"Hi Stephanie," said an actor from BWC over the phone. "I have a gig for you."
I got excited because he was also a talent agent. I was completely flattered that he would think of me for a gig! And I was excited. Audibly excited. This had been a great day. The weather was gorgeous. I had had two job interviews that went exquisitely. I treated myself to breakfast at Nookie's and I spent some time reading Derrick Brown in my favorite park. Now this! A gig! Oh boy!
"Are you free on Monday night?" Hmmm...well, I had a rehearsal with my new independent improv team Ben Franklin Presents and I really love those rehearsals...but if I got this gig and it was paid, then I should do this. This could be good for my career.
I said, "I believe so." And then he continued to tell me that a talent agent passed away and they wanted to do a memorial at The Apollo, where I work for BWC, and they needed a stage manager. My heart sunk. Oh. That's right. I'm a writer and an actor. But to him I'm a stage manager and that is literally the only place and time I'm ever a stage manager. And then I remember that it's not a rehearsal I have on Monday - it's Ben Franklin Presents' first show. But How do I possibly get out of this event now?
My BWC boss and colleague found out about the event and tried to explain, to my surprise, that I was not really a stage manager and that lights for BWC are pre-set so really I just push buttons when I'm in the booth. But the actor/agent insisted that I am a stage manager. I got a call from him asking me to tell them that I can do it because, "All it is is lights and sound which, to my knowledge, is what you do for BWC." This is why actors need to also learn tech...tech people are NOT magicians.
To make matters worse the hours got extended from 6-9, to 5-11. Great. I can't get there at 5! I told them this and they said, "get here when you can." God damnit.
There's just no way I can so "no" to this thing. My sympathy ultimately wouldn't let me be that inconsiderate. Every opportunity I had to flat-out say "can't make it" or "I have a show" or "I don't know how", I swept aside after talking to them. With a sigh I said, "I'll keep Monday night free. I'll be there if you need me."
I get there and I'm joined in the booth by a rather ridiculous and narcissistic "rockstar" couple as well as a guy who my BWC colleague warned me "seems to hate women". I am twenty years younger than all these people, but I'm the only one who knows what to do. Suddenly I take over. I know how to do everything and really they should have had me do audio and lights.
The memorial is really sweet. I never met this man, but it's amazing how this memorial started to make me feel like I had. Like I could feel his presence the way these people all did. You can really get the picture of the person. I started to imagine I knew what he was like, too. His warmth, his smile, his casual wardrobe. Seeing all the pictures started to make me feel that sweet sadness funeral pictures bring. "Ah yes," my teary eyes would smile, "That is what he looked like!"
But then the facilitators of this memorial opened the floor to any friends who wanted to speak.
"Oh no," I thought. "These are actors...they will all want to speak." And they did. For an hour and forty minutes. To be honest, most of them felt like monologues. With each Oscar-attempt at a eulogy, I found my sympathy eradicate. Did they hear themselves? Did they hear how...false this sounded? I hate to say that, but truly, it seemed that way and it seemed that way for one obvious reason. Almost all their sentences started with the words "I" or "my career". We get it! We know that he helped your career. That was his job! But a person is never their job. Talk about his humor, his laugh, something funny he told you, a time he gave you advice, a funny outfit he wore. Anything that doesn't have to do with the commercials you booked or how you moved to LA or whatever the fuck. Who cares? You. Only you care.
There was name-dropping happening. It began to really infuriate me. It made me furious the way that when Second City teacher Mary Scruggs died a teammate on Peach of the Neighborhood joked that he would go to the funeral to network. It just was not appropriate in the same way that I felt this was not appropriate. But this was what almost everyone was doing. I'd say 25 people spoke and 5 were the exception to the "my career" stories.
I started to feel disgust for these people. This business. I felt defensive about the man and his family and felt like people were not paying him enough respect. They were just patting themselves on the back and thanking him for getting them where they are today. That's an award speech. Not a memorial.
Then an actor - in a spiffy suit who had been waiting to speak so I knew he was the showy kind, the one who would do some stunt and an uber-emotional yet phony-sounding speech (and I was 100% right) - came onstage and said, "Stage Management! Can we turn up the house lights?" Well...the lights were pre-set because they are for BWC. I could only turn up house lights and darken his light on stage. Instinctively, being annoyed he was asking me to do this by calling me 'stage management', I shouted, "no." The rockstars in the booth said, "yeah, you can" so I pressed the button and everyone laughed in relief at the drastic lighting change.
Everyone ate it up, though. So I began to feel bad. This whole thing was such a sweet gesture. This is the kind of thing I'd be weeping about if it was at a family or friend's funeral. If this had happened at Mrs. Griffin's funeral, we would have been there for five hours and I would have been crying all the way through. Yet I felt disdain. I was that audience member that said "oh, I don't believe you" as they acted on stage.
And really - was I much different? I'm the one who assumed it was a gig that highlighted my clear and obvious talents. That was silly. The guy who called me had never seen me perform. He certainly never read my plays. He probably didn't know I did anything aside from holding a walkie talkie every Friday night at for Baby Wants Candy. In the end, I was no different.
No comments:
Post a Comment