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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Drama / Human Interest
- Subject: Memory / Reminiscence
- Published: 01/07/2021
Don’t Call Me, Madam
Born 1955, M, from Manasquan, NJ, United States.jpeg)
Don’t Call Me, Madam
These were very heady times indeed. By the fall of 1992, we owned a real estate rental business with eight units, I was ascending to the peak of my career in the construction industry, we lived in a hundred year old, five bedroom Georgian Colonial with good bones but still a maintenance nightmare, and now that our youngest daughter was in second grade, Louise thought it’d be a good idea to re-enter the work force.
Neither moderation nor time management being my strong suit, it was probably my idea for our second grader to audition as a Munchkin in a local theater company’s fall production of ‘The Wizard of Oz’. Loading both girls in the truck, I drove to the high school auditorium, even though it was obvious the youngest wasn’t too sure about this. All it took was the director explaining she’d get to wear a tutu and lots of makeup, then she was all in and thrilled to get the part. Somehow while discussing the rehearsal schedule and agreeing to allow my daughter to wear theatrical makeup, I also agreed our seventh grader and I would audition for the company’s winter production of ‘Call Me Madam’. I remember thinking on the drive back home, The hell just happened in there?, and, In a span of less than fifteen minutes, we’ve become the local version of the Barrymore family! Our older daughter was involved in elementary school drama club, and along with building self esteem while encouraging her to read more, it also eased the transition to middle school. That was my talking point when I told my incredulous wife what I’d signed us up for.
‘The Wizard of Oz’ was a local hit, and our second grader killed it as a Munchkin. The only glitch on opening night occurred with the set. In a shoestring budget attempt at avian stage magic, the set designer rented an electric man-lift into which Dorothy would climb and raise herself up in swirls of fog mimicking a tornado. The designer was excited about this, his version of the helicopter scene in Broadway’s production of ‘Miss Saigon’. Knowing I was in the construction industry, he asked if the lift needed to be charged between rehearsals. I said no, but showed him the safety switch and turned it off, explaining how that not only saves the batteries but also prevents unauthorized use by mischievous Munchkins. On opening night, when Dorothy ran inside her cardboard farm and stage smoke began to rise but the house didn’t, I knew he’d forgotten to turn the switch back on. He never ask for any more advice after that.
I was actually awarded two roles in ‘Call Me Madam’: US Secretary of State and a foreign cabinet member, both of which were minor speaking parts and required me to wear my wedding tuxedo. Our seventh grader, already standing at 5’-6”, got a role as extra ballroom dancer. It was a pinnacle of fatherly pride to waltz around the stage with my mortified yet elegantly bejeweled middle schooler. There’d be plenty of time later to worry about her therapy bills.
The director and everyone in the cast understood I was the ‘newbie’ who’s never done anything like this before. I didn’t have to sing, except in the choruses when everyone sang, and my speaking parts were short and easy to remember. They fed off lines from the more prominent characters, all experienced local actors and singers. So on opening night when the tenor playing the part of Madam Secretary’s assistant forgot to say his line which was my cue to say mine, the only sound interrupting the silence was my heart pounding louder with each passing moment. Eventually one of the other actors in the scene, seeing the verbal logjam the tenor and I were stuck in, simply delivered her line and the play moved forward again. For those seven seconds though, it felt like I’d walked on stage without my pants.
There was initially some debate as to whether or not I needed a microphone like the principal actors, since the sound tech company charged more for each mic used. The director, however, insisted I wear one, even after I promised to shout my lines. When the ponytailed tech guy issued over a dozen numbered microphones during the dress rehearsal, he reminded us to be sure we took the same one for each performance. He also said to maintain a distance of at least two feet when exchanging lines, otherwise a high pitched squelch may catch him off guard at the soundboard.
‘Call Me Madam’ ran for one weekend, and Saturday evening’s show was the best. It sold the most tickets, and the simple jokes were met with peals of raucous laughter; more importantly from my perspective, nobody forgot a line. But in the final scene when I entered stage left to an ongoing cocktail reception with the entire cast, Madam Ambassador was supposed to greet me and hold my hands, grateful that I’d finally arrived. On this particular night, however, the buxom contralto decided to throw her arms around me in a bear hug, putting our active lapel mics mere inches apart. The resulting cacophony of buzzing and high pitched squealing, noise a peacock might make while undergoing electroshock therapy, caused the sound tech to rip off his headphones in an effort to save what little was left of his eardrums. From that point on, everybody’s lines sounded as though they were spoken under water, and for the chorus finale, the still dazed technician just turned everything off.
Our theater experience during that fall and winter was one of family bonding, and it truly felt great once it was over; in other words, ‘Call Me Madam’ was very similar to a root canal.
Still Bill
April 28, 2020
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