My life was shaped by my love – my need – for this man
stand eight feet above the stage, dressed like an ant. .
It’s Fall, 1969, my first grad school show at the University of Minnesota, and instead of wearing pretty costumes and speaking immortal Shakespeare or poetic Chekov, I am the “Head Ant, Leader of the Colony” in the scintillating Czech classic Insect Comedy. I’ll never get a chance to thank the authors – Karel and Josef Kapek – because they are long dead. At this moment, I wish I were too.
Acrid odors of fresh scene paint and chemical stage fog fill the auditorium.
“Okay everybody, take a long ten. Don’t return ‘til I call you. We’re getting fans from the scene shop to clear the air,” Marshall the stage manager decrees.
The cast exits stage right, but I remain in my spot high above, hands moist from the heat of the knit “ant mitts” I’m required to wear. The designer thinks these mitts make us look like we have feelers. (Feelers. ….…really?)
In any event, I have a problem to solve so I don’t join the others in the cool green room downstairs, but rather will use the break to solve that problem. I hear the “ka-chunk” of the heavy stage lights being turned off, and though it brings relief from the heat, I’m now in the dark. I’m sweaty, itching and now, blind. But I don’t need to see, to do what I need to do. Nonetheless, I take off the “ant hood” leaving bits of frayed material in my mouth, but at least I can breathe. Despite it’s extreme discomfort and ugliness, as long as that hood stays on, audiences may never have to know that it’s me up here. Such is not the case for my other role in the show, “Mrs. Butterfly”. A hell of a lot more than my face is on public display in that costume, but at least it has the advantage of being well ventilated. In fact, goose-bump chilly. My poor body: in this show: I’m either drowning in body liquids or looking like I’ve got a skin disease. What a pleasure all of this is. For now, I remove the hood.
Concentrate, Evalyn, concentrate. I focus on the problem before me.
As “Head Ant”, it’s my duty to keep my fellow ants moving at a set pace and as the scene builds, speeding up that pace by beating on a special large “ant drum” the designer placed exactly center stage – (yay for me) – but eight feet above it – (boo for me, since heights make me nauseous.) The problem is, though I needed to keep a steady rhythm, consistent, dependable, the fatal combination of vertigo and hands sweaty from the cheap mitt material make it impossible to keep a firm grip on the drumsticks. So, they keep slipping and so do the rhythms I’m supposed to keep steady.
I peel off the criminal mitts, tough to do since they ‘re so wet inside they stick to my hands in a way that I wish they’d adhere to the drumsticks. I dread the thought of putting them back on again since I know they’ll still be wet. And god forbid a human hand should show in this highly realistic scene of ant industry. That being said, my bare hands feel terrific in the cooler air now floating up my way and my energies are renewed, So I begin to practice my ant drumming, mitt-less.
BOOM, boom-ba-boom, boom-ba-boom, boom-ba-boom! BOOM, boom-ba-boo-boom, boom-ba-boom, boo-ba-boom! BOOM,BOOM,BOOM,BOOM,BOOM,boom-ba-boom,boom-ba-boom,boom-ba-boom! For a solid two minutes.
I stop long enough to stretch my fingers and praise myself.
Hey, I can do this! At least without the mitts. Hmmm….maybe if I practice enough, they won’t matter! Yeah! Just let me get the rhythms into my hands and arms, and maybe…yeah…I can do this! So, more “Boom”-ing. Lots more “Boom”-ing. I then slip the clammy mitts back on, and it is slightly easier for me to keep a steady pace. I am so proud of myself. I raise my arms to BOOM again.
From below, I hear a gentle deep voice: “Hey, how’re doin’ up there? “
Looking down, I see a dark-haired guy in a saw-dusty work shirt climbing up the scaffolding. He holds a Tab, and it looks nice and cold. The can is sweating as much as I am. He extends the diet soda toward me. Is this a dream?
“Thought you could use this?” he suggests. I put my drumsticks down, remove the heinous mitts and take the icy drink, gulping half of it at one go. I then hold the can up to my forehead so it can drink too. The wire-rimmed angel grins, then climbs back down to the stage floor. He sure knows his way around a scaffolding, I think. I’d learn later that he built this one. I toss him the empty can.
And that’s how I met Paul.
He later told me that he really didn’t care how thirsty I was – he just wanted me to stop the damned drumming.