Actor

by Parnell Hall

  These are the key qualities of a good prompter.

  Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise had none of them. He was every actor’s dread: a dull tool, thrust into the job, probably because he was incapable of performing anywhere else. When prompting, Kirk droned the lines in a loud, nasal monotone. Far from throwing key words, he began at the very first word of the line, or sometimes even before it, for Captain Kirk seemed to draw no distinction whatsoever between dialogue and stage directions, even though the latter offered a hint as to what they were by virtue of coming in both italics and parentheses. This cut no ice with Kirk. He read everything after the character name Bluntschli. In fact, sometimes he even read the character name Bluntschli, just in case I had forgotten what character it was I was playing and he was prompting.

  As if this weren’t bad enough, Kirk did this only when asked. In other words, he suffered from the other malady of incompetent prompters, of never knowing when a prompt was needed. He was capable of sitting there in dead silence, with the eyes of everyone in the cast on him, and never suspecting anything might be needed from him until I said “line.” Indeed, often that was not enough. In most cases, I had to first get his attention by saying “Kirk,” before I said “line.” I can’t begin to tell you what this did for the pace of the line rehearsal.

  Or for my performance. I’d been afraid I would look bad. Well, I not only looked bad, I looked glaringly bad.

  Now, a certain part of it was indeed my fault, and I would be the first one to admit it. But, as it happened, for the most part I was being made to look bad by the glaring incompetence of the hopelessly inadequate Captain Kirk.

  I tried to be calm, I tried to be rational, and most of all I tried to be kind. I really tried. But I’m only human. I do not have the patience of a saint. And I have to tell you, even Gandhi would have strangled Captain Kirk.

  Anyway, as the line rehearsal wore on, slower, duller and more deadly and more ominous, my patience became somewhat frayed and I’m afraid my irritation showed.

  And as I stood there, impotently seething in helpless frustration, while I waited for the moron who had lost track to find the right page for Christ’s sake, what absolutely killed me was the sudden realization that in all of this I had not one person’s sympathy. To the other actors, the fault did not lie in Kirk for not prompting the lines, but in me for not knowing them. And my impatience with his incompetence was not seen as the just ire of a sane person attempting an extraordinary feat against insurmountable odds while being thwarted by a blundering dolt, but was seen instead as the peevishness of an arrogant actor blaming his own mistakes on a poor teenaged boy who was doing the best he could considering he’d been up all night and had had no sleep.

  Even that I could have borne. But what made it intolerable was catching a sight out of the corner of my eye of the smug smile of Avery Allington, obviously enjoying my plight immensely.

  7.

  BY THE TIME RIDLEY GOT through putzing around with the lights, we just barely had time to block Act Three before the tech. And when I say just barely, I mean just barely. We had time to block it but not run it, which ordinarily go hand in hand. You block the scene, learning and writing down the moves, then run it to make sure you got them right. The blocking part is of course a slow, laborious process, stopping to go over each new move. So though I had the book and didn’t have to depend on Captain Kirk for my lines, I still couldn’t demonstrate my acting ability (if any) because the stop-and-go blocking rehearsal naturally had no pace. The run-through would have, but, as I said, we never got to it. By the time we finished the blocking—working right through lunch with sandwiches brought in, and I could tell the other actors just loved me for that—it was one-thirty, the tech rehearsal was scheduled for two, and the actors had to be dismissed to get into costume and makeup.

  Including me.

  Especially me.

  It had been a long time, and I was never any great shakes at makeup anyway. Of course the makeup for the part of Bluntschli was not complicated, just straight makeup. A little pancake base, a little eyebrow pencil and perhaps just a trace of rouge to make up for the fact the guy’s a little younger than I am. No big deal.

  But by now I was flustered enough after my encounter with Captain Kirk to believe that, in this production, Murphy’s Law was not only in effect but working overtime, and that anything that could go wrong would become an absolute disaster within seconds. So the minute the blocking rehearsal ended I went straight back to my dressing room, sat down at the makeup counter and got to work.

