Studs Terkel and Me

I was browsing through my theater memory book the other day and I stumbled upon a number of photos and clippings from "Working" by Studs Terkel. It was produced, like so many of the shows I did, at San Luis Obispo Little Theatre. It was also the first and only show I did with my daughter, Lisa.

Ed Galena, who had previously directed me in “Same Time, Next Year,” directed the play. My dear friend, John Bartelt, who was my George in "Same Time," was the music director. I played a number of roles, as did most of the cast, the most memorable being Kate Rushton, the housewife. And, once again, my ability to improvise saved me on opening night. More on that later.

I returned to theater in early 1983, when Lisa was a little more than three years old. Most nights, her father looked after her while I was rehearsing or performing. But sometimes she accompanied me to the theater. We would bring her sleeping bag, pillow, snacks, books and coloring books, and she would make herself at home. She grew up around actors, directors, and designers. She always knew my lines and let me know when I got it wrong.

Lisa was with me when I auditioned for "Working" and ended up being cast as one of the children. As I recall, she appeared on stage four times, had one line, and sang in the big company numbers at the end of both acts. This helped to assuage my guilt for dragging her to the theater every night. I imagine she was bored to sobs during her long stints in the green room. I'll have to ask her.

Back to opening night. John had recorded all of the music to tape, in the order it was to be played. The sound tech had a copy of the script with the cues highlighted. It should have been a no-brainer. Unfortunately, there was this guy Murphy and his stupid law.

By the time I appeared on stage as Kate, my music was to be already cued up. So, I said my lines... no music. I ad-libbed a line thinking, perhaps, the sound tech hadn't heard me. (I don't know why. It's not like it was a Beatles concert.) Still, no music. So, I just started improvising, about how I always wanted to be a singer. I had no way of knowing that the sound tech had advanced the tape past my song and was frantically trying to find his way back.

In the meantime, the director and the rest of the cast were back in the green room watching the show on the monitor. My friend, Martha Hawley, said, "I don't remember her having that many lines." The director suddenly realized what was happening and ran to the booth. I was just about to start singing my song a cappella, when the sound tech found my music and hit "play." I carried on like nothing unusual had happened.

When I finished the scene and exited the stage, the director was waiting for me in the wings. He put his arms around me and said, "If it had to happen to someone, I'm glad it happened to you." He knew that if something went wrong on stage, I would just reach into my improvisational grab bag and carry on.

Considering how often things go "wrong" in life, I am very grateful to have this skill. I wish they taught it in high school.

Life at the Five and Dime

Earlier this week, my mother and I were reminiscing about a play I did many years ago, "Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean." It was produced by San Luis Obispo Little Theatre, where I did a lot of acting (and volunteering) during the 1980s. It was also the first time my mother saw me on stage.

When I heard that the play was to be directed by Mark McDougal, I started preparing my audition piece. Mark was a director with whom every local actor wanted to work. He was intelligent, insightful, innovative and able to convey his vision with crystal clarity. A rare creature in the world of community theater.

When I arrived at the audition, all of us were asked to fill out the typical one-sheet with basic info about ourselves, theater experience, availability, and the role(s) we would like to play. It also asked which role(s) we would not like to play. I indicated that I did not want to play Sissy, the role immortalized by Cher in the Robert Altman film.

Sissy is a brash, buxom, foul-mouthed flirt with a drinking problem. Frankly, I had played my share of BBFFs and had no desire to explore the depths of another dysfunctional woman with a substance abuse problem. It was a role that many female actors would die for, but I didn't see it that way.

So, we auditioned, Mark thanked us for coming and said he would call each of us within the next couple of days. He did call the following day and said, "Deborah, I would like you to play Sissy." As you can imagine, I was not happy. I actually whined. Then he said something I will never forget. He said, "Deborah, you were born to play this role." Well, gee whiz.

We started rehearsals the following week. Mark pushed me in directions that no director had ever pushed me before. He encouraged me to divest myself of all preconceived notions about this character. To explore my own soul (and my own pain) and find the truths that both Sissy and I share. I got so far inside her skin that, for several months, I walked, talked and laughed like her. I learned how to get drunk without drinking. I learned how to trip down a set of stairs without spraining my ankle.

There is a scene toward the end of the play where Sissy finally reveals the truth about herself to her friends. It is a heartbreaking scene and, in rehearsal, I always ended up crying as I spoke my lines. Mark, our brilliant director, told me not to. He told me to bring myself to the edge of tears and then stop. He said, "If you cry, then the audience doesn't have to."

He was right. On opening night, there was a veritable storm of hankies. Even my mother cried. After the performance, she came up to me and said, "For awhile, I forgot it was my daughter up there." I don't believe she realized it at the time, but it was the greatest compliment she could have given me.

Thanks, Mom.