“Your journey begins,” Langley read, “at the base of this mountain.” She gestured somewhat woodenly toward the off-season ski hill. I had a feeling that whatever strange script she was reading from had a “gesture to mountain” stage direction. “Your journey this summer, like your journey on the mountain, will be uphill. Rigorous. But together you will ascend.” On “ascend,” her arm pointed to the peak of the mountain.
We stared at Langley. We stared at the mountain.
“So … ascend!” she repeated, gesturing again.
“Like, up the mountain?” Amy asked.
Langley nodded. “Like up the mountain.”
I stared. So it wasn’t, like, a rock-climbing wall, but it was still pretty steep. Definitely more of a rigorous hike than a casual stroll.
“This is a joke, right?” I asked. Langley had to be joking. I’d been involved in some weird theater exercises before, but this one took the cake. Langley shook her head grimly in response. “This has got to be a joke. There’s a chairlift up this mountain for a reason.”
“What, you can’t handle it?” That idiot who almost ran me off the road poked his head out of the line to face me. “Afraid of a little hike?”
“Um, no,” I contested hotly as I tied my ninja band tighter. “I can absolutely handle this. I was joking.”
“Sure you were.” He smirked.
“Watch me.”
I started up the mountain, stomping every step, churning up little eddies of dust and rocks in places where the grass had been worn away by other insane, suicidal hikers on forced marches.
“Enjoy the death march, suckers!” Langley cackled as she hopped back into the van. Part of me wondered if she’d invented this whole thing on her own just to mess with us.
The rest of the group followed less angrily in my wake. Heidi ascended like a graceful, long-limbed mountain goat, simultaneously picking flowers, weaving them into garlands, and practically skipping up the 90 degree incline. Even with her stops for flowers, she was rapidly outpacing the rest of us. We straggled behind her in a clump. Man, that hill was steep. Not that I was going to let anyone, particularly plaid-clad bad drivers, see how much it was making me sweat. I kept on going, propelled by nothing but sheer force of will and a desire to prove that cretin wrong.
“Eek!” Amy pitched forward over a boulder, falling neatly into the arms of the Southern boy, who had zoomed to her side at nearly superhuman speed to catch her.
“Don’t worry.” He grinned. “I got you.”
“Gosh.” Amy blinked up at him. “That was like Edward Cullen-fast.”
“Who?” He furrowed his brow.
“Oh, um, never mind. How embarrassing.” Amy blushed.
When I blush, I look like a tomato. Amy somehow managed to look even more adorable as the flush spread over her cheeks, which sent her gallant rescuer into his own, equally adorable fit of blushing. Good. The way things were going, hopefully that douchey ex of hers would soon be no more than a distant, unpleasant memory. This would be exactly what she needed—a nice, fun, cute summer fling with a Southern accent. Perfect.
We straggled onward and upward for who knew how long, until the tiny dot that was Heidi had stopped moving, and we eventually reached her at the summit.
“I think it’s a little house,” she announced, hands on hips, as she stood facing what was, in fact, a little house. Not like playhouse-little, just a small house, located about fifty feet from where the chairlift ended.
“Is it open?” the boy with the yellow bow asked.
“Dunno.” Heidi shrugged. “I was waiting for you.” She smiled and indicated the woven flower headband and long flower necklace she was now sporting, which she must have made while she waited.
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” the Southern boy drawled, as he stepped toward the door. “Shall we?” Heidi nodded. He knocked three times on the door, loud and sure.
“Enter,” a voice wafted from within, as the door seemed to open of its own accord, releasing a heavily perfumed cloud of incense.
“You have got to be kidding me,” the toothy non-yokel mumbled.
“Ladies first,” the Southern boy smiled, tipped an imaginary hat, and held the door as Heidi, Amy, and I trooped through, followed by the boys.
A tiny woman with a long, thick gray braid sat cross-legged on top of a table, a bongo drum nestled in her lap, which she beat at even, rhythmic intervals. A goateed man in his thirties stood behind her, arms folded across his chest. They were both wearing black turtlenecks and some type of weird, flowy black drawstring pants.
“Come. Come into the center,” the woman instructed, still beating the bongos.
