My Real Memoir

It had been a hard summer, the hardest of my life. The monster Anxiety followed me wherever I went. Still, my bedroom window let the sun in, along with a dozen sparrows. And my flirtations with faith had brought moments of peace. I wanted to leap. But leap to what? Certainly not religion. I had no interest in religion. And so I waited for more sparrows.

As a returning grad student, I’d qualified for a full scholarship. And just in time. My Chevy Vega was ancient in Vega years, and smoking like a Serbian. So I traded it for the taillights on a Honda Civic, and took out a loan for the rest.

The moment the fall term began, I met with my department head Dr. Bob Cohen, and asked for permission to direct Intermission, a gonzo one-act play about monster movies. Why? I think it was a vicarious way of fighting the monster that haunted me. But it was also an opportunity to immerse my audience in the experience. With Intermission…

I took the action right to them! I placed a screen up front, and made the auditorium itself the play’s setting: a run-down movie theatre. Then I roped off several rows, so my actors could run through them during the play. But Intermission sold out, and people filled those rows as well.

Before our play began, a cantankerous theater manager (my friend Mark) told an amorous couple (actors), “This ain’t lover’s leap, you two.” Then he ordered a dude in flip-flops (audience member) to put his feet down. Other actors with popcorn were planted throughout. Most of the audience got it. But a few were confused: “Are they gonna show a movie?” “Why didn’t I get popcorn?”

The auditorium dimmed. A bright light hit the movie screen, then faded as end-0f-the-movie music played. The house lights came back up. My fake audience members left, talking about the monster movie they’d just seen. Everyone in the audience got it by now…

Except for one middle-aged lady. She began asking people around her in a very loud Brooklyn accent, “What’s going on here?” The audience giggled, knowing she was part of the play. Except she wasn’t. I’d never seen her before in my life! She got up (clearly enjoying the attention), and said, “This is crazy. I’m leaving!” She headed for a fake exit door near the movie screen. “No, no, no!” I muttered. She grabbed the knob and the door fell over on her. She screamed. The audience roared. Unhurt, but rattled, she ran up the aisle and out into the lobby. The audience applauded.

Then the play began. A scruffy man in a faded It Came From Outer Space sweatshirt started to speak. But at that moment, the lady from Brooklyn rushed back in, yelling, “They’ve locked us in!” The audience guffawed. Theatre manager Mark soothingly explained that she’d pulled on the “Push to Exit” doors. He ushered her out. The audience gave her a standing ovation.

And then the play began again. The scruffy man and a nervous guy in the next row began commiserating about their lonely, mundane lives. Then scruffy-man revealed that he was actually B-picture movie star Richard Carlson. Bent on saving the world, he told nervous-guy he knew he was really a Robot Monster from the moon! Nervous guy backed up the aisle, “No, please, I’m not a Robot Monster…” He pulled a ray-gun (hairdryer) out of his briefcase. “I’m Zontar, the Thing From Venus!”

The ensuing action took Richard and Zontar up and down the rows. And (because the “reserved” ropes had been removed) over the audience’s laps. And then, as rehearsed, Richard hurled an atomic grenade (a navel orange) at the back wall of the theatre. But it didn’t hit the back wall. It hit my advisor Dr. Cohen—dead in the face.

No longer lonely, Richard and Zontar left the theater. They were happy. The audience was happy. And I was happy. Because I’d mocked the monster that haunted me.

But I still had to face Dr. Cohen.

My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.