July 25, 1999
I had been assigned a window seat on the flight to my hometown but gave it up so a pair of young brothers could sit together. My new seat was a center seat between a mother and daughter. I thought it was odd that the mother and daughter had been separated but I quickly learned the reason. The girl was thirteen and chatty. Her mother blissfully, and most likely premeditatively, asleep within ten minutes of takeoff. I was on my own with the girl.
The flight only took 2 1/2 hours but felt like 12. I just kept smiling as the excited teen repeatedly pointed out tiny ponds and exclaimed "There's Lake Michigan!" I had been hoping to reflect on my life during the flight, as I was traveling to my home town and had not been there in ten years. I wanted to think about my old friends, and those experiences and events that we had shared. Instead I heard all about aunts, cousins, and church groups that were a part of the life of the young girl sitting beside me.
The trip by car from the airport made reflection inevitable. I was driven past the old shops, my childhood house, and, of course, my high school. My dear friend pulled into the parking lot and excitedly said, "Wanna go in?" I suddenly desired nothing more than to walk those halls.
We parked in the teacher's parking lot (we are both alumni and teachers and therefore felt completely entitled) and boldly stepped into the north entrance lobby. There were the stairs to the left where we had waited countless times for our rides. There was the bulletin board on the right that I 'm not sure anyone ever read, although this time I made a point to read it.
I wasn't really prepared for what came next.
We followed the tiny corridor that turned right and left and there it was. The pair of doors that allowed for movement of large sets, equipment, and construction materials were open, and I could see into the theatre. It took us two seconds to decide to enter.
From the moment my foot hit that wooden floor, and I sensed the velvet curtained walls, time started reeling backward. I saw audience members in the graduated auditorium seats. I heard the voice of our director, along with the general din of the company. I smelled the somewhat heavier air and the scent of sawdust. I walked out toward center stage, and I was fifteen again. An overwhelming sensation of speaking, singing, and dancing filled my body and tears welled in my eyes. I stood for a few seconds and then walked over to the stage left stairs. I wanted to be immersed in it, and I went down the stairs and to the front row of seats. I sat and looked at that stage, recalling all I gave and how much more I received for the experience.
I wanted to see the auditorium from the highest vantage point, and started walking up the left side aisle. On each step up I was in character again, remembering the time I ran up the stairs singing, only to run out into the lobby, down the hallway stairs and around the outside of the theatre to make a stage right entrance. The tears of so many emotions were now running freely down my cheeks.
It all came to an abrupt stop. Some voice came from behind, with a very common and unsympathetic, "Can I help you?" Snapped back to the present I wiped my tears and turned. I said simply, " I am an alumni, and I just wanted to look around. Is the lobby upstairs open?" But the man standing there, the small, small man, took no interest. He said that we needed to go sign in the main office, and did not care to know anything more about us. I walked back down those stairs, actually shaken, feeling my precious memories blow away from me like scattered confetti. No sooner had I begun to remember a large part of myself than someone was interrupting again. Signing in was not necessary. My moment was clearly over. I wanted to leave.
But we signed in. We had to, because that small man followed us. We appeased the small man that practically chased us out of the theatre. The secretarial staff in the main office were confused at first and then unconcerned. They took our names, seemingly more to make us go away than because they felt they needed them. They also seemed to be laughing at the paranoia of the small man, but the minor ridicule didn't make me feel better.
Our last stop was the wall outside the theatre. There was a big plaque there, with the names and dates of best actors/actresses and technicians. I was Best Actress there for two years, but the plaque began the year I left. My name is not there.
We walked out and drove away, at first discussing our plans for the rest of the day. After several minutes I expressed my hurt feelings about what initially felt like a ruined experience. We discussed our mutual deep loathing for the small man. My friend offered to go back. There was no need. The smalls of the world don't win anything in situations like these. And as for plaques, they neither exalt nor belittle. The magic of theatre occurs somewhere in the soul, permanently engraved, and eminently unreachable by any small person.
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Please! I want to know more! Aimee and I met when I did makeup for a play she was in during our sophomore year of high school. The first thing she remembers about me is when I said to her, "I know you hate this, but..." and then I smeared pancake makeup all over her face. Hey, who said I was a professional? We used to make up pom pom routines when I spent the night at her house. She was on poms. I tried out three times, but never made it. We wore matching outfits to school, and would seethe when people made fun of us. Aimee moved to Tampa, Florida the summer before our senior year of high school, where she still lives today. |
