Almost BFFs
The other day my stupid smart phone tried to play the role of my BFF instead of a device that also tracks my screen time. It flashed one of those “Hey, remember this?” memories of me at an opening night cast party — almost twenty years ago. I spent the next half hour simultaneously floating in nostalgia and stuck in traffic.
I was a member of the cast of To Kill a Mockingbird at Hartford Stage, starring Matthew Modine as Atticus Finch. It was an awesome production that received standing o's every night, was extended two weeks and even considered for a Broadway run. As cool as all of that was, the best part was that I had been cast as an understudy for two roles, most importantly Tom Robinson, and I almost got to go on one night.
Almost.
Ride Sharing
That day the actor playing Tom Robinson had traveled to NYC to audition for his next role. The actress who played his wife was also being considered for the production, so they carpooled to the city. To say that traffic between NYC and Hartford can be unpredictable would be a dramatic understatement. Tom and the Mrs. almost missed the show.
Almost.
Having diligently prepared the role, and even played it to critical acclaim — from the cast — in multiple understudy rehearsals, I was more than ready for my time to shine. An hour before curtain I mentally zoned out while hiding in my usual backstage spot, hoping the stage manager would come tap me on the shoulder and say, "Get ready. You're on!" I presume Helen Robinson's backup was doing the same.
That never happened.
Instead, about twenty minutes past show time, the lights went dim, the curtain went up and the show went on as planned. Neither understudy got any shine that night.
As bummed as I was, this experience wasn't new. Three years prior I'd had an "almost famous" moment as an understudy for a role in A Raisin in the Sun at the same theatre. Only that time I needed the lead actor to lose his battle with food poisoning.
Spoiler alert...he won.
The Back Seat
I’d spent weeks preparing to play Tom Robinson. But the decision about whether I’d get to wasn’t made in rehearsal. It was made in a car somewhere between Manhattan and Hartford — one I wasn’t even in.
At least not physically.
I was bundled with the real Robinsons, and had no idea. So I graded what I could see. The director hadn’t been at a single understudy rehearsal. The rave reviews had come from the cast — had they ever made it upstairs? Maybe the producers still had doubts. Maybe they had more of them about Helen Robinson’s understudy than about me. I’ll never know which of us they were worried about.
People ride in someone else’s car all the time without knowing it. The manager who can’t be promoted until her boss is. The groomsman who gets cut because the bride has one fewer bridesmaid. The waitlisted student whose acceptance depends on someone else saying no.
When you can’t see the bundle, the only thing left to grade is yourself. So you replay the rehearsals, the performance reviews, the last ten years of friendship, the essay — looking for the flaw — when the answer was stuck in traffic somewhere on I-91.
Question of the Week
What are you blaming yourself for that might have been decided in someone else’s car?
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