Opening Night: A Vision
The venue is sold-out and everyone has had a sip of rest from the battering ram of their day. Phones have been secured in individual lockboxes in the vestibule, guarded by impenetrable security forces, and will be returned with a voucher for a free lifetime subscription to a mindfulness app upon exit. The audience buzzes to a shuffle of tunes from the show’s playlist. Tonight The Chicks are belting out “The Long Way Around” with Kamasi Washington’s “Street Fighter Mas” to follow.
A rainbow of searchlights targets the curtains that flutter as I run my hand against the satin backing of the blue velvet, a ripple the audience sees before I pounce into view from a fold in the velvet, wearing a fitted black bodysuit, a tutu made from shreds of old t-shirts and a paper mache’ lioness mask made from an impression of my own face. I am barefoot.
My first seconds on stage, I stomp to a beat that I am also clapping. Da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum! Repeat. Repeat. I pull the audience in, raising my hands, palms open and upward. Da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum! Da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum da-dum!
I put my hands on my hips and jump forward on both feet. The audience quiets. I whisper the words that jive with the beat. “I’m mad as hell and I can’t take this anymore.” I repeat, raising the volume.“I’m mad as hell and I can’t take this anymore.” I shout into the rafters, “I’m mad as hell and I can’t take this anymore.” The quote credits (“Mad as Hell” monologue, Network, 1976) scroll from a projector onto the blue velvet curtain in waves of yellow as the light beat of a karaoke version of Gnarls Barkley’s “Crazy” begins. Back to the audience, I sing, “I remember when, I remember, I remember when I lost my mind. There was something so pleasant about that place. Even your emotions had an echo in so much space” as a palpable echo of the final measures (“in so much space”) reverbs around the venue. Fade to black.
Seconds later, the curtain rises to a perch-able stool with a stainless steel base and a yellow padded seat, the kind that might have once belonged in a diner. Several other props scatter across the stage: an American flag hanging from a four-foot long, six-foot high fence painted white; a bar-height plywood table holding a glass bottle of water, a few quart cans of paint and brushes; a suspended, open window with fluttering yellow curtains and a spiky cactus in a pot on its sill near a twin bed and bedside table holding a transistor radio, a standing cross, and two books.
An image writ large appears on the full-size back screen: a twelve-year-old girl with her hands in a “who knows?” position. She’s a thick brunette in braces and a pair of bell bottoms. The look on her face hints that she’s befuddled. Clouds appear and gather in video image form in the space around her: Vietnam soldier coffins unloaded from airplanes, Kent State protest, civil rights march, Miss America pageant, Woodstock, the moon landing, ERA protests, Billy Graham crusade, a ’60s dining counter sit-in, Nixon resignation, All in the Family footage, Little Rock 9, frozen Swanson TV dinners, Summer of Love, sugary cereal tv advertisement, Vacation Bible School congregation, an Ole Miss football game, and more. A dj scratch of music clips from the era, a blend of country, pop, and Motown accompanies the montage, ending with the “nanalananala” of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”
I enter from stage left as all the images darken into a storm cloud, lightning flashing and then condensing into a thin, quivering spotlight. I start to sing “This Little Light of Mine” as I search the stage for the spotlight, removing the mask, tossing it on the nearby bed, and then standing strong in the spotlight. “Now that I have your attention [breath] let’s take a walk on THE RILED SIDE!” Which, as fate might have it, is the name of the show.
