Tag Archives: bonkers

Whistling While I Work

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It was inevitable: I needed to return to the office. But first, my schedule: I wake up at four a.m. I know, I know. I catch the 5:15 train to Farragut North, followed by a four-block walk, a brief detour into the Wa-Wa for a breakfast sandwich, which for me is tuna salad on a croissant, and at my desk by 5:50. Take another five minutes to wake up the coffee machine (my ungrateful coworkers will never know what I have to endure being first in), and I have a solid hour to draw, not a minute wasted to get here.

So when I arrived at the metro station, a mile from my apartment, without my magical badge, my entire morning was fucked. I went back, grabbed the goddamned thing, disappointed my cat, and called an Uber, the only way I was getting a full hour in before work. As a man whose strict routines have kept him sane, I craved that full hour.

For some reason, the Uber GPS led the driver to the other side of the roundabout, and I thought he left, and then he picked me up, then he apologized and explained himself for over five minutes, and I didn’t need this kind of chaos. I was still twitchy.

I should have just worked from home. But I needed to be there. I needed to sit down in the breakroom, listen to podcasts and work on a piece of art for an hour. I needed to reset myself. I needed to be around people I knew. I needed to do this for myself.

The Uber dropped me off a few minutes after six. I did not get a full hour of art in, though I did finish one drawing. When you look at it, try not to think about the height of the counter. Like, what is she standing on?

A few minutes after seven, I dove right into the 171 emails I received, between the three inboxes I monitored, confirmed that my boss and my colleagues had already taken care of most of it, and moved onto where I was needed.

While I got caught up, the second person in was Work Dad, dressed in workout gear and looking like a Gen-X skateboarder. This was a side of him people who showed up on time never got to see. I weep for them. The third person at the office reminds me of a gray golden retriever because she is simultaneously shy and effusive, and she’s got a little slouch.

The fourth person who shows up is my Emergency Backup Boss. (She’s still a boss, but she’s not my main boss.) Before the vast office reshuffling, EBB and I were neighbors, and we’d check in with each other every morning. She is far away from me now, so we don’t see each other as much. But she dropped by to check up on me this morning, and I filled her in on everything.

I noted that I was talking very fast, and I was having a difficult time shutting myself up. That is a bad sign.

There was an employee luncheon that afternoon, and she and my boss talked me into going. When the hour arrived, we left with a group, but EBB and I got way ahead of everybody because it was cold, and we were hungry. I followed her around because either she knew what she was doing, or she was acting like she did, and I needed that confidence to hold onto.

There was too much chaos, but I had a plate full of boutique quesadillas I needed to shove into my mouth before I ran out, screaming, whapping people square in the face with my backpack. I found myself at the bar, sipping a mocktail called a DuPont sunrise, with Mr. Production.

Mr. Production and I are a lot alike. We’re both middle-aged white men with gray hair. We are both devoted to making our colleagues’ jobs easier. And we’re both really fucking awkward.

We had a lovely conversation, and I ended up staying almost a half an hour later as a result. He told me how he worked at the same society as the Loquacious One, but not at the same time. I told him that hemoglobin was a weird thing to select for in evolution.

Despite that fact that the chips and guac line was behind him, this turned out to be a great getaway from the hassle of the restaurant. I had a lot of work to do before I could call it quits for the day, so I finished my DuPont sunrise and left the restaurant calm and a little rested, if you can believe it.

How did I do? I think I talked too much, which is bad. I figured out how to tip without getting a bill, and I tipped the staff a lot. Throwing money around is bad.

On the other hand, my thoughts were under control, I was focused, and I was patient. I adapted to inconveniences more efficiently because I wasn’t resorting to violence.

I have an appointment with my doctor this evening, and we’ll see where it goes from there.

Busy Being Dizzy

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I’m not going to list everything I did today, suffice it to say, at one point, I crawled under my bed with a broom because somehow Oscar got kitty litter under all of my suitcases.