It was only the first day, and I had been blindfolded, thrown into a van, forced to climb a mountain, and was now choking on incense in a tiny room while listening to an impromptu bongo concert.
“Move to the rhythm,” the woman instructed. “Move! Begin walking in a circle.”
As we walked in concentric circles, I took the opportunity to inspect where we were. This must have been some kind of ski outpost in the winter, because although the walls were now draped in even more jewel-toned silks—that boy with the yellow sash must have been thrilled—they didn’t completely obscure the framed photos of ski teams beneath them.
“Now feel the music!” the woman instructed. Easy. “No, no keep moving!” she amended. Oh, right. I started walking again. “Begin to feel it. Really feel it. Let it inform your body. Your movements. Break free of your circles. Break free of your steps. Break free of your selves. Move across the space in any way you see fit. Dance, dance, DANCE!”
Heidi was now leaping about like a gazelle who’d been trained by Alvin Ailey; the rest of us were shuffling around somewhat awkwardly, like middle schoolers dancing freestyle at a bar mitzvah. Amy had decided to stick to twirling, which she was executing beautifully until she got dizzy and had to sit down.
“Slow as the bongo slows.” The woman started to slow down the rhythm. Thank God. This was about as much bizarre theater-game time as I could take. Don’t get me wrong. I love acting. I love it more than anything else. But I love being on stage, attacking scenes, making character choices. Not bongo dancing. Incidentally, bongo dancing was not featured at all in Weehawken High’s recent production of Anything Goes. I bet it would have really added a certain je ne sais quoi to my energetic, if not particularly skillful, tap dancing. “Slow,” she continued. “Slow until you come face to face with another person.”
Wait, what? I was all the way off in some corner, and the closest person to me was … no. Oh no. I started power walking toward someone, anyone, who wasn’t … him.
“SLOW!” the bongo lady barked, in a tone very unlike her previous meditative one, and, grumbling mightily, I found myself face to face with my least favorite member of the Shakespeare at Dunmore Journeyman Apprentice Company.
“Wanted to be my partner so badly you speed-walked over here?” he smirked.
“Oh, as if,” I hissed.
“Ooo, nice diss, Cher. That, like, totally hurt,” he valley-girled back at me.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” I whispered.
“SILENCE!” One loud bang of the bongo. We both shut up. Great. I was already in trouble. “Now, look into your partner’s eyes. Only the eyes. The rest of the world falls away.”
My partner’s eyes were rolling. To be fair, mine probably were, too.
“Now.” Two beats of the bongo. “Where does their pain lie?” She repeated again, in a whisper, “Where does their pain lie?”
I didn’t even need to look. He was a pain in the ass, so his pain clearly lay in the ass. Or my ass. Whatever. But I looked, because there was nowhere else to look. Hazel. Weird. They were pretty interesting eyes, at least. I couldn’t really find the pain, but there were all sorts of interesting golden flecks in there.
“Where does their fear lie?” And in a whisper, “Where does their fear lie?”
This time, my hazel-eyed partn
er snorted audibly, then tried unsuccessfully to pass it off as a cough.
We went through hurt, anger, and finally love in the same fashion. Definitely no love lying in those weird hazel eyes. Unless love looked exactly like skepticism.
“Form a circle in the center of the room.”
Finally. I had been smirked at enough for one day. I shot hazel-eyed beardy my best death glare before shuffling with everyone else into the middle of the room. It was definitely more of an amoeba than a circle.
“Pull down your blindfolds.” Bang bang bang. “We close our eyes to truly see.”
Before pulling hers down, Heidi winked at me under her strip of amethyst silk.
“Nevin will tap you one by one. When you feel the tap, remove your blindfold. Choose your archetype, and become it. Begin to create a soundscape. ”
Nevin? Archetype? Soundscape? I didn’t understand 80 percent of the words in that sentence. But around me, everyone started humming, buzzing, clicking, making all sorts of strange ambient noises. I joined in.
