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A Stage Story

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First grade.  We had just moved from New Jersey to Pennsylvania, leaving behind a suburban metropolitan area with a higher-than-normal crime rate for a rural community based around a battlefield where over 50,000 men were killed, wounded, or missing in three days of fighting during July of 1863.  Being any older than 6 would have made this a shock to my system, but my spongy brain kept absorbing information and took it all in stride.  I adapted well and began excelling in school.

Spring of that school year and the music teacher, Mrs. D., was busy organizing the annual Fine Arts production.  Mrs. D., I realize now, was a cliche.  Her long, flowing, graying hair was a holdover from her glory days in the ‘60s, where I’m sure she experimented with a few mind-altering substances, some of which stuck with her.  She kept her hair in a huge bun on the back her head, a #2 pencil the only thing securing these generous strands from the floor.  One of the most remarkable memories I have of her was coming into class one day and finding her sitting on her stool, her hawk-like nose turned down towards her guitar, face obscured by her hair (no longer in a bun) humming softly to herself.  It turned she had written a song for Princess Diana, who had died a few days earlier.  She proceeded to play and sing her ode to the great humanitarian.  All I can remember thinking was that it sounded almost exactly like ‘Candle in the Wind,’ Elton John’s (recycled) tribute for Diana.  I believe it actually used the same metaphor, Diana as a flame in a frightful gale, to get the message across.  It was a surreal experience.

She was our director for these Fine Arts programs.  The premise was that the first and fourth graders would collaborate to produce an original piece of theatre incorporating music, sets, costumes, and even a bit of history.  Ours turned out to be a Time Travel piece, complete with a prehistoric rendering of the comet that destroyed the dinosaurs.  This was the climax of the show.  I, being a youngster, would be out of harm’s way for this final act and instead play a part in the middle, when the two intrepid temporal wanderers visit Medieval England.  I was to play a six-year-old Don Quixote, a knight errant in a small village.  My mother, a woman who devoted herself first and foremost to the raising of her children and the many skills this involved, set to creating the most magnificent suit of armor made from cloth ever seen.  She started with my old Batman pajamas, then sewed velcro on to attach the armor pieces.  These she had sewn from a shiny metallic fabric and stuffed with cotton to appear bulkier.  We purchased a plastic helmet and large broadsword to complete it.  I looked magnificent.

Rehearsals began with me walking through the scene, a sort of background figure uninvolved and undistracted by two twentieth-century ten-year-olds coming through our village.  We rehearsed many times, figuring out my path across the stage and my many motivations.  I was recently back from slaying a dragon and being a knight newly unemployed, needed to find more work.  I was bowing to the many ladies onstage as they walked pass, hoping to catch one’s eye with my chivalric display.  I was concerned with the sharpness of my sword and needed to find the blacksmith, else I might be caught unawares by any number of bandits with a dull blade.  I was six, mind you, and having the time of my life.

This is the first time I remember being onstage.  My imagination was engaged, my creativity was harnessed and felt free to live and love in this strange world we created on a 20×40 wooden platform at the far end of the school’s gymnasium.  The night of the production came and I was nervous.  I think peed about twelve times before going onstage, but once the lights came up, once the boundary between the real of before and the real of the now was established, I felt right at home.  My moment came and I was ushered onstage by one of the parents in the wings.  The lights came up.  I was a knight in medieval times.  A flower-seller came by hawking roses.  On impulse, I picked one up, smelled it and gave it to a damsel nearby, bowing as she continued past.    I was, in theatre parlance, “in the moment.”  My brief scene finished, I wandered offstage and got out of the knight costume, which was sweated through in those brief moments under the lights.  I changed and found my parents and we all enjoyed the asteroid finale together.

Being onstage became a requirement after that.  I was one of those lucky kids who found a way into our “gifted” program at school.  My teacher, Mrs. Schultz, indulged our creativity to no end. Near the end of fifth grade, we put on a very revised version of The Tempest, me in the title role of Prospero.  I don’t remember much aside from the extremely heavy velvet cloak, once again sewn by my mother and one particular incident.  It being Shakespeare and us being eleven, we had our scripts in hand as we played out the last of Shakespeare’s masterpieces.  The kid playing Ariel, Prospero’s fairy minion, had somehow not shown up to rehearsal at all and was still in the production.  So we began our scene, and he was on the wrong page.  Very un-selfconsciously I took his script from him, went to the right page and kept going.  This action perhaps added a bit more flame to Prospero’s anger, which I think made the scene better in the end.