I’m back on the time-release stimulant, and I have so much freaking energy right now. It’s got me concerned because it feels manic, but my thoughts aren’t racing, and I’m not irritable. I did have to tell the woman at the cafe I discovered this morning how awesome their place is, which is not typical for me.

I go back to work tomorrow, and I have no idea what to expect. I’ve got 74 emails in my personal inbox, but the staff has been working to cover for me for everything else. They didn’t need my help in my absence, and that kind of makes me feel unloved.

That’s just tasks. I don’t know how I will be in an office. The headaches are ongoing and a little more frequent, even as I’ve been back on Vyvanse, so it’s not withdrawal, as my doctor suspects. I’m incredibly calm, focused, and productive, so maybe it’s not the mania.

I don’t feel out of the woods yet, but I have a life, and I need to return to it.

In the meantime, here’s an actual photo of me being manic.

Psycho Killer, Que L’Enfer?

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A common trigger for manic episodes is a sleep disruption. Starting with tech week, I’d been going to sleep three-to-four hours after my bedtime. I’d wake up at my normal hour, which is ungodly, feed Oscar, and start my day. I was tired at work, but otherwise functioning. Then the manic episode kicked in.

My doctor prescribed a medication he described as a “sledgehammer,” which I was looking forward to, but no pharmacy had it. To be fair, there are hundreds of pharmacies in town, and I only called eleven, but I sensed a pattern. He even called his ace-in-the-hole drugstore, and they didn’t have it.

His solution was to prescribe another antipsychotic for my first night, this one like “a sledgehammer, but heavier,” which I couldn’t wait to try. That night, I went to the theater, regretted some things I said, and looked forward to one more evening of that. I took an Uber home, welcomed the sledgehammer, and curled up in bed.

I woke up at my usual time Friday morning to feed the cat, then I went back to bed for three hours. I was sluggish most of the day and took a lot of naps. Since I had to leave early the night before, due to being overwhelmed (which I described as “sick”), Monique texted me and told me not to come in that night, but rather for closing Saturday. I said, “Thank you,” and I took another nap. I fell asleep at six p.m. and woke up at my normal time.

I felt like a zombie all day Saturday, and all I wanted to do was lie in bed. I’d sit at my desk, look at a partial sketch, strategize, then lie back down. To shake some of the rust off, I explored my parking garage, and the next day, I went looking for Fort Totten Park, which is on the map, but is hard to get to. Turns out, there is no park there, only a conservatory. I did find a park, but it was more of a memorial next to an endless expansive of community gardens.

Feeling slow, I braced myself to go to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, where Maddie was already there to do all the work. I was needed to help with strike, and to make an appearance at the cast party.

From the opening trumpet of act one, I had an excruciating headache—not a migraine, but a cousin at the least. Maddie found me two Tylenol, and I stuck it out. Somehow, after the final bow, I found myself wrapping up running lights and removing their gaffer tape, while also getting electrocuted. This did not give me superpowers.

I did another awkward thing, where my brain was shouting, “Abort!” but my mouth kept going. It’s surreal. I used shrooms on Shane’s birthday, and I hated it. But it’s nothing compared to what I’ve been going through. But, yes, I told Elizabeth she was “Really cool,” and I didn’t exit so as to avoid creepiness. She was gracious, but I can only assume she was uncomfortable.

By the time I finished with the gaffer tape, most of the work was done, and they didn’t need my help with anything. I still had the headache, so I sat in the changing room and physically held my head back from exploding. I was about to leave when I noticed a gift bag with my name on it. Even though they’d understand, I would feel rude if I left without it. Also, I wanted to know what was in the bags.

The mushroom is baffling, but greatly appreciated. Monique said she’d be in touch, and I’ve been talking to some of the producers about donating some art to future shows. The problem is, if this sleep situation led to my psychotic break, like I suspect, I won’t be able to go out and play like I want to.

After all the gifts were given out, I hired an Uber, which smelled of stale weed. So I did what I’ve been doing since I had my first meltdown: just grabbed onto the “Oh Shit handle” and just let it happen.