  Or at least tried to. It had been a while, but when I examined the pancake makeup I still remembered enough to know that all the shades of base makeup on the counter were for women, were too light for me and simply would not do.

  That figured.

  I went out and applied at the dressing room next door; which turned out to be occupied by the roly-poly actor playing Major Petkoff and the bland chap playing the servant Nicola. If I’d won their hearts during the line and blocking rehearsals you wouldn’t have known it. While they weren’t hostile, they weren’t eager to part with their pancake makeup. On the other hand, that might have had nothing to do with me, because men’s pancake makeup seemed to be at a premium. Of the eight containers of base makeup on their counter, six were light, women’s shades like mine, and there were only two they actually used. After a bit of grumbling they grudgingly parted with one, but only after I had promised to bring it back.

  The makeup situation must have been screwed up all over the place, because as I came out of their dressing room I saw Margie-poo heading into a dressing room I’d already noted as belonging to the older actress playing the part of Catherine. She had her hair up in curlers, was wearing a makeup smock and was obviously in quest of her particular shade.

  It occurred to me I probably had three or four containers of it myself and why the right makeup couldn’t have been put in the right dressing rooms was beyond me. Though it occurred to me Captain Kirk’s sister was probably in charge of it.

  I went back to my dressing room, pulled off my T-shirt and got to work. I took the top off the precious, borrowed pancake makeup and filled it up with water.

  Oops.

  Right. No water. Just like my room in the apprentice house. I still hadn’t mentioned that to Herbie—either the lack of a bathroom or the fact that it was the apprentice house—but I was gradually working myself into a mood where these things were bound to come up.

  Anyway, I hopped around the corner to the men’s room. I got there just in time to see the door with the star on it close, obviously Margie-poo returning triumphantly to put on she had running water. Not to mention a chair, a refrigerator and a TV.

  Right, Herbie. It’s on the list.

  I filled the top from the pancake makeup with water, went back to my dressing room, sat down at the makeup counter and went to work. I took a small sponge, dipped it in the water, then rubbed it over the pancake base, transferring the makeup to the sponge. I looked in the mirror, raised the sponge and wiped a streak of base onto my cheek.

  I was thrilled.

  I have to admit it. I mean, I’ve been bitching and moaning about everything that happened to me since I got here. In spite of all that, in spite of Captain Kirk, Margie-poo, Avery, Herbie and everything else, in that one moment, in that first touch of makeup in such a long time, I felt just like a kid again, a star-struck kid, thrilled at the prospect of going onstage.

  I grinned at myself in the mirror.

  And while I was sitting there smiling at myself like a moron, the perky young cheerleader playing the part of Louka the maid came in, pulled off her shirt and sat down at the makeup counter next to me.

  She was not wearing a bra. Her breasts were not large, but they were firm, pert, perky or whatever the hell words writers use to refer to young women’s breasts. The nipples were dark pink and half erect, perhaps because it was cool in the dressing room.

  She was positively gorgeous.


  With barely a glance at me she picked up the pancake makeup, unscrewed the lid, filled it with water from a plastic squeeze bottle I hadn’t noticed among the other makeup items, grabbed a sponge and calmly began putting on her base.

  Let me say, this was not that unusual or unexpected. It caught me off guard, but it shouldn’t have. After all, I had worked in the theater before, and as I observed last night in the costume shop trying on my uniform, there is a certain casual attitude among actors and actresses when it comes to inhibitions concerning stages of undress. So this was not a particularly unusual and startling occurrence, and twenty years ago I wouldn’t have given it a second thought.

  Of course twenty years ago I wasn’t a middle-aged man with a wife and kid.

  Big difference.

  To a man in my station of life, a pair of nubile bare breasts doesn’t come along every day. Or even every other day. And commonplace as it might be in the theater, it is for a man like me indeed a noteworthy occurrence.

