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Maybe I'm short on intuitive interaction that starts early since I don't have a sister. I had a sister-in-law several years ago who was someone I thought might become a real sister. That chance ended when the marriage ended; our last conversation was much like one of Bobby Weinapple's improvs: 'In this scene, B—, your objective, when your soon-to-be ex-husband's sister calls you and wants to see if anything in the relationship between you two can be salvaged, is to be a total bitch, and C—, your objective is to remain as flabbergasted by this as possible.'
Or how about this one: I'm playing one of three cousins who run a bar & I'm doing fine with my 'relatives' until it comes time to go off on our own and work out some bits. I know the director from a couple of shows and he's definitely not one to spoon-feed & I positively get off on bits, so where's the problem? These cousins are bawdy gals and I'm feeling the lyrics that are coming out of my mouth so I suggest a little innuendo & inappropriate gesturing and I get straight-up prudery coming back. 'Well', I think, 'win some, lose some.' The big surprise is later when I'm off dealing with a costume issue. One of the cousins comes up and is, like, 'you are so difficult to work with, you know?' and I'm like, 'you're not exactly a walk in the park yourself'. But what I'm really thinking is 'where the #%% is this coming from?'
I've mostly gotten along terrifically with the folks at hand in any given show; offstage as well as onstage. Had a lot of really fun interactions with people I just met and who, in a few months, will probably disappear from my life forever, but I have to say, over time I do perceive a through-line in my relationships with women/actresses that doesn't apply to men/actors. When things goes bad, like car crashes on the news it's not the tearful farewells and the closing-night gifties that get obsessed over—not that I should dwell on that shit anymore than I should re-read my senior paper on Moby Dick with all the red-ink blistergrams—it's the women that blind-side me more often.
What was I thinking going to my 40th reunion last weekend—all you have to do is look at the figure '40' to realize that it is gonna be harsh. I had some idea that I would see interesting women. Now I realize the women I wanted to see are either dead or not going to subject themselves to the very thing I succumbed to: Revisionist High School History.
To their credits, most of the gals were aging gracefully; I only saw one who definitely had been 'freshened up' a tad and I bit my lip to keep from asking her what skin care products she used. After all, before I left for this thing I made sure my coiffure was like I wanted it to be, so they all would remark in the car going back home 'well, at least Claudine's hair still looks good'. I thought I was a memorable personality in high school since I was in so many shows; not a showoff, mind you: a serious actor.
I was there with my buddy/actor friend Jon, who sometimes does drag. In high school, he played my doctor in Miracle Worker and my brother in Rainmaker and my brothers (multiple roles) in Salad Days. Most recently we were in Edwin Drood together. There were discrete hearing aids, a few baldies and a lotta loud shirts amongst the men. I suppose it must be killing them that Mick Jagger keeps working; on the other hand, that's actually good news, because if he's still kickin', that should give them hope.
But back to the women: I want to know why these overbright-eyed matrons were all launching themselves at Jon. Over and over again. We stand there looking all 'I'm not 40 years older' but then here comes what could be our dried-up old sophomore English teacher reincarnate and goes 'Jon!!' and throws her arms around him & they laugh and laugh. Now, granted there are historical references to elementary school experience and geographical stuff—'How's your mom doing? I lived three houses down on the left, remember?' They get all misty for a few seconds and then it dries and they hug again and then another one comes up.
Meanwhile I'm going kind of rigid inside thinking 'I don't have a name badge & I don't want a name badge' and the women all over Jon eventually peer at me—one actually read my Impeach Cheney button & thought my last name was Cheney—and the light slowly dawns—'Oh your hair's changed!'—but we just do an air-kiss huggy-lite thing and they move back to Jon.
The more I think on it, the more it seems like an audition gone screwy. You show up, you know your weaknesses, play up your strengths, then you wait for the call. The little red light is blinking when you check your machine, but it's a distant voice saying words you didn't want to hear.
In my next life, I want to be a gay triple threat.
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