Eggsistential Crisis

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I love my apartment, and I love my roommate, but I have to say I miss the old place. The idea of separate rooms at all is one I once enjoyed, and we had a backyard for Newcastle to poke around in. We also had a great neighborhood. In the spring, all of the bushes became soft and colorful.

It’s a mile walk to the 7th Street Hill Café, which I’d long ago adopted. On Saturday mornings, I liked to sit in an easy chair, sip a latte, and watch them assemble the Eastern Market, a cross between a crafts fair and a Farmer’s Market.

I came to the 7th Street Hill Café, located on North Carolina Avenue, on Saturday to do just that. Riding high on bipolar disorder, I needed to get out of my apartment and experience the world. I settled into the chair, pulled my markers out of my bag and eat my breakfast sandwich, resisting the urge to devour the whole thing in two bites.

After I returned it to the end table, the old man in the opposite chair said, “You have egg on your shirt.”

“Gross.” I plucked the solid yolk and dropped it onto the plate, keeping it far from the last bites of my sandwich. I said, “Speaking of eggs, I saw a Cybertruck downtown. I’m gonna crunch some numbers, and I’m gonna get a second job, and I’m gonna go to the bank, and I’m gonna get a loan, and I am going to egg that piece of garbage.” (It’s one of the funniest jokes I ever made. I’m going to use it until I run out of people to say it to.)

“Or,” the old man, whose name was Glen, said, “You could fill up two—no, three—no, two coffin coolers with eggs and sell them at the farmer’s market. That’s what Dan did, you know Dan?”

It was 8:13am, and I accepted that I was going to be in this conversation until the Post Office opened at nine. “No.”

“Dan used to sell eggs here at the Eastern Market. I used to truck them in from his farm. So many eggs. Dan died of a stroke. Not kidding, he just keeled over and died. That’s why nobody’s selling eggs at the farmer’s market anymore. Do know that you can tell what a chicken ate by looking at the color of its yolk?”

I gasped. “No!”

The old man chuckled and looked a bit smug. “Oh, yes. If the yolk is this deep amber, orange color, it ate a lot of marigolds.”

He smirked at me through his beard and waited for my reaction. I had to formulate one, and the only way I could prove I was paying attention was to ask a question. “You feed them marigolds?”

The old man chuckled. “No, no, no, they’re free-range. They can eat whatever the fuck they want. And if I ever want to eat a chicken dinner, all I need to do is grab a rooster who’s getting too big for his britches and hold him upside down and slash, motherfucker! Decapitated! Heh-heh!”

I didn’t know what was going on, but I buckled the fuck up to see where it was headed. It was difficult to follow along, but not because it was a bumper car of thought. No, Glen stubbornly clung to one subject until he veered off into a completely different direction, like he was jumping from train of thought to train of thought at a crowded depot.

Glen once punched a “shepherd bitch” (a dog) in the head, and she was nice to him after that. He recounted why you should never piss him off through the parable of a tense standoff with the owner of the Eastern Market. He already had his Halloween costume ready to go. (Hooded cloak, Goblin nail extensions. A paper machê Satyr mask a friend in Venice made for him.) He couldn’t remember why he didn’t exchange a word with his half-brother for two years while they shared a house. He kept me up to date on the lifespans of his siblings, including his “bitch sister” (a person), who is still alive. For a coup de grace, he unloaded on me how people are always on their “fucking phones” all the time. He could tell you how to get from point a to point B. “You know how? Not through your fucking phone, that’s for sure. Not on a map.” He tapped his temple.

Suddenly, he was gone.

I finished my drawing in peace.

I packed up and wandered off, my first destination being the Post Office to mail a package I’ve been meaning to mail for six months (sorry, Donna). I made it halfway up the block before the generous application of the color orange, my favorite, caught my eye. I’d walked past it on impulse, but I yanked my emergency brake and skidded over to the side to see more paintings.