More plays came and went and I was introduced to the magic of the musical throughout high school, taking part in Fiddler on the Roof, Oklahoma!, and the prerequisite of every burgeoning theatre major, Guys & Dolls. I learned very quickly that I could dance, a revelation used to my extreme advantage in wooing women during my teens.  I found I was very happy to entertain with my self-cultivated “moves,” knowing full-well they were ridiculous and awful.  However, to those without a Y-chromosome, it somehow also came off as “cute.”

There are many great memories from these years, but one stuck with me.  After Guys & Dolls, as we were making our way through the crowd, a woman stopped me and said, “Do you have plans to continue in this?”

I mumbled something in reply.  “Hrgm.”

“I think you should.”

I have no idea who this woman was or what her qualifications were, but it sowed a seed in my brain.  Four months later, I sat in the backyard of my house and told my mom I was not healthy enough to go to college.  There had been difficulties with some health problems over the summer.   I planned to go to Macalester College in Minnesota, but found that these latent issues prevented me from traveling so far away.  I enrolled in Gettysburg College and began my year with that old familiar friend, Acting I.

I immediately excelled in the class and found I wanted more training than Gettysburg could offer.  I applied to schools almost exclusively in New York City, knowing it was the hub of the industry and a place I always dreamed of living.  I began preparing monologues, bought train tickets for auditions, and wrestled myself into acting school for the next three years.  There I learned everything, if I really wanted to, but that is the hard part about being an actor.  It is an inherently personal and highly self-motivated practice, and one only gets as much as one puts in.  I encountered teachers who taught me nothing, who gave me creative blocks I’m still working to dismantle and I encountered working professionals who taught me more in three months than my sophomore and junior years combined.

I only encountered two teachers who were willing to push me past my comfort zone.  One was my fantastic Voice & Speech Practicum teacher, Barbara.  This woman is the size of a willow wand, but breathes the fire of dragons if properly motivated.  Voice & Speech Practicum, as the name suggests, is a practical application of the technique learned in the sophomore and junior years.  This technique allows one to be understood in a large auditorium without blowing one’s voice out every night.  Practicum took this further, engaging challenging text with breath to help the actor find his or her inspiration.  At one point, I was asked to get up and deliver a poem we had all been working on.  Barbara’s lesson for the day was being “Ready,” (the capital R is needed) so I walked to the front of the studio, stood there and started speaking.

“Stop!” she yelled.  “You’re not Ready.  Breathe.”

I breathed.  I started again.

“NO!  You’re not READY!  Breathe.  Just stand there.  Breathe.”

I did.  An amazing thing happened.  I was relaxed in front of people for the very first time, completely conscious of where I was, but ok with it.  I was breathing.  I started the poem and my voice was never richer.

The other teacher was the director of my last performance in college, where I played a 45-year-old doctor visiting an estate in Russia, in a play called A Month in the Country.  She taught me to stop acting and start living onstage.  During the latter part of the rehearsal period, I was performing the last piece of a scene where I was left alone onstage and had to confess a very truthful piece of information to the audience.  This was one of my character’s only honest moments and I wanted to get it right.  I delivered the line and walked offstage.

“Come back!” she said from the audience.

“You want me to do it again?”

“Yes,” she said.  “That was good.  Now do it for real this time.”

Something clicked.  I had an incredibly successful run, a fantastic reception from my teachers and I began my journey into the truth of being the stage demands.

The journey is still happening, though I gave up auditioning and its seemingly fruitless pursuits.  I will start on an acting class again soon, I suppose because it is the place where I can break down my own fears.  It is the best way I know to get to know myself better.  Even if I never appear onstage again, I will still take acting class, because there is such pleasure in exploring fear and desire in a completely made-up context.  The world is only richer because theatre exists and even if my only contribution for the rest of my life is be honest with only my classmates watching, I will feel I have achieved something.

