LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Weekend Beach Bum: Fugue in a Theatre |
by Eric Morrison |
Recently, I attended a wonderful production of Harvey Fierstein's Torch Song Triology. The challenge was simply getting there. The quaint little theatre is tucked away in Nowhere, Pennsylvania, surrounded by a forest thicker than Blanche Devareaux's southern accent. My friend Laurie and I braved narrow roads that twisted and turned like an endless web of pretzels, all the while heeding the foreboding "DANGERFALLING ROCKS" signs. There must have been caves in them there hills, and it wouldn't have surprised me one bit to see Osama bin Laden's bearded silhouette wander into the path of our headlights. But with the aid of a Mapquest.com treasure map, we found the tiny building without incident and made our way inside. The theatre was even smaller on the inside than it looked on the outside. The theme is BYOWbring your own whatever. Laurie chose a six-pack of Coors Light, and I toted a bottle of merlot and a can of mixed nuts. (Little did I know that my choice of snack would be an analogy for the composition of the audience.) Having some time to kill before curtain, Laurie and I browsed an amazing art exhibit, two rooms full of sculptures created by blind persons. Granted, this bust's left eye was a little higher than the right one, and that horse's tail was a little longer than it should have been, but I can't form a ball from Play Dough, so I was quite impressed. The theatre held only about one hundred persons, and Laurie and I chose a small table between the door and the stage. We began perusing the program, breaking open the beer and wine, and munching on the nuts. Our table had four chairs and before long, the usher asked if someone could join us. My hopes for a cute gay couple were dashed across the falling rocks outside when a fiftysomething heterosexual couple took their seats at the table. We all introduced ourselves, and Jack and Anne seemed nice enough. Anne was empty-handed, but Jack hoisted onto the table a case of silver Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. I didn't know they still made that stuff. Judging by Jack's Santa-like belly, they make it just for him. Conversation revealed that Jack and Anne live nearby and often travel to the theatre throughout Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware. Anne is quite the little homemaker, and Jack likes to drink beer and hit the golfing green. Anne likes just about any kind of play, but Jack likes to be entertained. "I don't like to have to think too much when I go to the theatre," he confessed, "so I prefer a good comedy." He's in for a treat, I thought, but I was impressed by this retired heterosexual couple's brave foray into Torch Song country. "We go to a lot of plays," Jack boasted, popping open his second Pabst. "We saw one on a ship not long ago, and we just saw some musical. But real people don't go around singing all the time, so I don't get into those very much." Quel surprise. "And just last month, we went to some play, and we didn't know what it was about before we went, and it turned out to be one of those gay plays." Hmmph. "Come to think of it, I don't even know what this play's about. Say, Eric, this isn't one of those gay plays, is it?" Suddenly, Alanis Morissette had pulled up a fifth chair. "It's like rain on your wedding day, it's the good advice that you just didn't take..." Instantly, my furtive mind decided to create a nightlong mini-drama to complement the one on the stage. I entitled it, "FUGUE: Jack and Anne in Oz." Harvey would be so proud. "Actually, Jack," I gloated inside, "you're about to see what is considered by many the pice de rsistance of modern gay theatre." That swallow of Pabst must have gone down bitter. "Did you hear that, Anne?" Consternation colored Jack's face. "This is a gay play." Anne's careless demeanor picked up Jack's concern and dropped it to the floor like a feather. "Oh well," Jack mused to me. "We've bought the tickets, and they were only ten dollars, and it's too late to go somewhere else, so we might as well stay. If it gets too bad, we can always leave." One act and several beers later, Jack wasn't flinching much. The notorious backroom scene shook him slightly, but getting fondled by a phantom, I suppose, lacks the homosexual reality that frightens most Americans. Before the second act, and after a much-needed visit to the men's room, Jack and I compared notes. "What do you think so far?" I inquired. "It's not too bad. I just don't get it." "Get what?" "You know," Jack sidestepped, "the whole gay thing. I just can't relate to it. I mean, we're all humans, and anybody can do whatever they want, and I'm not judging. If you choose to be that way, that's fine, but I really don't want to see it." Nostrils flaring. Neurons firing. "Well, Jack, I guess the whole point of the play is that we are all humans, and peoplegay or heterosexualfeel the same love, hurt, and loss in their lives. And because gay people are so often invisible, we need theatre and things like this to express the gay viewpoint." "I suppose so." "Besides, I hear the second act is really good. Arnold, Alan, Ed, and Laurel spend the entire time in one big bed." The fugue continues. Jack was looking a little sleepy and nauseous after Act Two. He had all but puked Pabst at Arnold's and Alan's kissing and cuddling, and might not make it through the final act. I knew I had to end my fugue's mounting action and cut right to the denouement. No longer would Jack's sideward glances lead him to think, Eric and Laurie make such a good couple. Someday, they'll be just like Anne and me. "So, Jack, was the second act a little much for you?" I glanced at the parade of empty cans littering the table in front of him. "Yeah, Eric, it was a little much. You know, I just don't understand it." "Well, I guess you don't have to understand it, as long as you can relate to it." I was trying to cut him a break. "Yeah, Eric, but I can't relate to it at all." "I can Jack. I can relate to it very well." The light of understanding swept across Jack's face just as the houselights were going down. I smiled on the outside. On the inside, my ego took a bow as my soul applauded. Not surprisingly, Jack left before the third act concluded. He took Anne with him. She'd slept through most of the second and third acts anyway. Jack, if you're reading this, I wasn't trying to be cruel. But if a playwright takes the time to write his heart onto a page, and the cast toils tirelessly to bring to the stage the joys, frustrations, and tribulations of living gayor just plain living, for that matterthe least you can do is stay awake, not leave early, and open up your heart and mind for a few hours. Eric has been quite the theatre whore as of late. If you have any idea why someone would attend a play without knowing what it's about, please e-mail him at eric.a.morrison@verizon.net. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 12, No. 02, March 8, 2002. |