They were collages coated in a thick layer of shellac, and a figure, bald, faceless, and strangely sexy, appeared on many of them. She said, “I love watching people come in for a second look.” We talked about color, I told her everything I liked about her art, and I bought a piece. She told me her name was Quest, and she gave me a big hug. The visible part of Quest’s hair was made of gray feathers, and she wore a robe, not a dress. I don’t think she was human. In a good way.

I was in and out of the Post Office at the speed of someone who’s done it a lot.

Even though I have Ember’s number, I decided to walk the ten blocks to the House of the Devil to see if she was standing up for us. On my way, I acquired a lava lamp, and I attempted to take a picture of a street called Justice Ct. until a Latinx man accosted me. He knew English nouns, and that was it. He shouted at me an incomprehensible string of them that told the story of an immigrant succeeding in this country, and something about that was making him angry.

A middle-aged couple across the street, surrounded by Chihuahuas yelled, “Sir, can you help us with our dogs? Sir?” I realized who they were talking to me, and I separated from the loud man to join them.

The woman yelled, “Thank you for helping us with our dogs!” The angry man continued ranting, impossible to understand. I never got the names of the couples, but I thanked them profusely.

Ember was not at the Pit of Despair. She later told me she was taking the weekend off. She’s earned it for sure. I look forward to resisting next week.

Exhausted and overstimulated, I headed straight home. But first, there is a big sign at the stop before mine labeled “Arts Walk.” I’ve been meaning to go there for at least two months. I hopped off the train to check it out because I was still jittery. It was okay. It was no Eastern Market. I bought a belt made of an old bicycle tire.

Also this weekend, a relationship that lasted well over a decade came to an end. I’m not going into details because I like to keep it classy in this joint. Also because it was enormously frustrating.

Culture doesn’t put as much value on a friend breakup as it does a romantic one, but they still hurt. You’re closing the door on all that history and intimacy, even if it ended badly. You have every right to mourn.

The truth is, we’d broken years ago, and I just wasn’t ready to let go. I already mourned.

Sunday, I dedicated my day to my project, the fruits of which you’ve seen yesterday. I’ve received no feedback on them from any of the St. Mark’s Players, and now I’m frightened to go to the show on Thursday.

My next project is finding a light bulb for my lava lamp.

Dramatis Personae

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Ladies and Gentlemen, the cast of Metromaniacs!

Played by the accomplished Caroline Adams, Lisette the proactive, scheming maid.

Played by Hanlon Smith-Dorsey, Mondor is a loyal servant with no scruples.

Played by Hart Wood, Franacalou is a lover and creator of drama.

Played by Jane Schecterson, Lucille is, like, yeah, whatever.

Played by K Sridhar, Baliveau is the very definition of angry uncle.

Played by Oscar Léon, Damis is a romantic, twitchy poet.

Played by Steve Isaac, Dorante is lovesick and star cross’d.

General Grievance

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I tried to work through the manic episode, but it was an unusually social day at work. I was trying to do my job because my morning hours are precious vis-à-vis my productivity. Past editors-in-chief of Blood and were getting their pictures taken with the Research Council, and they loved to laugh in front of the elevators, which I sit near.

I hid in a vacant office and finally got some work done. Unfortunately, our laptop batteries last only about an hour, and nobody on my floor could locate a cord. I tried taking a walk, and it didn’t work. If I didn’t start my day two hours before everyone else, I wouldn’t have finished anything.

When agitated, some will sputter something that sounds like English but seemed to be a forgotten dialect. That was me telling my boss I had to go home. It must have scared the crap out of her.

The walk to the Metro was calming, and I breathed through my commute in a half-empty subway car. I got home, didn’t play with Oscar, laid down, breathed for twenty more minutes, and finished my work for the day, except for one thing.

I had to bring myself down before the show, but I also wanted to hang out with Ember and whoever she had collected since I saw her last. That person was Steve, a chatty, retired man carrying a sign that said, “Nazi HQ.” Steve’s girlfriend works in the Capitol and may be a legislator.

