My Night With The Actor

Here I am waiting by the stage door in the rain. Here I am, a creature of supposed high intellect, feeling all goopy inside cause the hottie who played Frank ‘n’ Furter is about to have a drink with ME, not these other drones and fangirls clamoring for his attention.
When he exits the theatre, he greets me with a quick hug then says, “Hold on just a second Julia, I’ve got to say hi to someone.”

Sweet jesus he called me by MY name.

He returns and leads me inside the theatre, a smug smile across my face as we pass security. “She’s with me,” he says to the security man.

He says he has to quickly schmooze with the producers from the Winnipeg Theatre Company at a post-show reception. He is very apologetic for dragging me to this. How little he knows that I am elated to be with him. This must be what happens when you meet someone you had a crush on ten years ago — you’re right back to your 16-year old self. Now I’m 26 and he’s 31, he’s still Adonis and I’m still a goof.

We met in high school. We never attended at the same time because he had graduated by the time I started grade 9, but he was asked to come in and do kids’ make-up during our run of The Wizard of Oz. For the 20 minutes it took to paint my face emerald green, I’d tell him about my dolt boyfriend and he’d tell me what he was learning in the George Brown theatre program. After Oz was over, he sent me secret letters from Stratford. Sure, several people got the typed-out letter — fuck! there was a blank space where he’d filled in each letter-recipient’s name — but I kept every one and prayed I would see him again.

The closest I got to being in his presence was seeing his face on the Aladdin poster hanging outside the Elgin Theatre two years ago. And drooling at his musical theatre smile in the Mama Mia TV ads. But this, right now, in a room filled with actors and producers, is my chance to fulfill my teenage dream.

As soon as we arrive at the reception, some middle-aged women approach and tell him how wonderful he was as Frank ‘n’ Furter. Even better than Tim Curry, they say. He gives them a pre-packaged thank you, modesty thinly veils his pride. We get a table and our conversation begins swimmingly.

I lean in and tell him we’ve been cosmically connected all these years since high school. I reveal that he’d dated a woman who is now married to the brother of a guy I dated. He is surprised. I didn’t like her, I say. She was a buzzkill. She would come over to the apartment my man and his bro shared and mock-cough at the weed smoke coming from under my man’s door. Little she knew that when she wasn’t there, her boyfriend/my man’s brother would be partying ‘til all hours with us. But when she was there, she was dragging him to church and being generally prissy.

“That’s funny,” he said. “When I was going out with her, we did shrooms all the time. She just…CHANGED…after we broke up.”

Once she realized she lost the best thing that ever happened to her, she went and lost her mind, I bet.

Then some Suits come to our table. They’re fellows from the Winnipeg Theatre Company. They shake his hand, then mine, and exclaim how great “you guys” did. He articulates another scripted thank you, smiles perfectly and punctuates his sentences with appropriate jokes such as: “Oh I would have another piece of carrot cake, but I HAVE TO FIT INTO MY FISHNETS IN THE MORNING!” (Everyone laughs). A fellow brings over a vodka tonic for him and a red wine for me. The Suits probably think I’m some mysterious chorus member whose face they hadn’t completely seen from their seats in the balcony. Flattered and not wanting to embarrass the Suits, I sit up straight and pretend I’m that chorus member.

This reception makes me miss my theatre days. How wonderful it felt to be the star. I admit I got off on the elitism of it. O faceless audience, you’re just part of the black mass! I’m the one in the spotlight. You know my name but I have no clue who the fuck you are. You can boo and heckle but we all know I am beautiful, young and talented so watch me perform or cast yourself out into the rainy night! That sort of thing.

The stars of the Rocky Horror Show know they are beautiful and talented. The guy who plays Rocky struts up to the table and invites us to Pravda, a vodka bar across the street. He’s 6’5”, is wearing ass-flattering bellbottom chords, has a mane of blonde hair and a jawline comic book heroes would envy. He and some of the other cast members are going there for martinis so we should join, he says.

Again my Frank ‘n’ Furter looks at me apologetically. Would that be OK? To go for a quick drink with these guys? I’m beside myself with glee. Like, no I’d rather go to a dive bar and slum around with mutants like I usually do. Fucking right I want to hang out with You and the Beautifuls!

We’re sitting at the bar at Pravda. I’m surrounded by professional actors. This is the Toronto theatre scene, I’m thinking. This is what they do: treat themselves to occasional $20 martinis, sing at inappropriate times and places, speak in funny voices, have torrent affairs with co-stars. It’s what I could have been. And I would have been happy doing so.

It’s strange when you get a taste of your alternative life. Suddenly I have no clue why I went into journalism. Was that a grave mistake? Why does the grass always seem greener on the other side? Over there, my life blooms in eternal sunlight. Over there, regrets float by in the breeze but never land on my perfectly green grass.

I ask my Frank ‘n’ Furter what he likes a bout acting. In the absence of Suits who he must impress with his good cheer, he answers honestly. “I love words. I love relationships. I like pissing off an audience. One minute they hate you and the next minute they’re right here” (pointing to palm of hand). “I like the manipulation and the (patting self on back).”

If being an actor meant I could toy with the mass emotions then, to thank me for my manipulation, everyone was waiting by the stage door to suck my dick I would be as happy as a clam at high tide.

He continues, says he idealizes Jack Lemmon. He wants to be in a production of Glengarry Glen Ross but he’s not sure what his next gig will be. He’s always looking for the next job. Maybe he’ll get into directing. Producing.

I’d always heard acting was an unstable profession, but I’m shocked that the star of the show doesn’t even have his next job lined up.

Plus I have to think about my girlfriend, he continues. Melissa might want to get married. She’s a nanny, she’s great with kids. But she compromises her life for mine. I’m the bread-winner. I bought the house. But I can’t settle down now. Can’t have kids at this point. I’m still young. I still need to travel to where the work is. I want to go back to Broadway.

I nod empathetically and sip my martini.

With that, my perfect dream is shattered. I don’t want to be in a profession that frowns on stability and my instinct to plant roots. Nor would I want to be in a profession plagued with self-indulgence, which encourages stars of shows to string along their fans/ex-schoolmates simply because it boosts their own egos. Sexy as those egos may be. You just don’t spring girlfriends on people.

At this point I’d rather be a dreamy journalist who experiences reality as a series of words on paper, no accolades, no celebrity, no glam.