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.