Immediately after I introduced myself, an older man on a bike in the Cadillac of MAGA hats wheeled over on one of those rental bikes. Everybody was calm. Ember didn’t engage, she just waved her sign. Steve and the man traded talking points, which were deflected by the target’s stubbornness. Nobody got angry, but we thought he was stupid, and he thought we were stupid.

When I had arrived, she wasn’t sitting in the path of the douchebags because they had parked their Escalades in front of her. Off to the side, she waved one sign as high as she could (which wasn’t very high) and wore one around her neck.

I wondered if she was acting weird around me for some reason, but she’s really just weird in general. Thursday, she had painted Celtic knot-work on DMT onto her cheekbones. Her glasses were amber and the shape of sunflowers. Her baseball cap was covered in metal studs.

Speaking of DMT, we talked a lot about it. In fact, she had a recipe for extracting it from tree bark because “it comes from nature.” No thank you. The last time I tried a hallucinogen, I had a bad time, so never again. The last time Ember did, she saw a blue goddess who said she was ready.

I asked her how long she’d been doing this, and she told me two weeks. I asked her how long she lived in the DMV area, and she told me two weeks. Something called her, she didn’t know what. I tried to explain that I didn’t believe in the supernatural, but I was fascinated by it, but I lost control over my words and turned into a sputtering mess. We changed the subject.

She had been living in Vermont as a cook. Apparently, she has a bachelor’s in psychology but without a masters and doctorate, it’s a useless degree. She couldn’t find a “real” job, so she did some factory work while her soul died. She quit the kitchen when her calling found her, and she came straight here, where her cousin lives.

Ember is inspiring and brave, as well as being cocky and full of life. It’s impossible to believe that she came from the parents she later described to me.

The sidewalk, a block from Union Station, is prime hunting grounds for people-watchers, like myself. Except for the guy on the bike, most people, ignored us after I arrived. As the day went on, though, people thanked us, took pictures with Ember (She had the flashy signs), and chatted with us.

For example, while his family waved at us with enthusiasm, a dad told his eight-year-old daughter, “They’re protesting. If there’s something you don’t like, protest.” An older gentleman walked past us, spun around, middle fingers extended, and yelled, “Fuck the Heritage Foundation! I used to work for George W. Bush!”

I was there for an hour when we were approached by two people Ember already knew. They were federal workers, so they wore Covid masks to hide their identities. Though they did tell me their names, though: Brandy and Dani.

Brandy (plot twist: he’s a middle-aged man) paced the sidewalk, a tiger in a cage, with his own sign. He’s a veteran, who are another demographic the government is screwing.

Dani brought a slide whistle, playing it every time someone entered or left the building. She lives in Takoma Park, the same town as all the coffee shops I like.

Next, we met Carrie. Carrie was passing by on her way to Union Station, wearing a Banksy T-shirt and a red headscarf. She needed to plan tonight’s White House protest, but she stuck around for half an hour, discussing the resistance. While Dani played the slide whistle, Carrie booed.

We later found out this is illegal, as Ember explained to me slowly and carefully so as to avoid misunderstanding.

I left after about two hours, when it had gone from a single fiery woman to a small movement. As I pointed myself at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, Dani spread her arms. I generally don’t do hugs, but I let her wrap her arms around me this time. It felt right.

If I needed any proof this was an episode, and a particularly bad one, it could be found in the way I kept up with Steve. And with Jane from the play, with her delighted, effervescent charm.

I suggested an idea for how to increase ticket sales for Thursday shows to the producer. I pitched my artistic services to the same producer. I teased some of the actors who’d never spoken to me before. I started so many conversations, and I invented the word “DOGEbag.”

The problem with hypomania is that it’s not as destructive as regular mania, so it feels like a lot of fun. However, as my morning in the office proved, it’s not great. I probably need to talk to my doctor.

I also got three phone numbers.

She Doth Protest

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My walk from Union Station to St. Mark’s Episcopal Church, only a few blocks from the Capitol, takes me past the headquarters for the Heritage Foundation. These are the people who repackaged George W. Bush from nepo-baby frat-boy to a statesman. They dream up legislation to dump us into the Dark Ages. They are worse than Trump and Elon because Trump and Elon would have no power without them. I tend to flip the building off as I walk past.