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Written by Seth James

January 19, 2011 at 7:34 pm

Cycles

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“I’m leaving you in twelve minutes,” she said, as they brought the bags down the runway and shuttled them conspicuously into the back of the waiting jet.

“I’m leaving you in twelve minutes and if you don’t apologize, I will never speak to you again.”

Pride comes before the fall, and as I looked around for an answer, I realized autumn had taken its hold sweetly and quietly in the fields surrounding the airport. Golden corn stalks, stripped of their summer fruit, rippled in the wind. The trees resembled the skin of a honeycrisp apple, red and green and yellow, waiting for the strong wind of a fall storm to bring leaves to their rooted ankles and begin the cycle of life again. I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for, as I wasn’t sure she was worth the time it took to wait for this plane to take off.

“I’m sorry,” I said as she huffed and puffed toward the stairway. “I’m sorry, ok?”

She turned and her big, haughty, beautiful eyes flashed underneath her sunglasses. They made her look like a raccoon dicing roadkill frozen in the high-beams. How I wished she might get hit by a car, not to hurt her, but to humble her. To show her that life was harder than she ever imagined, that her life was easy because she was rich and beautiful.

But that was too simple.

Even I could admit that. It was too easy to put someone in a category. I knew where she came from. Her older brother died when she was 9, and her dad, though sweet, never quite forgave God or her mother for lending him a daughter as his sole heir. She went about over-achieving to find love and she got it. Student Council President, Honor Roll, Harvard, Harvard again for a graduate degree, the youngest senior associate in her firm, on her way to partner in another five years. But it was killing her. Not physically. She would undoubtedly last long with her shakes of green goo in the morning, 5 miles on the treadmill and yoga twice a week. But she was racing time, and eventually time would catch up to her.

We met at a bar one night. Back then, she was smooth and soft and real and interesting. She was like baking-soda on a bee sting, the kind of woman that heals your pain with those little flecks of green-gold in her eyes. We made love all night and, when I made pancakes in the morning, she showed up to breakfast naked and we made love again all day. She forgot about going to her bikram class. She’d call me at work and leave me messages about how good my ass looked in the mirror as I walked to her bathroom. She’d tell me about the books in her head, let me write poems on her back in ballpoint pen and have me wash it away later in a bath before bed.

So where did she go? How did we lose those weekends of bliss and how did I end up apologizing for it? Every flash of her eye was a remembrance of things long past and I could see, I could finally see that what was and what is are not the same thing. Memory was a film over my eyes, a playback that disguised who she had become. She was a ghost, a being to be heralded with fear, wonder, and also, sadly, pity. She no longer existed on the earth I was a part of and had not a clue.

She gave me a small kiss on the cheek and got on the plane. “I’ll text you when I get there,” she said, then boarded.

I waited. The door closed, the plane taxied to the end of the runway and began its ascension into the stratosphere. I watched it disappear into blue sky, and stood there for a long time, gazing, silhouetted against a deepening twilight and the fall trees. It grew chilly.

I wrapped my coat around me and walked back to the car. It was an easy drive into the city, but I took the far-out roads on the way home, nestling myself into the heart of the countryside. Winter was on its way, and I needed to make myself a warm place to sleep.

Written by Seth James

January 19, 2011 at 7:22 pm

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized

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A Tennis Story

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Jesus P. Bacinski wrote the net game back in 1971 when, at a tournament in Boca, he served and volleyed and drew a line in the sand for every other retiree in the Sunset Sands Retirement Community Annual Tennis Tournament.  Jesus was a 75-year-old retired steel worker from Pittsburgh, one of those life-long bachelors whose money went nowhere but his 401k and after working in the industry for 47 years, decided Florida would be his final resting place.  His bandy legs stepped heavily on his morning walks throughout the streets of fellow septagenarians.  He grunted through life, a perpetual 10-ton anvil moving slowly and purposefully in the pink 6 am light.  This made him a natural foil for the steel.  He understood steel and its natural unbending will, its preference for high heat and its inimitable strength.  He made steel into the most exquisite drain pipes, I-beams and giant bridge supports seen anywhere.  But that day, Jesus walked on water.