  I didn’t know where to look. No, don’t get me wrong. I knew where to look. I just didn’t want to be caught staring.

  All right, so I’m a pig. Guilty as charged. I must admit, while I support feminism, women’s rights and equality, and oppose sexual discrimination and sexual harassment—in short, take every politically correct stand—for all that, I will love looking at women’s breasts till my dying day, and if that’s what makes a sexist pig, I’m a pork roast.

  Anyway, I’d already expected to have trouble putting on my makeup. Now I was lucky I didn’t poke my eyes out with the eyeliner.

  The perky young actress whose name I couldn’t remember—but realized I’d better learn fast before I came up with some inappropriate nickname—put the finishing touches on her makeup, then pulled on the white blouse she was wearing as the servant girl Louka. She turned around, looked at herself in the mirror, then looked at me.

  She smiled. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Exactly what I’d been thinking. I’d covered my face with Tan No. 2 pancake makeup, but underneath it I was sure I was blushing furiously. “Huh?” I said.

  She pointed. “Putting on makeup. You started before me, and you’re not even finished.”

  I realized I wasn’t. I knew why that was. I didn’t want to point out that I’d been somewhat distracted.

  “Right,” I said. “I’m afraid I’m a little preoccupied with the part.”

  “Yeah, well don’t let Avery get to you,” she said.

  I looked at her in genuine surprise. “What? You noticed that?”

  She smiled. “Don’t be silly It’s not just you. He does it to everyone. Did you know he’s done a TV series?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Really? He usually manages to slip it into every conversation.”

  “No, I didn’t know. What show is that?”

  She shrugged. “Some CBS pilot. Got picked up as a series, shot six episodes before the ratings bottomed out and it got cancelled. I never saw it, but I heard it stunk. And he wasn’t the star or anything, just one of the supporting actors, but to hear him tell it, it’s a wonder he didn’t get an Emmy.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “That explains a lot.”

  “Hey,” she said. “It’s not like we’re not rooting for you. I know we don’t really have any scenes together, but for what it’s worth, give ’em hell.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “And now,” she said, “since we don’t happen to be in the star’s dressing room, I have to go to the ladies.”

  She smiled and bounced out.

  I must say, I felt considerably better. No, that’s not a sexist remark. I mean, to find I had her support. No, that’s not a sexist remark either. Oh, I give up, they’re all sexist remarks. What I mean is, it was really nice to find out I wasn’t alone in finding Avery Allington an arrogant, boorish clod.

  I finished up my makeup and then put on my costume for Act One, the tattered soldier’s uniform in which I would climb through the balcony window of Raina’s bedroom. I hadn’t seen the balcony window of Raina’s bedroom yet, I’d be seeing it for the first time in the tech, and I sincerely hoped it was an easy climb. Somehow, in this production, I expected it to be booby-trapped.

  I finished up my costume, walked out the door of the dressing room and bumped straight into Herbie.

  “Hey,” he said. “Hey, let me see you. Oh, you look fine.” He stepped back, surveyed me critically “Perhaps a little heavy on the eyeliner. If you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “Why should I mind? You’re the director.”

  “Yeah, well it does look a bit thick.”

  “Yeah, I think I may have lined them twice.”

  He frowned. “Why would you do that?”

  “I was a bit distracted. My dressing-room partner was putting on her makeup topless.”

  “Who, Nellie? Yeah, she does that, doesn’t she?” He grinned. “I guess you’ve been out of the theater for a while, haven’t you?”

  “My thoughts exactly.” I paused. Then, “Herbie, I’m in the apprentice house.”

  Herbie put up his hands. “I know. I know.”

  “I know you know, Herbie. I didn’t know.”

  “It was such short notice and I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I didn’t have a room. I mean, ordinarily you’d have the other actor’s room. But Walter didn’t leave, he died. His stuff’s still there. In his room, I mean. See, it turns out his only living relative’s some sister in Oregon, and of course she hasn’t come to get his stuff, and I don’t know what arrangements are being made, and along with everything else no one got around to cleaning out his room and—well, there you are.”

