The Cast(away) Party

So Miss Direction is more like Miss Administration at the moment (to be more exact its more like Dame Excel Spreadsheet, but that's sounds kinda dirty). Although I work at a theatre company, I'm far away from the rehearsal room. Its depressing and I can't help but wonder if I'm losing my edge. Furthermore, I feel like the actors look through me whenever I'm in their line of vision. Since I'm not in the rehearsal room, an artist position or ye olde grande Gotham theatre clique (which means everyone who has ever graduated from University of Gotham State or Gotham Arts College or any other educational institution within Gotham city limits in the last 100 years- snore) surely I must be not worth knowing.


Because of this, I try to make every run in with a cast member a positive one and jump at every opportunity to be seen by them which also includes cast parties. Although I had promised myself never to own any of the following items in my life:

1) A fanny pack
2) A mini-van
3) Tapered-leg pleated front pants

My parents had purchased a mini-van to help me get to work and be more available to the theatre scene. I was not thrilled about it at first, but its in good condition, I enjoyed the freedom and I never had an excuse not to participate in anything.

Even though it was a Sunday and thus a day off, I still planned on doing the two hour round trip voyage to the Frederickon Family's Cast Party which seemed to be a regular occurrence at the company. All of my co-workers smiled broadly when speaking of the Frederickson Cast Party and made it sound as if the party lasted for hours.

Knowing this, I only felt mildly bad when I left an hour after I promised myself to leave for the party (which also took an hour to get to). Absolutely nothing in my closet seemed to work that evening, but I finally settled on something and grabbed some coffee in order to perk my nervous spirits. Additionally, I drove with country music blaring the whole way in order to arrive buzzing with energy and positive vibes.

I parked my 2000 white Plymouth Voyager (a mini-van... the night was already off to a shaky start) across the street from a very residential looking house in the Riverside section of Gotham. (I could already see two figures moving down the front steps and thus away from the house; again, not a good sign). Yes, I understand that saying a house looks "residential" seems obvious, but you know as well as I do that a house on The O.C. looks very different from a house on The Brady Bunch. Equally, your expectations are different for either house (in one you wouldn't be amazed to be offered oral sex in the front hall and in the other you'd expect to smell the faint aroma of baby vomit and apple sauce). This house told me to expect to see a Yankee Candle and an Irish style ivory cardigan within the first 5 minutes. Curiouser and curiouser...

Approaching the house I shook off the nerves and prepared to be engulfed by a din of celebration and drunken discussion (that I couldn't hear from the front stoop but surely it would be inside!... Perhaps they had double glazed windows?). I knocked on the door instead of just walking in so as to look adorably demure as I entered the party.

A girl I'd never seen before and dressed in black work clothes answered the door looking at me awkwardly. I told her that I worked for the company and was here for the party. She introduced herself as the company lighting operator (um... okay) and waved me into the house. This was not the entrance that I expected nor desired. She rapidly led me through the front room which was lined with male actors deep in brooding conversation who looked at me with indifference. Suddenly I was happy that Ozzy Osbourne's kid sister was leading me through to the next room. She pointed me at a table full of "Indian" food that our hosts apparently had made. (The naan bread looked like you could chisel a message on to it. Perhaps I would need one for my epitaph later on). She stood there looking at me until I realized that she wasn't just going to leave me up to my own devices. I told her wasn't hungry so she turned 45 degrees to the left and pointed to a table that looked more like a dresser that held many liquor bottles on top of it. She said that I was welcome to fix myself a drink. Then she stood there.

Waiting.
And staring.
Waiting and staring.

Quickly, my eyes darted from side to side, bottle to bottle looking for something that I could hold with a smile in order to ditch my Death Eater shadow. She started pointing at actors and explaining who they were in the show and I quickly tried to explain that although I didn't know who the Hell she was it didn't mean that I didn't know others (honestly, did she think that I was lying when I said I worked for the company? Or maybe that I worked out of a sealed refrigerator box?). Suddenly I realized it was all liquor and no mixers. Even more suddenly I realized that I no longer drank hard alcohol. Again, I blurted out that all I wanted was a beer, so she dutifully escorted me to a cooler on the back porch where I saw a small bunch of people crowded around a fire pit. She flipped open the lid, asked me what I wanted and was about to read every single bottle out loud until I plunged my hand into the ice and grabbed my usual draft. She plucked it from my hand and used a large bottle opener that was attached to the exterior kitchen door and left.

