Wanted
Story
Wendy Ames
Wanted: Male for non-speaking role in Afrikaans lunch hour play.
The casting notice was brief and to the point. No hyperbole. No promise
of instant stardom. The part didn't sound like much but then who knew? Great
careers had been launched by less. Probably a walk on. Pity they want
a man, I thought as I made my way to the photographic studio at the
top of the theatre.
The call to fame came several hours later when I was happily pushing a
top model
round a developing tray in the darkroom. Actually it was more like a
panic stricken squawk crackling through the intercom. (Was Sarah Bernhardt
ever summoned thus?) What was I doing? Could I come down to the main
theatre IMMEDIATELY! The natural response would be to ask why but this
merely provoked a flurry of incomprehensible shrieks. Never mind the
details. It's my big chance, I thought as I tore down the rickety
stairs.
Several pairs of eyes assessed me as I scurried past the rows of empty
seats in the dusty theatre. By the time I reached the stage the die had
been cast or rather I had. Desperation had won over sexual preference
(non-speaking male?) and literally anyone would do.
Time was pressing, the audience was queuing up at the box office, so
the niceties of discussing the role or even telling me what the play
was about were ignored. I was thrust onto a bed, covered with a sheet,
told I was playing the dead father, exhorted not to move under any
circumstances and abandoned to my fate.
To say I lay quivering under my slightly smelly shroud would be to
overstate the case although I do confess to a momentary frisson as I heard
the audience dribbling in. The play was being performed in the round
which meant that there were no friendly curtains to hide behind. It
also meant that the people in the front row could tickle my toes if they
wished. The pressure was on. As a newly cast corpse I couldn't risk the
slightest twitch.
The house lights dimmed and we were off. At least a pair of angry
sounding Afrikaans actors were, while I lay doggo and relaxed into my role.
Surprisingly enough it wasn't long before I was taking a lively (so to
speak) interest in the play.
Since I didn't understand a word of the language I was dependent upon
the tone of the voices (increasingly harsh) and the actions (mysterious
thuds and crashes) to interpret the plot.
Just when I began to think what a lark it all was, one of the actors
lifted the sheet and gawked at me. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Whatever next? I wondered nervously. I didn't have long to wait. A few
minutes later somebody jumped onto the bed and rolled around on top of me.
It was heart attack time. What kind of play was this? Corpsing took on
a whole new meaning as I tried to quell the quivers.
Things settled down above and below the sheet and finally interval
arrived. Dared I shift my position to ease the ache in my elbows? Better
not. After all I was in full view of my public and someone might be
watching for just such a lapse.
We were well into the second half when it happened. The itch on my left
foot. Mind over matter, I thought. I can beat this. Did I have a
choice? I fell to wondering what would happen if the corpse was to leap
out of bed and have the most wonderful, marvellous, agony-relieving
scratch. Don't worry I didn't. Imagine what the critics would have said!
The torment miraculously subsided and I noticed that the play was
gathering pace. Judging from the tremendous furor taking place around me,
emotions were running high. The denouement is approaching, I told
myself. It was. Suddenly a plump and understandably sweaty actress drew the
sheet aside and leapt into bed with me. What this signified in the
greater scheme of things I cannot tell but as she lay panting by my side I
relinquished all plans for an acting career.
Paying one's dues was one thing but playing a stiff was enough to scare
a girl to death.
Wanted© COPYRIGHT 2005 Wendy Ames .
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
06/22/05