“I am a salmon in a pool.” It sounded like Heidi. “I am a salmon in a pool.” Heidi. I was sure. This time, I hadn’t tied my blindfold so tightly. Pretending to scratch my nose, I pushed it up a millimeter. Heidi was swimming around the center of the room for all she was worth, flopping back and forth. The goateed man tapped her on the shoulder. I quickly pulled my blindfold down before he caught me sneaking a peek.
“I am a wizard. Who but I sets the cool head aflame with smoke?” boomed out from the center of the circle. It took me a minute to place the voice, but I was pretty sure it was the boy with the yellow bow. He boomed out very loudly several more times, drowning out the bongos.
“I am a wonder among flowers.” Amy. She must have been twirling around, because clouds of Touch of Pink dusted me from time to time. I sneezed. Twice.
“I am the shield for every head.” Definitely the boy with the Southern accent. That was easy. And this had officially become the weirdest theater exercise of my life. Way weirder than the time we had to say “this is a pen” for like forty-five minutes in drama club.
“I am a breaker threatening doom.” Knew who that was. What, they didn’t have an archetype that said, “I am the jerkface who ran into your car”? Or, “I am a potential psychopath who will almost assuredly ruin your summer”?
I felt a tapping. The goateed man was holding a piece of paper in front of my face. I chose one line of text at random: “I am the blaze on every hill.”
The goateed man prodded me into the circle.
“I am the blaze on every hill.”
The bongos kept getting louder. I looked over at the woman with the gray braid, who nodded encouragingly.
“I AM THE BLAZE ON EVERY HILL!”
The bongos got louder and louder, I got louder and louder, and the “soundscape” behind me got louder and louder.
BOOM BOOM BOOM.
I stopped.
“Together,” the bongo-ing woman said. “I am the hill where poets walk.”
We repeated, together, “I am the hill where poets walk.”
“Excellent.” She smiled. “Excellent. Please, retie your headbands, thespian warriors.” We did. “Take seats in the circle.” We sat. “No, no, let me in the circle.” Southern boy and Heidi, who were closest to the table where she was sitting, scooted apart to make a space. She waited. “Nevin!” The goateed man walked over to her, and grunting slightly, he pulled the table, the woman still on top of it, into the space in the circle. “Thank you,” she sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “No, no, don’t sit,” she commanded as the goateed man’s knees began to bend.
So, that was it? We were done? I looked over at Amy, who seemed as confused as I was. Well, I’d discovered that I was apparently a blaze on a hill and that I couldn’t find where someone’s pain lay, probably because he didn’t have any feelings.
“Welcome.” The woman nodded to each of us in turn. “Welcome. I am …”—she played a little drum roll on the bongos—“Lola St. Clair.” She punctuated it with a loud bang. Amy widened her eyes at me, and I raised an eyebrow in return. “I am the founder and artistic director of Shakespeare at Dunmore. Standing behind me is Nevin Vandergrue.” She indicated the goateed man. I was willing to bet my entire internship stipend that their given names were something like Gladys Sfakianakis and Gary Czerwinski. “He will be your director for The Taming of the Shrew, our Journeyman Apprentice Company main stage production.” Nevin inclined his head slightly.
“Many years ago, after our first five successful seasons of Shakespeare at Dunmore, I started the Journeyman Apprentice Company as a training program for young artists. We are thrilled to have you here, you bright, promising young artists on the verge. I am honored to shepherd you on your journey out of the nest that is high school as you fly off into the world at large. Here at SAD, we hope to strengthen your wings to help you fly. We begin.” BANG!
“Uh, before we begin …”
What on earth could El Beardo possibly have to contribute to this conversation? If the smug look on his face was any indication, he clearly thought he had something of value to add.
“I’m assuming you know the name is completely ridiculous?”
Somehow, Lola looked more intrigued than pissed. This was insane. Had he just called the company’s name ridiculous? I could not believe he had just insulted the artistic director. To her face. Something tapped me on my chin. Startled, I jumped in my seat as a manicured hand beat a hasty retreat out of my line of vision.
“Sorry,” Amy whispered. “Your jaw was hanging open. My mom always says that’s how bugs get in there.”
“It’s nonsensical,” he continued. “Journeyman is the phase after apprentice. You can’t have a Journeyman Apprentice Company. It makes absolutely no sense. First, you have to complete an apprenticeship, then after your education you become a journeyman.”