  “Right. There I am. In the apprentice house with no bathroom.”

  “I know. It’s a terrible imposition. It’s just there was no time. If it’s a problem ...”

  “Herbie, it’s no problem. I just wondered why I thought it was better than not knowing and getting pissed off to just ask. Clear the matter up. Now I know; and what you say makes perfect sense.”

  “If it’s a problem ...”

  “Herbie, it’s not a problem. Learning my lines and getting through this tech rehearsal is a problem. Where I’m staying may be an inconvenience, but it’s no problem.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Believe me, I’m sure. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.”

  I hadn’t meant anything, but Herbie reacted to that as if it were another dig. “I know. I’m sorry about the dressing room,” he said.

  “Hey, Herbie. Am I complaining?” I said. “You couldn’t have assigned me a better dressing-room partner. Let’s just worry about the things that matter.”

  I slapped him on the arm and walked off to the men s room.

  I felt much better about the apprentice house, having brought it up and talked about it. You always do feel better. Get it off your chest. No, not you, Nellie, me. Thanks, Herbie, for the name. Now I don’t have to face the feminists’ wrath for making one up. Just for cheap-shot remarks like that last one.

  Anyway, I felt a lot better about the whole thing. I couldn’t even begrudge Herbie giving Margie-poo the star’s dressing room anymore. And it wasn’t just that I had bare breasts in mine, though that probably had a lot to do with it. It was just that after hearing his explanation I was able to see it from his point of view. My viewpoint was naturally limited to coming in, learning the lines and doing the show. But fitting me in was only one of Herbie’s responsibilities. He also had directing a show, running a playhouse and dealing with a dead actor on his hands. So I could sympathize somewhat with his plight.

  I finished in the men’s room and came out the door just in time to see Avery Allington dressed only in his jacket and underpants go into the star’s dressing room and close the door.

  Son of a bitch. I wondered if Herbie was aware Avery was hitting on his Margie-poo.

  Inst
ead of heading back to my dressing room I walked down the hallway, paused and listened at the door.

  I heard her voice, high, hysterical, “I think he knows about us!” Then his,”Shh! Quiet, he doesn’t suspect a thing.” Then a long pause when they must have been kissing. Then her voice again, “Oh, Kevin!”

  Kevin?

  Then suddenly I realized. It was a soap opera. The TV was on.

  That made me feel foolish enough to move on before anyone caught me listening. I walked on down to the end of the hall, turned left by the steps up to the stage-left wings and walked past the costume shop.

  Mary Anne saw me and said, “Oh, you look good,” or something to that effect. It came out, “Uh, gu lu gud,” because she had a mouthful of pins. She was working on the skirt of a young woman who, when she turned around, turned out to be my dressing-room partner, Nellie. I hadn’t recognized her from the back, but then in the dressing room I hadn’t seen that much of her face.

  Yet another sexist remark.

  “That’s fine,” I said, and left Mary Anne to her pinning, so she didn’t have to try to make any more conversation with her mouth foil.

  I walked around past the stairs up to stage right and into the greenroom. I needed only to walk to the end of it to have come foil circle and back to my dressing room.

  The first door on my left was the dressing room of the older woman playing Catherine, the room where I’d seen Margie-poo borrowing makeup earlier. As I walked by I glanced in the door, not necessarily looking for yet another pair of bare breasts, though I could not swear to it if being interrogated for a post on the Supreme Court. But at any rate, I glanced in and saw two women sitting at the makeup counter. I took two more steps and did a double take.

  No, that wasn’t it. They were completely clothed. No, what got me was there were two.

  There are only three women in Arms and the Man: Raina, Louka and Catherine. Louka was in the costume shop getting her dress hemmed. Raina was in her star’s dressing room watching soap operas and getting hit on by Avery Allington. So who was this fourth woman putting on makeup with Catherine?