I am manly. I am Scottish. I kill people. Lots of people. Lots and lots and lots of people. And I’m jacked. Whoa Nelly am I jacked. I eat red meat and lift weights in my spare time. Why else would I have such beautiful man pecs? My sword is the size of a sheep. A big sheep. A manly sheep. It weighs about the same as a sheep. Sheep sheep sheep. What an awkward word. I whisper it to myself 82 and a half times. Sheep. I forget what a sheep is. Sheep? Is S-H-E-E-P even the right way of spelling sheep? Whoa.
I need to work on staying in character.
My mind in Nowhereseville, Ben Richmond, reality slaps me across the face with a gong. My not-so-anxious waiting turned into not-so-secure waiting; I don’t know where we are in the play. With all of the mental force I can muster, I cling to my cue line, and listen for it so hard my eyebrows hurt. Wait, doesn’t Will have the same cue as me? Wait, where is Will? Wait, is he already on stage? My brain explodes. Well, it didn’t really explode. It was more like a pleasant, albeit frustrated, “pop.” Kind of like when you hit a cantaloupe with a sledgehammer. Except not really. I’ve never hit a cantaloupe with a sledgehammer, and neither have you. But if I could take one guess it would sound like what happened to my brain. I turn around and see Will right behind me.
I don’t play a big part in Macbeth. Young Seward and Donalbain. Nobody remembers those characters, ever. I end up just saying that I had a big fight scene. But that’s not all I had. There were five other scenes where I had to stand around and do nothing, maybe spit out a few lines. This was one of them.
I hear my cue and hustle on stage. My big line: “what is amiss?!” I am told my father has been killed! But by whom? My nose itches. Who could have done such a horrible thing? Tears well up in my eyes, from shock and sorrow. I am very afraid. I turn to my brother, Malcolm, and we come to a realization. If our father was just murdered, could we be next in line? Seriously though, my nose really itches. I look at all the suspects in front of me. Lady Macbeth catches my eye. She seems uneasy, darting her eyes from person to person. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MY NOSE ITCHES!! Lady Macbeth faints, unconvincingly. Malcolm and I have a brief conversation with each other, unbeknownst to the rest of the group. He explains how he shall escape to
I lie down on the couches backstage and accidentally flash the cast. Why the hell couldn’t the Scottish people invent pants? That could really ruin a show, you know. There’s this epic battle scene with swords, sweat, and blood flying everywhere, only to be giggled at by an accidentally flipped up man-skirt.
I could have ruined that show. Each time I jumped on stage I was tempted to take off my glove and smack somebody across the face. What a twist! And what power, to have the ability to ruin 6 weeks of hardcore rehearsal with one thwap across a buddy’s cranium.
But why stop there? I could dance across the stage wearing a parka. I could unsheathe my sword and scream “slay the dragons!” I could steal somebody’s lines. I could lick the set. I could lick members of the audience. I could be a dancing, parka wearing, dragon slaying, line stealer, licking everything and everyone in sight. I couldn’t scratch my nose.
And that’s the thing. This was my first high school production and I was proud of it. I may not have had the biggest roles, but I played a role, and that was more than enough.
Acting is exhilarating. There is nothing like it. It makes me feel like I’m back in third grade, playing make-believe with my little third grade friends. I let myself go, and let my imagination transform me. For these few, fleeting acts, I was no longer a young sophomore. I was a grizzly Scott, fighting for pride, honor, and life.
A grizzly Scott who probably owned too many sheep.