“This isn’t a guild, Drew,” Lola replied breezily, a distinct note of amusement in her voice. Drew. Arrogance had a name. “Although, if you would like to submit a master work at the end of the season, I look forward to seeing it.”
“If anything, it should be the Apprentice Journeyman Company,” he argued. He was still going? Sheesh. “Then at least it would indicate a logical progression.”
“Time,” she chuckled. “What a linear, westernized notion.”
Drew opened, then closed his mouth. Apparently he had nothing to say to that.
“Now, we progress. Logically.” She winked at Drew. Ten points to Lola for unexpected cheekiness. “During these exercises, you have gotten to know yourselves, and you have gotten to know each other, on a deep, elemental level. But, of course, we must concede to the superficial as well.” She clasped her hands in front of her face, as if thinking. “Name,” she stated. “The character you’ll be playing. Where you come from. And, so we know you best, your passions. One thing you love, and one thing you hate.” She turned to Heidi. “Begin.”
“I’m Heidi.” She smiled. “I’m from Boulder, Colorado, and I’ll be playing Baptista Minola.”
“You’re my father?” Amy asked quizzically.
“Who’s your daddy?” the boy with the yellow bow jumped in.
Lola St. Clair held up her hand for silence. Immediately, everyone hushed.
“Yes, I’m playing Baptista Minola, who is traditionally played by a man,” Heidi continued, “but traditionally, all of the parts in Shakespeare’s plays were played by men. So that’s nothing new. And besides, when you get right down to it, gender is just a social construct.”
Lola gave her an appreciative beat of the bongos.
“Actually, if anyone is interested in discussing this further, I did my senior independent work on the performance of gender, as seen specifically through the lens of movement. Actually, this would be a really great text to work on with some of the movement-based techniques I explored, since it is so gendered. Did everyone bring movement pants?”
Silence. Heidi seemed re
ally nice, but … not really my thing. Also I wasn’t exactly sure what movement pants were, and from looking around the room, neither was anyone else. I almost laughed out loud at the expression on a certain someone’s face, but I held it together. Barely.
“Ah. Okay.” Heidi cleared her throat. “Well, then, no pressure. Just keep that in mind. As an option. Anyway,” she began again, “I love discussing the performance of gender—just kidding! Well, I do really like that, but I also love other things. Like tubing. It’s the best. I pick tubing as the thing I love. And I hate that female genital mutilation is still practiced in parts of the world.”
Heidi turned, beaming beatifically at Amy, who was staring at her, agog.
“Gosh, that’s terrible!” Amy exclaimed. “Wow, who wouldn’t hate that. I—”
“Name!” Lola interrupted.
“Oh, right!” Amy blushed. “I’m Amy. I’m from Big Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania—go Big Beavers!” She did a little fist pump. “I’m playing Bianca.”
Well, no surprise there. The Taming of the Shrew is about two rich sisters—the older one is a huge pain in the ass, and the younger one is sweet and beautiful. Their father devises this scheme so that no one can marry the sweet younger sister, Bianca, until the older one, Kate, is married. So after Bianca’s most ardent suitor, Lucentio, convinces this cash-strapped guy, Petruchio, to woo Kate, Petruchio marries Kate and “tames” her by basically inflicting psychological torture until she’s all “women are simple, worship your husband.” And this is supposedly a love story. Gag me.
You know, I still couldn’t quite figure Amy out. She had certainly been popular in high school—hence the photos in the cheerleading uniform and the prom queen tiara—and here she was, at a Shakespeare internship. And obviously popular people can like Shakespeare, I’m not saying they’re all vapid clones or whatever; it was just that, in my high school, no one who looked like Amy would have been caught dead in drama club. She must have been one of those weird anomalies that somehow manages to be a popular cheerleader and still does time steps in the spring musical. The rest of us, however, looked like the usual band of misfits. Actually, scratch that—the Southern guy was super hot, and he was a dude. Even more unusual. Hmm. Maybe this was what happened once you did theater outside of high school. The Ryan Goslings and Scarlett Johanssons of the world had to come from somewhere, right?
The Taming of the Drew Page 3