Posts
Fast-forward to last Saturday night. It's June and the season of Prom hits with a traumatic vengeance this time of year. You remember prom, right? Agony over dresses that fit or didn't fit, the prom-date you dreamed about having, and the guy or gal with whom you actually ended up going. The awkwardly-posed pictures before you and your date could escape and the even more awkward comments from your parents or your date's parents or, worse, younger siblings. It's one of those special events where every moment is miserable except our selective memory of it.
Since I work mostly with teenagers, I am subject to the angst that is June every year. This past Saturday we had two shows in the theatre that happened to coincide with one of the many proms. Basically, this meant that two of the actors had to finish two shows, get hurriedly changed and dressed for prom all at the theatre. I volunteered to stay and take pictures. Walter, our costume manager, and his common-law assistant Richard volunteered to do our girl's hair and make-up. After the last show finished, our respective prom king and queen rushed off to separate dressing rooms to transform themselves, Walter and Richard flung curling irons and hair pins about, and I shooed away lingering children and audience members.
Twenty minutes into this equivalent of a Nascar pit-stop, I hear a panicked whisper, "DESHA!".
"What?"
"DESHA! COME HERE!"
"Kevin, WHAT?"
I walk over to the bathroom door to find a distraught, sweaty adolescent wringing his hands.
"I can't find my tie."
Pause.
In the face of tragedy, the human spirit somehow finds the strength to rise above the fray and soothe the underlying terror of the heart. What followed then was nothing but pure, theatrical ingenuity. A pink sash, used as a prop in Act II, was somehow deftly fashioned into a debonair cravat. Our prom king was dressed and breathing regularly.
Mysterious squeals and soothing murmurs could be heard from the girls' dressing rooms. I called up, "How's everyone doing up there?"
"Just fine--(Erin, if you move your head one more time, I swear...)--we'll be down in a moment!" Walter's Alabama drawl floated gaily down the stairs.
I sat awkwardly with Kevin in the third row of the theatre, waiting for Cinderella to descend. All of a sudden, I felt weirdly paternal. While our girl was being clucked over by not one, but two mother hens (way more motherly and hennish than I, I might add), I uncomfortably studied my cuticles and pretended not to notice the buckets of sweat soaking the armpits of our young man. I had a sudden urge to hand him my car keys, a flask, and a condom and warn him to have a good time but not ruin his future tonight.
What felt like an eternity later, our princess emerged, rosy and smiling with way too much eye-makeup. Parents and friends showed up with flash bulbs popping and Richard weeping until finally the entire entourage migrated toward the parking lot to travel to a world of dim lighting and disco balls, abandoned high-heels and runny mascara, temperature-raising anticipation and badly-concealed panic. Ah, prom! Even though the cast list has changed, the characters are still the same.