I meandered back inside and perched next to the aquarium attempting to look both sexy and vulnerable... next to an aquarium. The lead male in the show (who is about 5' 6") was telling the room (while kneeling on a cushion) all about the time he told a critic for a major Gotham music newspaper that he "WOULD KICK HIS FUCKING ASS" if he EVER criticized his best friend on a personal level in an article again. It was a very boring story and no I don't think it would be better if I knew either person involved. He told it with tremendous masculine vigor which only made it more boring. I was so nervous and embarrassed about how boring the actor was in real life that I had already finished my beer. Unfortunately, it had zero effect. I stared longingly at the aquarium wishing I was simply staring at it while alone in the room instead of awkwardly perching against an entryway in halter top next to it in a room of strangers who probably thought I collected sassy stationary in my desk at work.


Then, the clouds parted and Sarah, my friend from work, showed up. Hooray! I couldn't have planned it better. I'd been here less than 10 minutes and one of the people I know best in the company arrives!

"HI GUYS!"


Abort mission: Sarah is plastered.


She charges through the front room towards me as if she were on a conveyor belt.

"HEY, YOU'RE HERE. WOW, THIS PLACE IS A LOT MORE EMPTY THAN WHAT I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE."

I quickly ushered her towards the food and drink room not because I want her to drink more, but I didn't want her to say another thing at sonic boom level in a room of ear-possessing people that included the Artistic Director. I re-entered the main room sans Sarah because I was hoping that a moment on her own would allow her to collect herself and realize that we were not in fact in the middle of a rave during Mardi Gras on New Years Eve hosted by Puff Daddy and Richard Simmons.

When I was back in the main room I noticed a man who looked like Willie Nelson without a personality looking like he was angling to speak to me. I feverishly searched the room for a distraction when I noticed that many of the actors were looking like they were leaving! Blast! I was even slightly sad to see the young-ish actor who's overly proud/amazed of his two young daughters (news flash: I don't care) packing up to go!


Sarah returned at that very moment with a whiskey neat.

MAN DON'T YOU LOVE THAT THEY MAKE YOU MIX YOUR OWN DRINKS? THERE'S NOTHING TO EVEN MIX ANYTHING WITH. I FINALLY JUST HAD TO GO WITH THIS.

The look on Willie Nelson's face (who, incidentally, had a ponytail that made it look like his neck was having a bowel movement) told me that he was most likely Mr. Henderickson. In an effort not to look like an ungrateful bitch I smiled at Sarah as if I hadn't noticed anything and said, "Oh yes, I felt so bad that I couldn't take advantage of such a great spread. I just don't know how to mix a drink! But I was happy to grab a beer out of the cooler." To my dismay, Mr. Tuck-my-production-T-shirt-into-my-high-waisted-black-jeans Henderickson took this as a great time to enthusiastically jump in, explain the bar, introduce himself and explain that he knew exactly who we were because he was at the board meeting when we were introduced. And all with a smile.

My heart sank.

I should have stayed home and watched "Big" on TV.

But at that moment the actors were still heading towards the door and our gracious host went to say good-bye.


MANIT SUCKS THAT EVERYONE SLEAVING. I THOUGHT THAT EVERYONE'D SAID IT WAS GONNA GO FOR LIKEA REAL LONG TIME.

There was no point in attempting to help Sarah at the point. I agreed with Sarah while admiring the aquarium wondering what would happen if I pushed it out of the picture window in front of it and followed it down.


ya kno-PEOPLE'VE MISTAKEN ME FORA DYKE BEFORE.


The subject changed almost gave me whip lash.


ITS HAPPENED MORE THAN ONCEYEAH


(Could I drown myself in the aquarium? Could I drown Sarah in the aquarium?)


