in & Tonic by Melody Murphy
Scarred for Life
I
had the delightful experience recently of appearing in the charming musical comedy Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up?, which is about a group of kids (played by adults) growing up in Catholic school in the 1950s and ‘60s There is a wonderful scene in which poor awkward, nerdy Louie can’t muster the nerve to ask his crush to dance at the freshman mixer. Louie cannot get out the words, “Do you want to dance?”, but can only stammer, “Do, uh... do, uh...”—until it turns into a dream sequence and launches into the rousing doo-wop number “Doo-Wah, Doo-Wee.” In Louie’s daydream, he is, of course, the star. And, being the late 1950s, the star is, of course, a suave Elvis-like figure. As soon as Louie dons a golden sport coat and a pair of dark sunglasses, takes center stage, grabs the mic stand, and begins to croon, all the girls go insane. They scream like hysterical groupies and launch themselves at him, ending up in an adoring semicircle at his feet to sing backup harmonies and scream some more and just basically carry on throughout the song as if their faculties have left them. When we were blocking the number, the director, a dear friend, had a musing look on his face. I know that look. Interesting requests follow that look. Then he asked me if I could possibly take a running leap and
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slide into home, so to speak, skidding across the stage on one knee and landing at Louie’s feet. “Of course,” I said. That is the only proper answer. It will be funny as all get-out, so: Of course. I have another director-friend who once said, with great pride, “She’ll do anything for a laugh.” That is basically true. (On stage, at least.) If it’s funny and pretty much guaranteed to get a laugh out of an audience, I’ll die trying. The slide was a great success, and great fun. Once we got our costumes, it was even easier with a layer of poodle skirt and crinoline for padding. Every night it got a laugh, and every night I managed to skid a little farther across the stage, until some of the crew thought I might go flying right into the wings. Until the last Saturday. I do not know what happened, but either I slid differently, or my skirt flew up, or I landed on the scratchy part of the crinoline. Something changed. I did not feel it at the time, because when you are onstage, your adrenaline takes over. But when I got back to my dressing room and was hurrying to change costumes for my next song, I took off my skirt and looked down— and saw a giant hole ripped in my pantyhose and a huge, copiously bleeding scrape across my knee. I shrieked. The other girls
rushed over to see. And then I said, “Awesome! I’ll have a scar!” I wasn’t being facetious. We theatre people love our battle scars. We relish a war wound. We take great pride in injuries sustained in the spotlight. Nothing pleases us more than to tell our thespian war stories at cast parties, or really on the street to anyone who will listen... or, ahem, in a magazine column. It’s like when you’re a kid and you get hurt on the playground. Once your parents put a Band-Aid on the scrape and you stop sniffling about it, you’re actually kind of intrigued with your damage, secretly proud of yourself for playing all-out to this degree, and halfway hoping you’ll end up with a scar (ideally in an interesting shape, like a lightning bolt) that you can point to and tell a dramatic story about. Theatre people are pretty much kids at heart. Why else would adults play-act and dress up in costumes like it’s Halloween all year ‘round? This was especially proved true by the gusto with which eight grown people spent this winter behaving like children (and for once, were encouraged to do so) in Patent Leather Shoes. We proudly compared our bumps and bruises from cavorting on (and falling out of) school desks and jungle gyms. We documented them with glee on Facebook and Instagram. And when I skinned my knee up good sliding into home, did I hold back the next day for the final performance? Not on your life. I slid farther across that stage than ever before. The credo of the theatre person is, go big or go home... even if you have to slide into it bleeding. I do have a scar from the epic slide, and I couldn’t be more pleased. It’s another tale to tell, another landmark on the map of my life. Sometimes scars are good. Scars are stories. And with enough time, and theatre, the body becomes an autobiography. Melody Murphy is a writer, actor, and native Floridian living in Ocala.
Printed on recycled paper to protect the environment