Wednesday, the last day of Tech Week, I saw something on the approach that confused me. was a parka, hunched over, on a stool. As I passed by, I noted that the parka was female, and she was carrying a skillfully painted sign that said, “I will not be complicit.”

I walked by and made it to the end of the block before I decided I was going back. But first, I wanted to do something nice in this 25-degree weather. (In metric, that translates to “absolute zero.”) I returned to the Heritage Foundation with a cup of black coffee, which, it turned out, she drinks as is. We chatted for about a minute, and I thanked her. She would be there, she said, seven days a week, eleven to six.

I stopped by Thursday at about noon, but she wasn’t there. I was disappointed, but my life wasn’t over. It’s enough that I met her. She has inspired me. I think I’ve fallen a little bit in love with this tiny, resilient person, sitting in the Arctic cold, forcing these conservative douchebags to walk around her.

I didn’t expect to see the protestor there on Saturday, when the foundation was closed, but there she was. It was a few degrees above absolute zero, but it was still cold, so I grabbed a black coffee and strolled over to her.

She didn’t recognize me because I was wearing a different jacket, but she appreciated the coffee. We talked, a little longer this time, and I learned that she is hardcore. She understands that she comes from a place of privilege, which allows her to quit her job and sit there full-time. Until the people in this building are gone, she isn’t going to participate in this fascist-capitalistic system. I’ll be honest, I find that naïve, but I admire her conviction.

There have been monstrous protests all over the touristy parts of DC since the election, doubly so since the president and his master started goose-stepping around the Oval Office, throwing oppressive executive orders around like confetti. She told me she could go to any one of them, but her calling placed her here.

I asked her if it would be okay if I hung out with her for a couple of hours here and there. She looked at me like I recited a cookie recipe at her in Esperanto. She sputtered for a moment and told me of course. She could use the company. She told me that, the other day, five people stood with her.

I had to go catch up with my ex-roomie, and without my watch, I wasn’t sure what time it was. I introduced myself, and she replied with “I’m Ember.” I told her it’s a beautiful name, and that seemed to make her uncomfortable. I feel bad about that, but to be fair, it is a beautiful name.

Sunday, after a late Saturday, I decided I wanted to protest. At eleven a.m., I caught the Metro to Union Station and walked to the Great Satan’s lair, but she wasn’t there. I really do want to protest, so I plan on stopping by this week. Even if she’s never there again, she affected my life profoundly. She makes me want to resist.

Ranger Things

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I received a text from Maddy on Saturday morning, reminding me to watch the door to the auditorium when I worked the play without her that night. The reminder came not because she didn’t trust in my ability to remember, but because a woman almost got clocked on opening night.

They tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen (or hear at all), and she got lucky. With the first half of Maddy’s text, she was telling me that I might have to dive in slow motion to take the hit.

The second half hinted that the Olympic-level quick change at the end of act one almost failed. She put scissors on the prop table in case it came to that. I had a lot to look forward to in the evening.

I had a couple of awkward exchanges on the internet before I headed out for the rest of the day. I missed my Metro train, and I had to wait seven minutes for the next one, so I was almost on time to see my ex-roomie. This was bad.

A habit I had picked up from my Nebraskan ex-wife was to show up early. As they say on Letterkenny, “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.” I was running late.

After I bought a coffee for the lone protestor at the Heritage Foundation, I became actually late. I became even later when I walked down the wrong street, several blocks past our meeting place. I had a missed call and a text from Nicole, who was worried something terrible had happened to me.

My ex-roomie was telling me that she hadn’t been to the Suffrage Museum, where she volunteered for years, in an age. She is worried, reasonably so, it will be shut down by the president’s boss. I suggested we go this weekend.

We were met by a ranger, a friend of ex-roomie, who took us through the building and showed us everything that had changed since ex-roomie had been there last. They even had her old name-tag.

