The play that I've been rehearsing for the last month and some change opened last night to a rousing audience. Rousing, in this context, meaning that there were more people in the audience than the cast. So at least there was that. The play itself went off with just a few minor hitches. A forgotten prop here, an early entrance there, nothing major. All in all, I'd say legs were broken.
But what I really want to tell you about happened after the play.
Walking back to my car after saying my good-nights and good-shows, it occurred to me that I'd really like a beer about now. It then occurred to me that my fridge was currently devoid of beer. It then occurred to me that the convenience store across the street from the theater offers a very respectable selection of liquid proof of humankind's right to exist.
It wasn't until I pulled into the parking lot that I remembered I was walking around with two black eyes.
See, my character takes a bit of abuse in the play. Sadly for the masses that take pleasure in my suffering, it mostly takes place offstage. Either way, by the time we take our bows, both of my eyes are sportin some bitchin shiners.
So there I am standing in the parking lot, facing a decision: do I skip the beer and avoid the stares of the clerks and customers within, or do I proceed with my mission and accept the fact that I might get gawked at? Then I realize what's at stake here. We're talking about a minute or two of very minor embarrassment, if any at all, the reward for which is beer. BEER!
Pacifico in hand, I walked up to the front and slid it across the counter to the clerk. He looked at me for a second before speaking. He might've blinked.
"Doin okay tonight man?"
And I smiled. "Man, I'm doing great."
I should go out in makeup more often.
-- Post From My iPhone