I had only been there 20 minutes (7 of which I spent probably appearing condescending and ungrateful) could I leave? Would it be socially acceptable? Would it be morally acceptable as I had driven for an HOUR to get there? What would happen if I just ran really fast in a straight line and to Hell with the consequences?

The Martha Stewart in me demanded that I stay another 30 minutes.

This time it was Sarah who guided me towards the back of the house (there was nowhere else to venture towards as the rest of the house was barren).

The remaining lot was sitting around the fire pit roasting marshmellows including my original soul mate, the company electrician or whatever, who sat huddled in a corner. Others included an a potentially leading man actor with an unfortunate receding hairline and his girlfriend; Mr. Henderickson and his wife with disgustingly dry skin on her feet; and the House Manager who's actually very lovely. Also, a new star party goer entered the circle: Kay the costume supervisor of the production. While I debated whether or not to ask for a marshmellow, everyone exchanged pleasantries and expressed their disappointment over the others collective departure. Apparently the show had gone well although there was a young teenage couple who sat in the front row and made out the entire time. (Another 30 minutes wouldn't kill me right?)

Almost as swiftly as she had entered the conversation, Kay had usurped the aimless conversation and manipulated it into the perfect opportunity to talk about what she looks for in a Protestant church.

The actor and his girlfriend left.

I realized that if I was going to survive the next 30 minutes I was going to have to become painfully absorbed in toasting marshmellows. I reached for them as if they were a defibrillator.... and in a way I suppose they were.

Kay continued to lead the group through every topic she desired like General Patton pushing through harsh terrain. Subjects included condescendingly explaining the company (later I found out that she is not even on staff), condescendingly explaining her scarf and the ever popular "What I Look For In a Protestant Church."


9 marshmellows later I had successfully managed to sit through the Fire Pit Chats with saying very little and I felt my inner clock flashing the 5 minute warning. I started my final 'mellow...

Sarah seemed to be having a good time and her drunken comments were actually hilarious or, at the very least, harmless. She started explaining something she had seen on TV in that tedious way that drunk people do, using too many words and trying to remember too much. Apparently there had been a segment explaining that people in America should not pity people who live in grass huts because the people in grass huts are actually richer than most middle class American's since they actually own their own land and all of the scrap metal that lands on it (or something strange like that). Everyone was going along with the story while they enjoyed the flickering flames and cool night air, although I couldn't shake the feeling that everyone else hated secretly wished they were somewhere else/ surrounded by other people (including Mrs. Henderickson). I was hoping to just nod through her story and slip into the house with a courteous comment and a smile.

All of a sudden, the electrician slid into the firelight glow and began to speak with alarming clarity.

"UM...
I DON'T AGREE WITH THE IDEA THAT PEOPLE WHO LIVE IN GRASS HUTS ARE BETTER OFF THAN MIDDLE CLASS HOMEOWNERS IN AMERICA.
BECAUSE i AM A MIDDLE CLASS HOMEOWNER IN AMERICA...."

The strong articulation even made Kay shift in her plastic green porch chair.

Before the girl could outline the 10 points she would be discussing from her soap box, I grabbed the gooey white blob from the top of my stick, shoved it in my mouth and asked Lady Crusty Feet for directions to the bathroom. Once I left the bathroom, I located my coat and purse, waved to the hostage fish in their tank and told them that maybe one day they would be free, too. As promised I went outside, made a delightful comment about marshmellows and smiled as I waved good-bye.

As I walked through the empty house the front door I laughed under my breath in amazement over how much the evening had not gone as planned. I also realized that making friends/ gaining ground in an entirely new city was not going to be as easy as showing up at a party with big earrings. At that time, I laughed at myself. True, that kind of "cast party" would not have gone down well in the European city wherein I had been working. I could point out all of the holes and frustrations I wanted, but the fact remained that I was now living in Gotham. Yes, I had travelled a great length to arrive a lame get-together, but I still knew no one. I stopped laughing and kept walking.

Once outside, I ran into the street, black heels slapping against wet pavement glowing orange in the street light, excited to turn on the country music yet again and realized that owning grass huts and scrap metal might be fair and great to some but I sure as Hell was happy to own a mini-van.