Life has gotten a little crazy since I retired. Not crazy as in wild parties, dancing and drinking and carrying on, not crazy like booze and pills and parties, it’s been crazy in odd, unexpected ways. I wake up wondering when it will end, when will the alarm clock go off, and I will have to slump off to work, hat in my hands, I’ve been working on a limp, just to earn a little sympathy.
A friend of our family was in a play, and nobody would ever expect me to be at live theater.
They were performing Agatha Christie’s “And Then There Were None,” a thriller, set on a small island, off the coast of England.
It was in a small theater, the Columbus Dance Theatre. A long, narrow building nestled between the freeway and the southern reaches of downtown. It was painted in vivid colors, suggesting motion, exhilaration, frenzied movement. It was striking, powerful, your eyes were naturally drawn to the building.
The play was a production of Performing Arts Creative Ensemble, Columbus, a small group dedicated to live theater.
I’m not sure how much the tickets cost, my wife bought them online. Waiting just inside the side door, was a young man, seated at a low table, who crossed our name off a short list, thanked us and offered us a bottle of water, from a cooler, with the admonition, “it’s warm inside.” It was warm, and a little humid. But they had a few fans running, and it was dark, and it wasn’t that bad, if you were setting in the audience, on the stage under the lights, and the pressure of performance it might have been a different story.
The director came on stage and offered an apology for the heat. He told us one of the actors had a problem, a medical emergency of some type and the show would be delayed, slightly, he hoped we wouldn’t mind. Speaking only for myself, I didn’t mind at all. Things happen, and chaos is a part of life. “All the world’s a stage,” yes? And I was enjoying the occasion, I had never been to a play before, and it was exciting.
In front of me was a scene from the distant past, a setting room, with a sofa and several side chairs, a fireplace, and a bar. On the wall farthest from the seating was a door, leading to the dock, the Atlantic Ocean, and the English mainland. The whole world was on the other side of that door. But, on our side was something sinister, brooding, a darkness that hung over the stage, radiated out into the seats. Even in the warmth and humidity it was almost chilling.
Enter, stage right, maybe left, I don’t know, a young man and woman, playing the keepers of the estate. They polished the glasses and made sure the decanters were full. There was some talk of the owner, an absentee owner, devious, almost malignant. At staggered intervals we met the rest of the cast.
I don’t know anything about acting, I can channel Booby Di Cocco as Leonard Carbone, in the movie Night Shift, who told Henry Winkler, “that Barney Rubble, what an actor.” I’m just not qualified to praise or criticize individual performances, I thought they were all remarkable.
In fact, I was thrilled by the variety of actors involved in this production. Different ages, and backgrounds, it was a truly amazing, diverse ensemble, and the energy they produced was almost unbearable. It ran, from person to person, from scene to scene, it buzzed and popped and generated a feeling of immersion, and even though I sat halfway up the bleachers I felt as if I were part of it. It wasn’t like watching a movie, it was like living through an occurrence. When the lights came on in the seats during intermission I was reminded we weren’t alone. There were several other people, watching and enjoying the show. In the dark it was easy to get lost in the drama unfolding across the stage.
Mystery novels always confused me, the sleight of hand, the false leads, the subterfuge, reading them was too much like homework. I had no idea who did it, I didn’t even have a suspect, people were dying across the stage, off screen, bodies disappeared, everyone could have been guilty. I won’t ruin it by telling you who was the murderer.
When it was over, we stopped and talked to our friend, whose death in the first act was a heartbreaking tragedy, though, only the first of many. Then we left, and the actors, and director, and any stage hands they may have had were forced to disassemble the small world, load it into a truck and haul it away.
I’ve been hiding from a reality that wasn’t looking for me, had probably forgotten me, which might be the reason I’ve been running so hard. It’s easier to think you’re staying one step ahead of your past, than it is to think you’ve been forgotten. Those actors, though, they were creating their own reality, bringing the walls, and furniture and outfits into a void, and weaving it into a world that existed in a place for a time and then was gone, they did it for the purest of reasons, the love of performing. And, for a short time they let me, a stranger, ride along. I may never see another live play, but I’m glad to have gone once.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
