The Wreck of My Timidity

This summer I spent a total of three months working on a one man show called The Wreck of the Dictator. The show was written and directed by Gary Spell, a pastor here in Virginia Beach as well as a brilliant composer and musician. The task was to memorize a half-hour long monologue, time it perfectly to music and perform it three times a night in front of wandering drunk tourists a total of 72 times. 

I can't say I wasn't warned. Gary told me at my audition that this would be one of the most difficult experiences of my career and he wasn't exaggerating in the slightest. So much so that when I left the audition I became complete okay with not doing it. I auditioned because it felt nice to be asked to audition for something professional, that paid, and that would finish around when school started. I left the audition thinking first of all there was no way I would ever get cast as I knew there were other actors who already had their MFA's who were auditioning, and secondly who in their right mind would want to take on that kind project?

A week later I got the call and without thinking I accepted the part over the phone. After I got off the phone reality set in, in a very dramatic "dun-dun-dun" sort of way.

Something you should know about me: I've done a lot of theatre. I'm at the point where I can't even tell you how many shows I've done, but the majority of them have happened in an educational, mind you a Christian educational, setting. I'm not one to ever put my self out there professionally and audition like a lamb in line for slaughter, waiting to be told "No" a million times a week and expect to have a thread of self-esteem afterwards.  So you can imagine the idea of doing this show was terrifying to me; especially one where there was no one else to make the mistakes, where it is painfully obvious when you mess up a word or timing, where any random crazy person can yell anything like, "Penis!" "You're Gay!" "You're Beautiful!" "You're going to hell! Turn or BURN!" "AGHHGHGHSDLLWOIGOWDSLKDF!!" and (from the front row) "This is F$%KING TITANIC!" during the emotional climax of the story. (Yes, they did.)

Everything inside of me wanted to turn down this role. There were so many reasons not to do it. But every time I decided I shouldn't do it, I came back to the same thought...I need to do this show for me. After all, if I can survive this, I can survive anything...

I immediately took to my calendar and no joke, timed out my life hour by hour until the show opened. This included working 30 hours at my desk job, teaching acting at a three week theatre camp for jr. highers, spending three hours a night on memorizing and character work, and attempting to still be an amiable husband and pet owner.

I did it. I memorized the show, I survived the camp and I didn't get fired from my job or get a divorce. I was the first actor in the show's 11 year run at the oceanfront to open on time, completely memorized, and able to get through the entire show without stopping. My opening performance was terrifying. I don't think I've ever prayed so much before a show. When I finished, I sat proudly next to my large, smelly tech man and said, "One down."  He immediately responded, "71 to go. Excuse me I need to go change my sweaty boxers."

Two months and 71 performances later (that included building and striking the stage, lights and sound every night) I closed The Wreck of the Dictator. I survived everything including, street preachers, drunk bikers, laser pointers, 45 mph winds, unpredictable pyrotechnics, unruly teenagers mocking me in the front row, performing for no one, and people laughing at me and leaving in the middle of the show.  How might you ask? Why didn't I quit like the guy last year who called Gary bawling his eyes out after two weeks and who was apparently having nightmares about doing the production and asked to quit? 

Because of people like the Posey's, a random couple from New York who took my information to share with theatre people they knew on Broadway. And people like the old lady who saw my show three times in a row one night and cried at every performance. People like the couple from Moss, Norway, the home port of the Dictator who thanked me in strong Norwegian dialect for keeping the memories alive of the Norwegian crew that died in the shipwreck. I kept doing the show for all the countless kids that loved the booms of the cannons, the Virginia Beach locals who walked past the statue of the Norwegian Lady and never knew why she was there, the old retired Navy men who would cheer when I'd reach the point of the show where I say, "Mr. Drinkwater, you have to go out, you don't have to come back!", and the young man who came up to me with tears in his eyes thanking me for helping him propose to his fiance during my show.

I rid myself of timidity this summer thanks to this show. I gained a healthy amount of self confidence and respect for others who put themselves out there and do really lame stuff at the risk of public scrutiny.  Here's to you civil war reenactor, bad street magician kid, and "internationally known" hula hooping girl. I salute you.