Stage Fright

The Urination Scene of Richard III (Part One) by Mike Marino

The Experimental (emphasis on the "mental") Theatre Workshop was an artistic lun atic asylum where we as it's unsedated inmates could, in addition to weaving lit erary baskets write, act, overact, over react, over achieve, under achieve and i n the unholy process of our holy dimentia create miiature persona's for ourselve s as actors, much as schizoids do, complete with dual voices in the head like So n of Sam's listening to some bellowing dog in the neighbor's backyard chained to the porch, promising a double your money back guarantee or a rain check for Tho razine filled pinatas. We were tattered clowns in a ragged road circus transform ing ourselves into animated slapstick cartoons to amuse the crowd. We lacked the three rings a circus has, but, made up for it with stage left and stage right, and our case, politically at least, it was mostly stage "left" After the curtain came down, and we took our bow on our successful fund raising performance runs on behalf of the drug rehab SHAR house, it was time for the Rus tbelt Algonquin Table to be put to the literary litmus test. Four writers of the Apocalypse had to create and produce four seperate plays, each personal, each d irected by the playwright. We also designed and constructed the sets andflats, ourselves, carpenters we were not, we would have lost all five fingers to a tabl esaw and as the ultimate kick in the balls, we would also have lost our apprenti ceships and kicked out of the guild and tossed off the docks into the harbor str aight out of a scene in On The Waterfront , in our minds, to borrow a phrase from Terry Malloy.. Charlie, I coulda bin a contenda, instead of a bum but, bums we were and as s uch we buggered on nonetheless. Our next theatrical series, was entitled "Self-D estruct" and we rehearesed with the fury of screaming nympho-mermaids trying to entice horny sailors to pop there Neptunian cherries in a watery grave deep in D avy Jones' Locker. We gave four performances, all sold out of Self Destruct, and with reviews that would have made even Ed Wood happy! Let's face it..we were more Glen or Glenda t han Hamlet in presentation, which made it all the more fun..at least for the tro upe. We were approached by the local PBS TV station about perhaps donating a per formance for their annual fundraiser auction. You know the kind that gave away t ote bags for $500 dollars. I knew Jerry Trainor, the station manager, and had fo r years, so as friends I did what friends do..I committed the entire cast and cr ew to what would be our final curtain performance for a private donor that would end with accolades and urination! We waited watching the PBS fundraiser to see what we would net asa contribution. Our "performance" went on the board and the bidding began. It was almost fright ening to see the figures rise with the ringing of phones in the background as a backdrop. It was Quasimodo in the bell tower, hunched over the parapets laughing at the crowd celebrating the Festival of the Fools. Jugglers and pick pockets, dancing Gypsy girls in swirling skirts and fortune tellers with ample samples of amulets to protect or curse as the case may be. Our adrenaline raced, our minds raced, it was a white water rapids ride on the C olorado after the spring snowmelt. Number fives to challenge kayaks from Norway and Vikings from Minnesota and Icelandic blondes with fur boots and red cherubic cheeks with sheep in tow to beat it off the island before the next eruption and disruption as a result of Vulcan, the pissed off god. My co-founder partner Emmett and I were watching from his home on the Eastside o f Detroit, drinking wine and smoking natures own. Finally the bidding stopped an d we had netted $1,500 from a wealthy couple in Bloomfield Hills north of the ci ty. Actualkly PBS netted it so they could afford more seasons of This Old House from Boston and various fare from the BBC. We were ecstatic..on the phone..phone the cast...get ready for more rehearsal..g