They were catching up, so I was a third wheel and kind of bored through most of it. While we were hanging out in the gift shop. The ranger pointed at one of their displays and mentioned that no one ever bought the Suffragette Soap. I have a habit of purchasing interesting soaps, so I picked up a bar.

The other ranger, an unusual person with an unusual accent and unusual glasses, cashed me out. I told her that I was excited to smell like oranges, and oh, my god, she loves oranges! I picked up a mini equal rights pin and told her that I want to start a gift exchange with a crow and explained what that entailed. She asked if I like birds, and I told her that I liked owls, and oh, my god she loves owls. I told her that the only owls I’ve ever seen in real life were burrow owls, and oh, my god, she loves burrow owls. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was flirting with me. Her name was Jess

Upon the park rangers’ suggestions, ex-roomie and I went to the Folger Shakespeare Library across the street and looked over some amazing old manuscripts. They were always open to their illustrations. However, as with all medieval illustrations, I had no idea what was going on.

She and I tried to get lunch at the café, but it is apparently the most popular study place for college students. We found a seat, but she had to leave for an appointment before her food arrived, which meant I had to eat it.

Maddy had completely reset the props before she went home Friday, so there was nothing for me to do until it was time to relocate the weasel. I wasn’t needed until about a half-hour before curtain, so I sat in the Baxter Room with the cast, and I illustrated Jess.

Lisette and Lucille each breathlessly gave me their accounts of the costume-flip nail-biter. The issue wasn’t the corset, but rather the second dress. It had an extra layer, so Lisette and her petticoat kept getting caught in it. She hung up the dress in a way that she could step into it, and I asked her if she were going to practice. If she went down during the performance, it was all over.

What struck me about the exchange was that she was coming to me as an expert. I hadn’t done theater since early high school. I can barely dress myself. On the other hand, my façade of authority allowed me to talk her out of the hanger idea, which might kill her, and into something a little more reasonable, like safety pins.

That did the trick. At the end of the first act, after I rescued the weasel, Lucille and Lisette were a well-oiled machine. I got to hold the flashlight. Apparently, I did that well because Lucille gave me a double thumbs up as Lisette stepped onto the stage.

After the show, we had to break down the set and the seating so the Episcopalians could worship in their own damned church. Ernie from load-in directed us with military precision. Within forty-five minutes, the set was in the closet downstairs, the risers had been relocated, the prop table wrapped up, and the boulder put into a very large plastic bag. All the chairs and the piano had been restored to their original positions.

It was like we weren’t even there. It’s guerilla theater.

Also, it wasn’t until the fourth time I listened to this play that I heard Lisette say to Lucille, “All tits on deck!”

Despite All my Rage I’m Still Just a Weasel Onstage

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The end of Tech Week (https://jrmhmurphy.com/tag/theater/) started out with smarm. Specifically, I arrived at the church and stepped into the empty nave before a slick man in a suit appeared somehow without opening the door. He asked if he could help me. I said I was with the St. Mark’s Players and we were meeting at six. He said, and I quote, “It’s not six yet.” It was 5:57.

I quickly found them in the Baxter room, which was the kind of place you could hold a wedding reception. We’d been using it as a dressing room and a place for the cast to hang out.

I want to give mad props to Arianna, the costume tech. I have a lot of respect for people who sew theater costumes (I dated one) because they are some of the craftiest people you’ll ever meet. Looking closely, you can see that the costumes were purchased off the rack, but they have been seriously altered.

Arianna sewed snaps on the petticoat and dress for Lisette. This was useful because Lisette, as I’ve mentioned in the past, has a quick-change out of a corset and into the royal dress. Tuesday night, Jane and Maddy struggled with the removal part, so Arianna reduced the size of the string holding it together and turned a few fasteners into snaps and that made all the difference in the world. She had a minute and forty-five seconds to switch it over, and after a few rounds, Maddy, Jane, Lisette, and I managed to do it in a minute fifteen.

Another area of improvisation I was stunned with was how she handled Damis’s jacket. Because Arianna had sewn a cape onto it, it kept falling off, so she added backpack straps to the inside, and it stayed together.

