Drop Dead

Hail the size of ping-pong balls pound the brick building as flashes of lightning and deafening thunder pierce the charcoal sky. A tornado warning south of town has patrons on alert as they scuttle indoors from 60 mph gusts. A hardhat is blown off a passing truck, landing at the doors of the Green Room where actors, myself included, anxiously prepare for our eleventh and final performance of Drop Dead, a live murder-mystery from Billy Van Zandt and Jane Milmore. This exaggerated, melodramatic comedy breaks the fourth wall, engages the audience and delivers jokes with almost every line. What wasn’t supposed to be part of the show, was the excessive ego and insobriety of the new lead actor from California. The storm outside was nothing compared to the squall brewing inside these walls.

     The Phoenix, or the Actors’ Repertory Theatre of Idaho (ARTI), has seen triumphs and travesties in many forms over the last 31 years as a non-profit dinner-theatre, but hasn’t seen incompetence of their own talent like they have recently. Open to the public, auditions are offered two nights every few months for one of the four shows held each season. A cold-read is expected, meaning no prior knowledge of the show is necessary to audition. Newcomers are often seen, and many never cast. This process weeds out anyone lacking the chops or personality for live theatre.

             In walks David Payne, an exception to the weeding-out process. He’s a community-college graduate in theatre from Los Angeles with, in his words, “extensive experience in performing of all kinds.” He’s a 25-year-old who recently moved to Idaho Falls, fitting the dorky, egotistical “theatre kid” kind of personality you’d associate with any middle school drama class. His jokes are tacky, his pop-culture references are awkward and his voice is too boisterous for his 5-foot-6-inch tall frame.

            “I’m David, pronounced ‘Daw-veed’,” he clarified. “Have you done much theatre?”

            “Yea, I’m a veteran here at ARTI, this would be my fifth show if I’m cast.”

            “Oh wow, five shows. I remember my fifth show, it was A Tuna Christmas. It was so good they decided to keep it running after the last night. I’ve been in 15 productions in California already, so I know what I’m doing.”

            My socially-aware politeness was on maximum effort as I continued to listen to the boasting of my Californian neighbor. I don’t know if me living in Long Beach has a different effect from people living in Los Angeles 24 miles away, but it certainly seemed to be significant enough for him. For my first audition at ARTI, I provided an acting resume and a headshot for consideration rather than becoming a strategic braggart. Paynes’s auditioning approach worked, regardless, as he was cast as the only new member to the ARTI stage.

            Fast-forward two and a half months to Saturday, closing night. Seventy-eight guests of all ages sit amid the theatre, eating baked glazed ham, three-cheeze ziti al forno, garlic roasted red potatoes, roasted root vegetables, garden salad, dinner rolls and a banana caramel trifle catered from City Bagels & Bakery. They drink wine, beer and liquor from The Elks Lodge. Like the previous three weeks, tonight was packed, filling every seat in the house. At $35 a ticket, audiences expect quality entertainment with the ARTI stamp of approval. Up until the final show, it was something the theatre could proclaim.

            For everyone backstage, the previous rehearsals and performances foreshadowed Paynes’s lack of legendary talent. He would forget lines, ad-lib, excessively drink and intentionally fluster other members of the cast. Hints of alcohol, cigarette smoke and vomit linger on his breath as he walks into the dressing room, soaked from the downpour moments earlier. “I was just having a smoke, I’ll get ready in a few minutes.”

            “Has David been drinking?” asks Sean Cunningham, a board member at ARTI.

            “I think he’s had way too much,” I say. “He’s slurring his words, and he doesn’t even know where he put his costume last night.”

            Payne scoured the dressing room, stumbling through cubbies of clothes, props and accessories. “Which one of you moved my costume?” he demanded. “I know I put it here last night.”

            “No one moved your shit, it’s probably behind the stage,” moaned a peeved Morgan Nadauld, a 20-year-old actress portraying Penelope, the on-stage wife to Payne in the show. “You always forget your coat behind the door.”

            “It’s not my job to take my coat from off stage,” Payne retorted. “That’s the stage managers job.”

