I love it when events are huge herds of fun and at the same time trigger
surprising memories.
The event was a costume party at the Sea
Witch Inn, where the theme was old-time TV or Hollywood characters.
Perfect. Our old-time friends Kathy and Ross
would be weekend houseguests so we could be a quartet. Rejecting the Mertzes
and Ricardos or even the Flintstones as beyond our costuming ability, I was
sorting options when Kathy called to remind me about THE DRESS.
It lives???? Over 30 years ago, when we were
recent college grads, theatre degrees in hand, Kathy and I worked at a
struggling (Is there any other kind?) community theatre. From what I recall
(which isn’t much, having just emerged from the ‘60s) we were embroiled
in some kind of George Bernard Shaw dust-up and needed costumes.
“Hell, I still have a key to the costume
shop at __________ “ (A university which shall remain nameless to protect
the culpable) said Kathy. “I think it’s time for a Midnight Requi-sition.”
So off we went to our alma mater, where, but
a year or two earlier, we’d been swelled-headed graduating seniors,
certain we’d find Broadway fame and fortune. Any day now, producers would
queue up at our doorsteps, lucrative contracts in hand.
Two years out, Kathy was playing second
banana character parts and I was assistant director at a theatre in the
great dismal swamp of Gaithersburg, MD. Adding petty larceny to our resumes
would be a step up.
Furtively letting ourselves into the dark,
musty, frock-filled costume archive on our former campus, we rifled the
stock and requisitioned our fill. On the way out, Kathy spied a magnificent
black Victorian dress in her size and added it to our stash. We were in
luck. The place was deserted.
Bounty in hand, stealthily heading for the
exit, we heard footsteps.
“Who’s here?” came a squeaky young
voice. Soon, we were face-to-face with a mere child, a freshman, no doubt.
“Really, what are you doing here?” she asked.
Kathy and I, arms full of purloined fabric,
froze. Finally, Kathy threw her shoulders back, pulled herself up to an
imposing height, and boomed in an equally imposing basso profundo “DO YOU
KNOW WHO I USED TO BE?????”
Not having an answer, and perhaps fearing the
voice belonged to Tallulah herself, the frightened freshman shook her head
“no” and just stared.
With that, Kathy and I whooshed past her, out
the door and into the night, pulling a Winona Ryder long before that child
was even a kleptomaniac in the womb.
Flash forward to 2002.
“You still have that damned dress? “ I
asked Kathy. “Personally, I’m rump-sprung, with patches of dry rot, so
how can the dress still be okay?”
“Well, it is,” said she, and I know just
what to do with it.”
Within minutes, we agreed that Kathy and the
black dress would be Miss Kitty from the late lamented mid-century TV series
Gunsmoke.*** Kathy’s husband Ross could be Doc Stone with penciled
mustache, string tie and cowboy hat. Bonnie, bless her heart, suggested
building on her stiff knee to play Chester, the suspender-wearing
sheriff’s deputy who limped along yelling “Mr. Dillon, Mr. Dillon.” Luck
of the draw, I got to be Marshall Dillon, with vest, badge and six shooters.
In our quest for authenticity, we browsed the
internet for Gunsmoke memorabilia, not only viewing the costumes, but worse,
learning that the characters, who looked positively ancient to us as kids,
were all, even old Doc Stone, younger then than we are now. Luckily, we
could drink at the party.
The Sea Witch crowd outdid themselves. We had
Birdmen of Alcatraz, Harpo, Marilyn, Rhett and Scarlett, Melanie and Ashley,
Superman, a pair of Elvii, three Charlie Chaplins—you name it. Somewhere
between the second and third cocktail and the re-telling of the dress
acquisition caper, Miss Kitty and Marshall Dillon reminisced, along with
other guests of our vintage, about those heady days of the late sixties on
college campuses.
“I only graduated because of the Kent State
shootings*,” I announced, getting a chance to tell on myself.
Due to embarrassing circumstances, I had been
engaged to marry an accordion-playing law student. Go ahead, laugh. Coming
to my senses, I broke off the engagement** and consequently dropped two
courses (History of Jazz and Business Law) I’d been taking to merely make
conversation with the bloke. Hence, I planned on completing my degree in
summer school.
Well, the day following the Kent State
shootings, anti-war activists on my campus demonstrated in sympathy and
President Nixon sent hundreds of National Guard troops, in full riot-gear
regalia to put down the insurrection.
At one point, the troops fired a volley of
tear-gas canisters at the love-beaded, pot-smoking, bull-horn blaring
activists, but wildly overshot. The tear gas landed on the steps and wafted
through the front doors of the campus theatre where we were rehearsing a
French operetta.
Question: What do they call drama class?
Answer: Gay Head Start. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen young men in
tights being tear-gassed. It’s an image that stays with you for life.
Chorus girls in wench costumes squealed and
ran. I’d been outside watching the demonstrations, so I didn’t get a
direct hit, but it was enough to make my eyes water for hours.
Needless to say, the screaming, coughing,
fleeing performers took refuge backstage until things quieted down. We
sympathized with the anti-war sentiments, but were vastly more concerned
with whether our show would open. Priorities.
And when things did quiet down, the
University president traveled the campus in a van, PA system blaring that
all graduating seniors were hereby graduated and we had 24 hours to clear
out and go home.
So that’s how I got my degree.
In retrospect, I’m willing to admit that
just MAYBE it wasn’t the noblest way to earn a degree.
And that just POSSIBLY prioritizing “show
must go on” values over civil action on university property might have
been somewhat skewed. But as I watch our current President steer the nation
toward a showdown with Iraq, I wonder where the students are today. I worry
what it will take to awaken them to the dangers their generation faces as
young men go off to die in the wars that old men start. I worry a lot.
But meanwhile, I loved that costume party and
my re-acquaintance with The Black Dress. It reminds me of the giddiness, the
arrogance, fun, sadness, and ridiculous naiveté of those days. Loved it.
Miss it. Wouldn’t go back for all the tea in Viet Nam.
*Youngsters, don’t know what I’m talking
about? On May 4, 1970, Vietnam War protesters on the Ohio campus of Kent
State University rioted and in a horrible chain of events, four unarmed
students were shot to death by National Guard troops sent to quell the
uprising. It was awful. It is also awful that I’m this old and you’re
not.
** Truth is, I eventually married the dude, which is another whole
embarrassing and mercifully short story.
*** It was a Saturday night fixture and one of the first one-hour dramas on
TV, and before that it was a radio show, and oy I feel ancient.
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