Singing In A Trash Can

I had the good fortune of being cast in a production of HAIR in college. I played Jeanie, a supporting character memorable for being pregnant and singing a solo while being rolled around the stage in a trash can on wheels. It was an incredible experience, and even though we allegedly came very close to being the first cast of HAIR to travel to China, nearly making a deal with the original Broadway producer to fly our cast across the world, I somehow had an even more memorable experience the second time I did the musical.

It was just over a year later and I was thrilled to be cast in HAIR again at a local community theatre, even though I did not manage to nab a major role. I was cast in the ensemble and given a part in the "Electric Blues" quartet. Still, I managed to have a great time; HAIR is among the most fun and involved ensemble shows in musical theatre.

I should have been content in the moment, but theatre is like a drug and in those days of my mid-twenties I liked to know where my next fix was coming from.

Three weeks before opening, I used a rehearsal-free night to hit up another audition. I shouldn't have gone; you know that feeling you get when you walk into a room and you sense danger? We were doing a dance combo and my jazz shoe skidded across the old wood floor, which had been smeared with dance chalk, ironically intended to avoid slips and falls... My ankle, an old dance injury acquired during A Chorus Line (seven years prior), rolled.

The man running the audition told me I "obviously can't do anything." That might be why I was dead set to show up to my other audition-- a professional musical theatre callback, two days later (in a walking boot).

I had auditioned for this show a week earlier, before getting injured, and you better believe I danced full-out trying to nab an "adult female ensemble" role in that production of Beauty and The Beast. I didn't get cast in that one either, but no regrets on attending; I mean, Sally Struthers was set to play Mrs. Potts. I had to go for it.

It was becoming increasingly clear to me that my rolled ankle was not going to add much to HAIR. Fred, our director, immediately told me he'd work around it and that he wanted me to stay. I appreciated that, but, completely out of character for myself, I used my injury as a chance to bow out. What can I say- I had just wrapped a leading role in Godspell weeks before, and I think I just wanted to continue my streak of playing main characters. I never would have quit a show, but honestly, no one needed some hippie in the ensemble hopping around in a walking boot. It seemed right to limp away from the show with most of my dignity in tact.

Unfortuantely, I was going to miss the best part; with just weeks til opening the cast was about to start that period of time where everyone bonds and feels like a family. I was leaving before I could really be a part of it all.

Still, I was happy to see everyone when I came to watch the show a month later. It was weekend two of the run, the second out of four. There was a scene where the cast members walked through the aisle and brought flowers to audience members. Six people brought one out for me. Ugh. Why had I given up the chance to be in this show with these magical hippies? I should have just sucked it up and limped my way through the run.

And then, as I watched the show, what many refer to as "the naked scene" finally rolled around. For those not in the know, there is some nudity in HAIR, but it's usually left up to each cast member to participate or not. In college as the "pregnant" character, I was able to use that as an excuse to stay fully clothed, even though I shared the role and was in the ensemble for two nights.

But I remember how people thought it was pretty impressive that 2/3 of our cast went for it, especially after hearing from audience members that you could really see everything.

As "the naked scene" came up, I braced myself for seeing a whole lotta body parts, but it turned out, it was lit very tastefully. No one stood out- although I was pretty surprised to note that nearly every cast member participated.

Anyways, after everyone finished the show and put their clothes back on, it was nice to hug my friends and go on my merry hippie way. I was a bit jealous that they would do the show for two more weekends and I hadn't even been cast in my next show yet, but life was okay.

Two weekends later, my two female best friends (and roomates) and I were about to have dinner at our apartment with four or five college friends when all of a sudden my phone rang.

It sounded like a party and I almost hung up.

"Hello?"

So much hub bub in the background. But for some reason I waited. And then suddenly, there he was.

"Hi Bonnie, It's Fred. The director of HAIR at Simi Valley Cultural Arts Center." It was almost a quarter to eight on a show night, it was weird that they were making telephone calls. "So, our Jeanie is stuck somewhere hours away and she can't make it. Do you remember the part from college? Can you come rescue us?"

Did I REMEMBER the part from college? Wait..DID I remember the part from college? It didn't matter. The answer was yes.

"Fred. I live in Sherman Oaks...It's going to take like 40 minutes to get there." I said.

But it didn't matter. There was cheering from the cast and then we hung up.

There was no time to lose, but I still had to wrap my head around the situation. I paced back and forth in my living room for at least a minute. I don't think I've ever paced before or after that moment, but that's what happened. I looked up to see the five people in my living room looking at me funny.

"I have to go play a supporting role in a show I did over a year ago and it starts in 15 minutes, but it's 40 minutes away..."

Now in hindsight, it would have been smart to make one of those friends drive me, especially because then I could have run lines in the car, but instead I threw on some shoes and left.