et ready to perform one more time. We then received a phone call two days later from the winning bidders, a rather wealthy couple who had a national home buildi ng company. We agreed to meet privately at their home, and the site of the perfo rmance. Emmett and I felt like old south share cropping field hands being invite d to the "big house" to meet Massa and Mistress, so we fortified ourselves with wine and weed once again and went to meet them on their turf..it was right out o f Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?" It's Mike and Emmett..Glen and Glenda! Pull the strings, pull the strings! I was in a slight panic at first. I didn't want to blow it, only for the sake of Jerry Trainor and the reputation of PBS, so the wine and weed had caught up wit h both of us and once inside our fears were allayed..turns out the couple was al ready three sheets in the wino wind and dead drunk! At last..common ground and a common slurred language. By the end of the pow-wow we had the particulars and had set the date for the pe rformance. We also found out that in attendance would be a who's who of Detroit arts and industry from the head of AMC to the theater director of the Detroit In stitute of Arts and everyone in between. An industrial-cultural Gyro with meat a nd spice to please and entice the picky palates of suburbanites venturing into a n ethnic restaurant with now concept of Oompah, Flaming cheese or goat meat. Giv e a godammned Greek a kitchen..and magic happens. Nobody cooks like a Greek. The performance was to be the round, or rather semi-round, semi-circle to be hel d on the rather large patio on the back yard surrounded by lush gardens of garde nia's, roses, and more flora than an Indonesian rain forest. The chairs would be set out on the lawn, our lighting and scaffolding behind the chairs, and our dr essing room, or the "green room" was to be the garage just to the left of the ba ckyard patio. The only thing at the meeting I remember saying, was "Of course yo u'll remove the Rolls Royce!" Emmett reminds of that line to this day..after all ..it was only a Mercedes and not a Rolls! Paupers! We rehearsed for another two weeks...then opening night...we had nothing to hit but the heights! It's Showtime at the Apollo! Greasepaint and sweat, mixing in t he garage with motor oil and old exhaust. Suicide perfume me thinks it's called, or should be. Close the doors, run the engine and sign a final lullabye, bye, b ye. The actors were in fine shape, parts memorized, characters "method" absorbed and the writers were all in their literary cups drunk with what they perceived as s uccess. Getting to play "the garden" as we referred to it. It ain't the Palace o r the Palladium either, but, to aspiring artisans aswe were it was at least the Catskills! We were gonna play in the shadow and footsteps of Sheckey Greene, Hen ny Youngman, Lenny Bruce and Marty Feldman...Marty Feldman? Old bug eyes not to be confused with Old Blue Eyes. We knew were not Sinatra and this was not the Sa nds Hotel and Casino in Vegas. We weren't even Monte Rock III although one of ou r actors Dave, a Wayne State drama student pulled off a good Monte routine that we were never sure was just a routine. Didn't matter, the kid could act up a sto rm and in retrospect could have wowed us all and tickle our fancy with a flamboy ant feather boa, as long as it wasn't constricting. Emmett and I had arrived early in the day on opening night to give our regards t o our own private Broadway. We had scaffolding to set-up along with lights, chec k the garage dressing room situation, and in general get the lay of the land, wh ich in this case would be the couples 24 year old daughter that Emmett and Mike had their eyes on from the earlier meeting and had already mapped out nefarious plans to beat each other to the punch. Beautiful and Rich! A bum actor's dream c ome true!