I know you were all (both of you) anxiously anticipated the arrival of the metal codpiece. I am happy to announce that it arrived, and it was glorious. I asked if it was bulletproof, but Arianna didn’t know.

I forgot to tell you this, but act one ends with a pair of cast members bursting out of the nave, swinging the door with gusto. It’s my responsibility to wait in the lobby to keep people from getting smacked in the face with it. I’ll be honest, though, I kind of want to see someone get walloped, so if I saw someone approaching the door, I’m not sure I’d rescue them.

Maddie gave me a spreadsheet of my duties, and one of the items was “Fluff the Weasel.” Since that sounds like a full sentence, I had to ask exactly how to fluff said weasel. No, its name is Fluff. That meant I was singing, “Fluff the magic weasel, lives on the stage …”

Wednesday’s rehearsal went off without a hitch, including Lisette’s big change. Maddie let me do the work because I’m going to be by myself on Saturday, which means I will have to help them strike the set for church Sunday.

Meanwhile, I’ve been getting three or four hours of sleep, so I’m ready to collapse. I’ve been working, and with the help of my friend, Monsieur Adderall, I’ve been able to make it through, but I’ve hit a wall. I’ve had so much fun, I feel like a five-year-old after a day at the beach.

Metromaniacs opens Friday, 21 February, at St. Mark’s Church on Capitol Hill.

Having a (Costume) Ball

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Last night was the dress rehearsal for Metromaniacs, and it was worth the price of admission. From the gold and white of Francalou to the red cape on Damis, they went all out. There were buckles. So many buckles. Everybody had buckles except for Mondor, who was a filthy servant and didn’t deserve any.

The problem with working backstage is that I can’t see a proper performance, and that made me sad. The performances were very physical, especially the women. Lucille posed across the stage like an Instagram model, and Lisette imitated her, but I’d only seen them do it in twenty-first-century clothes. In fluffy Sun King dresses, I’m sure it was a sight to behold.

I was there for a reason, though, and Maddy walked me through this. There wasn’t much. I will mostly be sitting in the back, reading my proofs on my phone, and waiting for the very few things I need to do.

First, we had to check the props table, with the fake quill pens and the feather fan and the hat Yankee Doodle named Macaroni. Everything was in its exact space and labeled, and the cast tended to leave them right where they belonged, so after initial setup, we only straighten them out for the next show.

Next, we plug in the running lights and the backstage blue lamp, so nobody breaks a leg. Next, we prop open the secret door so cast members doing costume changes don’t get locked out. Next, we set the trumpet. Next, we reset the beanbag boulder for the first act.

The next thing we have to do is retrieve the weasel. Lucille tosses it backward, over the curtain, where it lands right in the path of the actors’ mid-stage exit. If we don’t want anybody to break a leg, we have to grab that right away.

We hit a wall during the quick change at the end of act one. I observed so I can try it out tonight, but Maddy, the professional, dove right in. In less than two minutes, Lisette needs to drop her drab, black maid’s dress and step into a royal pink one. The problem was that the maid’s dress had a corset, and corsets are shifty.

Every time Maddy and Lucille thought they had loosened it, they found themselves struggling with more string. The play had to be paused to figure this out. The fancy dress, petticoats, and wig went right on with no opposition. Tomorrow, Maddy and I are going to practice unlacing a corset, which I haven’t done since I was married.

And finally, in the second act, we have to grab Macaroni when Dorant flings it, not because we don’t want people to break a leg, but we didn’t want anyone to smash that delightful product of haberdashery.

That was it. We left everything where we it started, unplugged the lights, reset the weasel, and headed home in the freezing cold.

There is an issue, though. I’ve been getting home three or four hours past my bedtime and waking up at my normal ungodly hour. A sudden disruption of sleep patterns can trigger a manic episode. I should have called my doctor, I said, lamenting that I have to call my doctor to work with the community theater.

All I can do is continue to have fun and hope for the best. I need stimulation! I need excitement! I need one of those fake quills.