By the time I arrived at the theatre it was almost 8:30 - the cast cheered for me, they sent me to the tech girl working stage left- they threw a mic on me and a skirt and a blouse, and we started the show. At one point I whispered to someone - is this where my monologue goes? I was unprepared, but honestly, I think I was actually better than I had been in college. No time to think about whether was good enough, stress about how my costume looks, and certainly no time to lament that Jeanie's song is written for a tenor when I'm actually a mezzo.

I remember hoisting myself into the trash can on wheels; I had never been inside of it. It was like getting on a new Disneyland ride. Do I know my song? Well, it doesn't really matter. No time for doubt. Boom.

You don't really know what "the show must go on" means until you don't get to prep for it. Although, I wonder if this is maybe what performing feels like for other people all the time- all of my normal weapons of self-sabotage were rendered helpless by my inability to do anything other than live in the moment.

The show is a triumph. We do the only thing you can do after a successful night of theatre in Simi Valley- we go to T.G.I.Fridays. The story of how I saved the day is on everyone's lips. It's a good day to be me.

By this time, Jeanie has resurfaced. I think she had arrived toward the end of the show... "I hope you'll come back and perform in the ensemble for closing," Fred says at the restaurant.

Honestly, it's a bit of a bummer. It's more of a bitter feeling than a bittersweet one. I somehow feel like if I ever literally failed to show up to perform a role, I wouldn't be given the privilege of performing it the following night, but this is my life we're dealing with; of course they're letting her do closing. And of course I'll come perform... in the *snobby hair toss* ensemble.

Not only am I in the ensemble for closing night, but all of my solo lines have been given away- obviously someone has filled my part in the Electric Blues quartet.

I have a similar adrenaline rush as I did the previous night, but instead of proudly taking up space and hopping in to miraculous get every one of Jeanie's lines, instead I'm trying to blend into the crowd and hide the fact that I never got to learn half the dances, though I do remember every single alto harmony I learned a month prior.

It's fine though- they're welcoming and it's fine. No one is mad that I don't know what I'm doing, but there's a let down.

It had been so special the night before; that's the only possible excuse I can make for how the next thing happened. It was so special and memorable to save the day, and then I had been put back into the ensemble for this Saturday evening closing performance.

And then we got closer to intermission.

"Are you going to do the naked scene?" My friend Zack asks me backstage.

Well, of course I'm not, silly. It's okay. He doesn't really know me. But anyone who knows me knows I'm not doing the freakin naked scene. I mean, really.

But I'm thinking about how special it was to feel so deeply a part of this show, and now all I have left is this naked scene. And I know that some girls had just taken their shirt off instead of...you know, going for it.

Obviously I'm not going to do that though. See, I'm not the person who does that. I don't even generally wear a bathing suit in public without an elaborate cover up, and I don't exactly have favorable feelings about my curvy body.

But I don't know. I had seen the show two weeks prior and seen the lighting from the audience- it was super tasteful. It felt like art and not raunchy oversexualized art. And I had been onstage the night before although that was more like "oops playing a pregnant woman so I can't participate in the nudity" *snap* "darn it, too bad" energy. But now I had no excuse.

Standing backstage and waiting for my cue to enter, I reach behind and unsnap my bra and set it aside in the dressing room someplace where no one would accidentally move it.

It's almost like losing time, because the next thing I remember is being onstage. The entire cast is onstage now - Claude is singing "Where Do I Go" and the lights are so low. No one is looking at me. I lift my flowy purple top over my head and stand proudly, quietly singing my alto harmony, topless, with a full house of Simi Valley patrons watching, and a videographer.

I feel free. It's dim. It's beautiful. And I find out later every single person participated. Every single person, so I would have been the only one not to if I'd bowed out.

I don't even panic until the final bar of the song as I take a moment to realize my double D boobs are just completely exposed and I haven't really thought about the process of getting my shirt back on in a discreet way. Somehow I manage to grab my shirt from the ground in the blackout, head off, get my bra back on and my blouse. I'm beaming.

I'm relieved to be wearing a shirt again, but I'm beaming.

I mean, the liberation of going topless (as a completely physically inhibited person) and saving a show by stepping in right at showtime is a pretty fulfilling weekend.

People always talk about how theatre is an escape. How theatre helps you be someone else. But I think it's the opposite. Theatre pulls things out of you that you'd never otherwise experience.

Fourteen years later, I can't imagine being topless in a musical. It was a weird experience, and it belongs to me. I can imagine saving the day- for me, that's less out of character, and I've done it a few times, though maybe not to that extreme. But theatre has given me the opportunity to dig deep again and again.

The variety of characters I get to audition for are nothing compared to the possibilities that I know are inside of me because of that feeling. That hoisting-yourself-into-a-rolling-trash-can-to-sing-a-solo-feeling where the spotlight is about to hit you and for just a moment, you're the leading character in your life, and everyone elses.

And I don't think it's an accident that a year after this experience, I start making money as a performer.

Who knew, after so many years of looking, I'd find my value in the trash can?