Opening night was a week away and Mr. Adolfo had reached his boiling point.
“Is Stu O’Brian the only one who has his lines memorized?” he shouted. The assembled cast stared at their shoes. Everyone but me. I’m the Stu our director was referencing. I discreetly looked around gauging reactions, pleased that Mr. Adolfo wasn’t directing his wrath my way. I was the only member of our junior thespian troupe who was “off book,” as we say in the theatre, so naturally, my fellow cast members were appropriately chastened.
We were standing in the Fresno Community Center’s basement, a musty, windowless room in that multi-purpose facility, where this past summer our Junior Community Players club was mounting a production of The Man in the Moon. Mr. Adolfo, a retired policeman, had cast me in the title role so of course I had my lines memorized. This was a big step up for me, my most recent experience having been a cameo as Bandito #2 in our Spanish Club play last fall. Try entertaining a judgmental group of your pre-pubescent peers in a foreign language. That’ll test your acting chops. ¡Ay caramba!
But this all-English version of Buster Reddick’s timeless children’s classic seemed to have been written just for me. I had an inordinate fascination with all things lunar and had written a report on the Mercury astronauts in third grade, three years ago. Through my telescope on clear California nights I saw every pockmark on the moon and wondered if, when man finally landed there, we would find life. Now I was tasked with animating this role of a lifetime: THE Man on the Moon.
We were performing this piece “in the round,” with 80 metal folding chairs encircling the ten-foot by ten-foot spot on the linoleum floor that served as our stage.
“Back to one,” yelled Mr. Adolfo. (“Back to one” means that we were to return to our first mark, that place from where we start our action. I’ve been so involved in the process that I sometimes forget to translate the lingo for my readers. Sorry.)
“And action!”
Ronnie Phelps, as the astronaut, shuffled onto center stage and slammed the end of his flagpole onto the floor. “I claim this land in the name of our king.” His delivery was unconvincing, I thought. My eyes caught Mr. Adolfo’s and by the way he raised his eyebrows when our eyes met, I knew he agreed with my assessment. There was a long, knowing pause.
“Well?” whispered Mr. Adolfo as he motioned to me. There was another pause. “Moon Man! Go! You’re on!”
I waited, allowing what I felt was the appropriate dramatic breathing space my entrance deserved, and glided down the aisle toward the stage.
“Not so fast, earthling!” I roared, moving to within inches of Ronnie’s face. I stood my ground, and stared at him with intensity.
Our assistant director, Mr. Ludite, spoke up from out of the darkness in the back of the house. “‘This moon is big enough––’” His intrusive prompting was unnecessary.
“I know the line,” I assured everyone without breaking character. I held my gaze on my scene partner. “I was just pausing for effect.”
“Effect? It’s almost 5:00 and we’re only halfway through the first act!” shouted the always-antsy Mr. Ludite, a mechanic by trade. He twitched and motioned with his greasy fingers to the clock on the wall. “I got somewhere to be!”
Mr. Adolfo, comfortable with confrontation, stepped in to defuse the situation from his front row seat. He truly was an actor’s director. “Continue,” he whispered.
“This moon is big enough for all mankind!” My focus had been thrown off but I delivered that critical line with confidence.
“Aaaand scene! Okay, kids, sorry about the outburst earlier.” Mr. Adolfo had cooled down, now that I had redeemed what till then had been a lackluster rehearsal. “Go home and memorize those lines. Dress rehearsal is Thursday. Remember to tell your moms to bring Moon Pies and lemonade for the cast party after Saturday’s show. Mr. Ludite will store them at his place. Oh, and Thursday: costumes and makeup!”
I didn’t have final approval on wardrobe so even though my costume was not one I would have chosen––flowing white robe, conical hat, red grease paint on my face; I looked like a sunburned Klansman––I held my tongue, lest I lose my grip on this breakout role.
Dress rehearsal went surprisingly well the following week and we managed to get through opening night, the first of two performances. There was one slight hiccup that easily could have thrown me off my game. I was making my initial entrance from stage left. (That means the left side of the stage from the actor’s point of view, which was hard to explain to the less-experienced actors and almost impossible to get one’s head around when performing in the round, but I waited patiently as Mr. Adolfo explained it to the others.) As I made my way up the aisle toward the stage, the voice of a young girl broke the silence.
“It’s Queen Elizabeth!” The audience laughed but I––simmering inside––kept my composure, pausing a beat to allow myself to once again be “in the moment.”
The next hour flew by and we received an enthusiastic standing ovation at the curtain call––that’s when the actors come out and take their bows. I knew I had nailed it, but the giddy reaction to the whole ensemble seemed a tad effusive, to be honest. But you never know from one performance to the next how your audiences are going to react. Lines you consider serious they find funny; moments of levity often fall on deaf ears. I took comfort in knowing that my performance both nights had been solid and we were having Moon Pies and lemonade at the cast party.
I was late getting to the kitchen down the hall where the party was. I had been offering to sign programs and pose for pictures after the show, and then there was the matter of removing my makeup and getting out of my rather elaborate costume without a dresser.
I walked through the doors of the kitchen expecting all heads to turn my way but was met with the somber silence of children too stunned to be starstruck. Mr. Adolfo stood before the downcast cast of ten and their parents.
“Someone stole the Moon Pies.” His measured tone was at once sympathetic and accusatory. He didn’t want to throw a wet blanket on the proceedings but justice had to be served; a lesson had to be learned. He chose his next words carefully.
“If whoever stole the treats doesn’t come forward in the next ten seconds, the cast party is off.”
There was an audible gasp among the would-be partygoers, then a long, painful silence. It appeared no one was going to fess up to the dastardly deed. I had long harbored suspicions about Ronnie Phelps’s honesty but was probably confusing his arrogant stage role for his real-life role as a 12 year old kid who liked Moon Pies.
Surely it wasn’t one of the junior moon men. I had worked so closely with those little guys throughout rehearsals and hadn’t detected a trace of larceny in their cherubic faces, covered with red grease paint through they were.
“Very well. Party’s over,” said Mr. Adolfo, throwing up his hands. He shifted gears briefly, calling our attention to the sign-up sheet for the fall production of A Puppy Dog’s Life then ushered us into the treatless night, closing the door of the community center behind him.
Gone was the closure a cast party brings, but at least the critics had been kind to our little troupe of actors, showering our production with words like “prosaic,” “soperific,” and “pedestrian.” It almost made me forget about the Moon Pie contretemps.
A week later, I was having breakfast with my dad. I was sipping my apple juice when suddenly I did a spit take. The headline on the front page of Dad’s newspaper screamed: ARMED ROBBERY SUSPECTS CAPTURED. There were two pictures under the headline. The one on the right was that of Mr. Ludite, our assistant director.
I shook my head. “Doesn’t this just figure,” I thought to myself. “It starts with Moon Pies and the next thing you know, you’re knocking off a bank.” What other plausible explanation could there be?
I will probably be asked to audition for this fall’s play at the community center and it’s tempting, I won’t lie. There’s a hilarious yet pivotal role as a beagle that I’d be perfect for. But when I think about all that I had to put up with this summer––the unproductive rehearsals with kids who didn’t know their lines, cloying audiences, and a felonious authority figure––I’m thinking that I don’t need to associate with show folk anymore. They’re such phonies.