scatter a mob of angry townspeople.  It’s loaded with a blank, it’s handed to her, and she cocks it and fires it into the crowd of chanting hecklers (who are standing in the audience).  Last night at final dress rehearsal, she could not get the damn thing cocked.  She tried and tried and tried, meanwhile the hecklers keep chanting and looking at each other uncomfortably, and we whores just stand there, not knowing how to help her.  Nothing can really happen til this gun fires – and she can’t just say "Bang" . . .  What to do?  I don’t know what I would have done, but she stopped, looked around the stage, and ad libbed "Well, I’m just gonna have to get one of these band boys to cock this damn gun, ain’t I?"   She handed the gun to the guitarist, who gamely cocked the thing and handed it back.  Everyone in the audience (which was small, it was just rehearsal) breathed a sigh of relief, and all of us whores let out a cheer.  It’s those moments I love, when the balance of the play hangs on one moment and somebody has to think of a way to move it forward.  It ain’t life or death (though sometimes being in a bad show feels like you’re dying), but it is exciting, and risky.  I don’t know what the b**ch goddess is gonna throw at us tonight – faulty mikes are always a possibility, as are missed entrances, and costume hangups, and flubbed lines – but whatever it is, after 8 long weeks of rehearsal, I know we can take it, break it, shape it, and make art out of it.  Wish me a broken leg – – –