“Off book by Monday, people!” Director Lady hollers across the stage, though I’m not certain all of the players hear. I barely hear, because I’m once again functioning three sentences behind what’s being said.
Maybe they’re distracted by their phones or the clamshell packages of cookies laid out for sustenance. I know my eyes have landed on those cookies a few times tonight, but my stomach is in knots, so I stick with the popcorn I fish from my bag.
I brought my notebook tonight for use during downtime. I’m pleased when a loose outline for the blog takes shape. Staring at a blank page, whether or not it has a blinking cursor, is never fun.
I’m less pleased with my use of the notebook for problem-solving endeavors and give up trying when I hear that “off book” announcement.
My roles for the current show are small. Two of my three bits are memorized—the one that’s left is doable by Monday. So this isn’t the hang-up my brain latches onto with the “off book” deadline.
I think back to nine months ago when I didn’t know terms like cut sheets, off book, or stage left (still have trouble with this one).
During those early practices, I learned off book felt like someone just took your binky away. And your favorite blanket. And no, you can’t have your coping chocolate right now, either.
It doesn’t mean you’re sunk if you don’t have everything nailed down, though. If you stumble, you can say, “Line,” and the director gives you a nudge. A few words here or there, or the whole line if your whole brain went offline.
I gave myself a personal challenge not to ask for lines. My part was small for that show, too, and that privilege (that I named all by myself) belonged to those who had bigger roles with more complicated syntax.
That, and I hate asking for help.
But tonight? I’m kinda wishin’ for someone to sit in front of me as I pretend to know what I’m doing. Tell me where to stand. What to do. What to say.
Not for community theater time, but for all the other hours in the waking day.
Because life has gone off book, so to speak, yanked the script right out of my hands, leaving me woefully inadequate to perform this version of adulthood.
Busted rotator cuff? “Line!”
Director Entity, sighing, “Book the Back Guy and keep the appointment. Make that multiple appointments.”
Estate chaos? “Line!”
Director Entity, rubs brow and says, “Realtor, insurance, and then the coping chocolate.”
Standing in the grocery store aisle, overwhelmed by seven brands of coping chocolate? “Line!”
Director Entity, shuffling to the proper spot in the script, “Grab the one on sale—no, not that one, the other—.” The director catches a glimpse of the next scene. “Never mind, buy both.”
Little Miss Muse, who’s shown more patience in the last few months than I knew her to be capable of giving, lights next to my notes. I glance around the theater. No one else knows she’s here, hovering around. She’s with me all the time, and I hope I do a decent job of keeping her in line, lest theater buddies exit stage right and make a few phone calls on my behalf.
“I could play the role of Director Entity. Cast me! Cast me!”
“Shhh…” I don’t think folks can hear her, but they are theater people, who tend to be a bit more in tune with the whimsical, so I do begin to worry. “That would be such a bad idea.”
“Why?” She flies away, grabs a cookie from the clam shell, and crams it into the waist of her tutu, spreading crumbs all over the floor and my notebook on her return.
“Stop it!”
“Beth stands in the writing office, not sure which project to start with first and yells, ‘Line!’ I reply in my best Martin Scorsese voice, ‘the one that’s the closest to being finished.’ See? Like that.”
I roll my eyes. Then I wince because it appears for all the world that I’m rolling my eyes at a fellow cast member. Oops.
She flits to the other side of the notebook, sending my pen to the floor. “Beth has an impending deadline and life chaos at the same time and yells, ‘Line!’ This time I can be Speilburg. ‘Chaos will always be, hit the deadline.’ See? I got you.”
I stuff more popcorn in my mouth as she starts dancing on the table all over people’s scripts, hoping my chomping and crackling wrapper drowns out the sound of her purple stilettos.
“Or would you prefer a little Quentin Toratino? A little more—”
“Oh, no!” She slumps into a pile of cookie crumbs to pout.
I close my eyes and try to push aside the impending chaos, looming deadlines, and more off-book muse-tainted antics than I can juggle.
“Line,” I whisper, but no one hears.
No one but her.
She brushes her tutu and pushes the curls out of her face. Squares her chonky shoulders. “Pick up your pen,” she says. “We write the next lines ourselves.”