The day started with an early match between Harold Stutter, the reigning Sunset Sands champion and former national amateur contender, and Jim Botten, a light-footed 65-year-old.  “The Velvet Ringer,” some with bets placed heavily in his favor referred to him, as it was his custom to appear anywhere after 6pm in a velvet smoking jacket.  Sadly, those in his corner did not have long to see the fleet-footed cigar man fall.  It took all of a set for the spry filly to pull up lame, an old knee injury knocking him for a loop.  Perhaps it was arranged, perhaps it wasn’t, but most didn’t believe that a man who ran the circuit of the neighborhood (a whopping 4.3 miles) every day could find his knee so suddenly gone.  So the reign of Harold, steady for 3 years, became one round older as the heat spread and the sun rose.

Jesus was fortunate.  He received a bye in the first round when Dick Limpkin died a week before and no one stepped into replace him.  This was Jesus’ first year in the tournament, and all thought he would prove a fool.  Never was he seen on the courts near the pool and Pittsburgh did not harbor many great talents of the racketed persuasion.  Skepticism spread freely over the chattering court.  He took his place behind the line, tested his racket, and prepared to receive perhaps his first first serve ever from a former top 25 national amateur contender. The ball was tossed, where it floated for a brief moment at its apex and smashed, with a slight amount of topspin so as to kick up on the bounce and flummox the opposing player into a bad return.  But Jesus was ready.  He saw, from the position of the ball toss and the very small, adjusted backhand grip, exactly where the ball was going, and he rotated freely, seemingly giving the ball back across the court, utilizing Newton’s Third Law:  For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

The crowd, stunned, watched as the ball traveled faster back across the net to an empty piece of court where Harold Stutter did not exist.  The chair umpire, a half-deaf machinist from Massachusetts, called, “Love-15.”  Each point continued in the same fashion, until Jesus P Fuentes was up a break in the first game of the first set against the reigning champion.  The crowd silently adjusted their egos and settled down for a day of tennis.

They came to see a game, came to nosh and eat potato salad made by Mrs Hutchins at #137, but they did not expect art.  Such was the next service game by Jesus.  Most denizens of the court commented afterward about the ease with which Jesus moved around the surface.  “He appeared to float,” one excited patron said later.  “This lumbering man of little motion became a ballet dancer before us,” the newsletter read later that month, “It was as if, like a penguin, he found motion on a different element than the natural earth.  The penguin swims graceful in the sea, Jesus danced his way into our hearts on the asphalt.”

Words truer were never written.  Jesus himself, when interviewed later that day would say nothing but, “I was on.”

Jesus stepped up to the line, placing his left foot a half-centimeter behind it, all his weight centered on the ball of his foot. His right foot served to stabilize him, its toe barely touching the ground as he leaned forward and coiled up like a cobra.  His eyes moved, from the spot he wanted the serve, up and up and up to the ball as it was tossed with no spin, where, at the point it could no longer travel higher, his racket and all of the tightly wound muscle exploded.  The ball howitzered into the opposite court, skidded, and was narrowly returned by a focused Harold conjuring up all of his muscle memory.  But Jesus, being “on,” had anticipated.  Like a tap dancer, he shuffled-step-ball-changed to the net, stuck out his racked, and coolly volleyed to the far court.  The hammering of heartbeats confirmed a sudden truth: time had slowed and this moment lasted forever, burned into their retinas as something sublime.

The rest was mere semantics.  He triumphed quite easily and even Harold Stutter had no problem handing over the trophy.  A week later, Jesus was admitted to the hospital with chest pain.  He never came out.  His funeral, attended by all from the community, included a viewing of amateur home video from that day.  It featured the legendary serve-volley combination.  Speculation into his latent talent ran the gamut, until an old man got up to speak.  He was Bacinski’s brother.  It was revealed that Jesus was a natural athlete, receiving a host of football scholarships before the war, but electing to head into the steel business like his father and brothers.  On weekends, he would coach whatever sport was in season.  “He was a very hard man,” his brother mumbled into the microphone.

No one knew if Jesus was dying when he entered the tournament.  Perhaps he knew it, but he still danced the net game and won.

Written by Seth James

December 6, 2010 at 10:49 pm

Posted in Fiction, Uncategorized