It was late afternoon, four-ish and the program was to start at 5:30 with hor'de ovrve's and enough booze to launch the Queen Mary. Dinner would follow after soc ial hour at 6:30 with outdoor seating and lobster and wine flowing like a rush o f underground lava. That was for the guests. The starving artists were lucky to get burgers and Coke after Mike made arrangements with the oversized cook in the kitchen just off of the garage door that led as a secret passage between starva tion and carnivorous rescue. I lied and told her I was African-American but just passing! I was running around making sure everything was going according to plan...so far so good...the garage was massive, the Mercedes was moved out and the actors tur ned it into a "green room" that would be the envy of any Sears-Roebuck store, fo r in addition to actors, make-up and costumes, hung an assortment of garden too ls, saws, other implements known and unknown so it was a Garage Louvre celebrati ng manual labor..a Diego River fresco in three dimensions with the added flair o f the faint scent of motor oil, gasoline from the gas powered lawnmower, and a f aint hint of mown lawn that was sticking to the blades of the mighty Toro placed in the corner of the garage, a sentinel standing guard over all the other imple ments ready to cut down the intruder or interloper who dared to intrude and lope . There was a gas powered chain saw hanging from a hook on the wall near the win dow on the west of the garage and it too was more than a tool...it had a soul..M ike could feel it..one wrong move on the daughter and he'd be cut down in the pr ime of his youth..chainsawed and massacred, cut into little pieces no more recog nizable than human mulch. Guests were beginning to arrive, luxury car after luxury car, not like that 1970 something Dodge Dart I drove pathetically forcing it to perform what for it was an unnatural act such as turning over and starting and getting me from Point A to Point B and not falling apart at Point A- I as most of the crew, not actors, were dressed simply enough in faded jeans and t-shirts. Not the billboard messag e shirts of today with John Lennon on the front, or Pink Ribbons to save a breas t...which makes me think...men have colon cancer but never is there a "day" or a ribbon for it...but on the other hand, it is the colon we're talking about so t he ribbon would be a ghastly color you wouldn't want on a bumper sticker next to you're faded Vote for Romney! No..these were bonafide plain white Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski affairs...you know..a fucking t-shirt with nothing to say, yet by being "silent" it said it all. I was standing outside of the garage with Emmett smoking a joint while the actor s were inside getting dressed for the performance. The guests were pulling up an d parking on the street except for one very naughty looking Brit sports car that pulled into the circular drive and stopped by the t-shirted twosome. I quickly swallowed the roach that was at on time a full grown joint, now reduced to a smo ldering cinder...a meteorite that had raced through space at one time the size o f Alaska, now reduced to Rhode Island. A gentlemen exits the drivers side, James Bondish, only older, not good looking, a bit of a pot belly and receding hairline..so how the hell did he score the yo ung blond in the passenger seat that probably gave him head at 70 MPH on the Lod ge Expressway or was it intercourse at the interchange? He'll never tell. We kne w the answer...his wallet and bank account were obviously larger than his "mucho macho member" and a healthy stock portfolio will get you laid and a blow job an y day. I being a gentleman myself, dashed to open her door, she had legs that shot out from the car, long and powerful, they could have propelled a rocket to the moon and her boosters would still be ready to orbit all nightlong. The driver noticin g my chivalrous moment in time mistakenly took myself and Emmett as the hired he lp and tossed the keys to Emmett with a deep voiced to impress the chick "Boy be

careful when you park it, it's expensive." More penis extender talk. My machine is bigger than your machine kind of locker room swat the towel crapola. We pointed the way to the backyard "amphitheater" where cocktails were being ser ved and watched Legs and the Portfolio Man disappear into the crowd. Gone. Swall owed up whole. Champagne in hand (get her drunk enough you might bag her later b uddy!) It was at that moment in time, the portal of opportunity opened wide and called to punk in both of us. The car was talking to us..not a voice in the head , but a metal mental moment..."Drive Me, go ahead, you have the keys, he's showi ng off his trophy fuck for the night, ride me hard, slam me into gear, burn my r ubber, squeal my tires, run my tank to empty if you like!" That was it...of all the gin joints and garages in the world, she had to walk into mine..deal. Emmett had the keys and tossed them to me as I have had some prior experience wi th other peoples cars that were not my own. Ignition, liftoff..we drove into the street quietly, not letting the engine rip loose yet. Emmett made a hurried das h to tell the actors we'd be right back but not telling them from where. It coul d have been Mars for all they knew, or better yet, Venus with vagina's and virgi ns for all the men aboard the ship, along with a cask of rum and salted goat mea t. We made the trip to Woodward Ave, the notorious Friday/Saturday Night drag strip of the Motor City. We put the radio onto WABX and fed our head as the engine ro ared off from the stoplights. We passed two young girls in a Ford and slowed jus t a bit to let them know we were interested. They Were!!! In the car that is...p ut the two of us in a Falcon and a blind girl wouldn't fondle us in braille...it was time to head back..back to the opening performance and the Encore Urination Scene that wowed the crowd. Oh yeah, we forgot to change the station back to it's original dial position at biz talk WWJ..the guy would get in the car after an evening of arts and urinatio n and instead of the stock report or the Tigers game and Ernie Harwell...he woul d be greeted with the sounds probably of Frank Zappa and the King Biscuit Flower Hour!! It was time...show time (To Be Continued) THE ROADHEAD CHRONICLES BOOK By Mike Marino Roadhead Book Website http://www.ang elfire.com/mi2/sfroad/page1008.html Click, Cruise and Kick Asphalt! The Roadhead Chronicles Book is available worldwide at over 5,000 booksellers including Barn es & Noble, Walden Books, B. Dalton, Little Professor, Target Stores and Booksen se.com with 1,200 Locations in the US. (Also Canada, The United Kingdom, Germany , msterdam, France, New Zealand, Australia and Japan