            Brody Newman, the stage manager tasked with tending to Payne’s neediness, overheard the banter and reluctantly helped search for the missing items with only minutes to showtime. As the two of them searched, the cast chanted the ritualistic pre-show “Ra, Ra” and prepared to perform. I waited for my cue music behind the black curtain, pacing and realizing I was at the mercy of my antagonistic protagonist.

            My cue music starts. I can still hear the stifled banter of the audience as they wait for the show to begin. I step onto the black stage in front of dozens of silhouettes, taking one last breath before the lights simultaneously illuminate my trembling body.

“Ah, what a sad day for the Barringtons. Especially, Lord Barrington, who was found horribly murdered as he ate cheese in the library. Gouda cheese. Sliced thin.” My lines are off to a start, and I know Payne should be ready behind the door, waiting for me to present him and his on-stage wife, Nadauld, to the world. I continue.

            “Ah, the door is chiming, I must answer it, as I have done since I was a little boy, as my father did before me, and his father before him, and my grandmother beside him, and my mother, beneath her.” I walk towards the door as I’ve done countless times before, and open to find no Payne awaiting his cue, only Nadauld. An awkward beat ensues as I gaze backstage with hope of seeing our lead actor. At that moment, he bursts around the corner and stumbles with his coat in hand, panting, exclaiming what little he could remember of his lines.

            Anyone involved with live theatre knows how difficult it can be, between memorization, blocking and forgetting lines on stage. A common feeling among those who’ve participated, is panic, a sudden jolt of unrehearsed emotion as you’re forced to adapt to the faux paus of your fellow actors, or yourself. With any luck, it’s a fleeting moment passing as quickly as it came, water under the bridge as you continue the rest of the show. But when the moment isn’t as fleeting, it’s a nightmare-worthy experience even for those without stage fright in front of a judgmental, expectant audience.

            The first act concludes, leading to a 15-minute intermission. Before entering the Green Room, an actress and board member, Melanie Seneff, grabs me by the arm. “He’s never going to act here again, I guarantee it,” she says. “He can’t even remember his fucking lines on the last night of the show.”

            “We shouldn’t say anything until after,” I reply. “He’s too unpredictable to confront before the show is over.”

            We enter the Green Room to silence. Tension builds within the cast. We're angry. Nadauld reapplies makeup, Cunningham looks for props, I readjust my costume and Seneff heads to look for Jim Beck, Drop Dead director and President at ARTI. I knew she’d make Payne’s sentencing final before the end of the show. Intermission tonight is longer than usual.

            Act two begins the same as the first, brimming with inconsistencies and forgetful moments from Payne. We catch glimpses at one another as he stumbles over more of his words, wondering if he’ll need saving like a lifeguard to a drowning child, one of us casting a line to the panicking body on stage. The 35 minutes of act two pass like time at the doctor’s office, slow and painful as we wait with surging anticipation, but it’s curtain-call and we’re taking our final bow. I grip Payne’s sweaty hand in unison as we thank the audience one last time, then leave backstage for his imminent dismissal from ARTI.

            I approach the Green Room door as I see the wife of Jim Beck and fellow board member, Rebecca Beck, address Payne.

            “I’m going to need you to take all of your belongings and get out of the theatre immediately,” she says. “You’re wasted, and you’ve been told not to drink. Get out.”

            “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” staggered Payne. “I’m totally fine.”

            “I don’t want to have to call the police. Pack up and go.”

            Payne walked past Beck to gather his things. Silence grips the cast, except for the feint sobbing from a nearby dressing room. Once his things were packed, he left without a further trace, not bothering to take the gifts his fellow cast-mates had given him for the last night of the show. It was a relief as the door closed behind, releasing the venting process in the room like removing the lid from a pressure cooker.

            Despite the experience with someone like Payne, I’ll always be attracted to life on stage. I’ve learned we have different motivations for why and how we perform. The sense of accomplishment from months of work and rehearsal is a rewarding feeling, making the non-paid hobby worth the effort for someone like me. Payne appears to use theatre for a different purpose, either facilitating some need for validation, or to mask some inner struggles through alcohol or a veil of theatrics. He’ll have to find out for himself at some other theatre than The Phoenix. Still got a standing ovation that night, though.