Santa Fe. 1982
Bang!!!
Christ, that hurt, right on the point of the hip.
Hey, here he comes again, the trolley swinging free in a wide arc as I turn to avoid (is this an act, am I performing this???)
Whack! This time on the thigh the point at the bottom corner of the trolley’s wire-woven grill thumped the taught muscle against the bone, ouwee that sure will bruise for a while. Should I continue this dance away from thumps, stay on till the next cue at which time Chelsea and Bristol would enter as bathing-suited puppeteers seductively singing a children’s song? Did I go to drama school to be exposed to The Poet ranting about Marco Polo and Books of the Dead, swinging a supermarket trolley? No! So I simply disappear and leave him to it, and into the curtained off supper room that suffices as a dressing room, I slump in the corner. I heard the audience gasp when the supermarket trolley made its first hit, ouch is that part of the act? The tears stinging behind the lids are no act, the real-life drama was on show for all to see, and I’m wounded. The stage light is dimming for the final couplet, applause jangles around the loft; of the four actors in the travelling troupe, only three take a bow. “Are you all right?” the women ask, sure I say, examining the growing, angry red. “Alan, you'd better apologise to John”. He stands in front of me; a silence choking itself between us. “Are you ok?”. “It fucking hurt”. More silence. I could wait till all souls freeze in hell before any sorries from Rooster. “Alan, you should apologise” Once again, from Chelsea, standing in tights only, firing up a Marlboro Light. “I didn’t know you were there”. Silence. “Sorry”, I looked up into his face, pinprick eyes like little emeralds, a grubby towel smearing makeup from a bristly cheek, a half grin and the feeling between us of circling one another and perhaps not liking it very much, but realising we can see each other in ways we might not want to. No matter what, no matter how many insults and putdowns and shabby shows that only tire you out, no matter how many hours of singing in the street for pizza and mechanical repairs, no matter how many offers of script or choreography got waved aside, (those patches truly answered for), out here on the edge of theatre, in the heart of the drama- life onstage, we seem at this moment to need each other. Our unspoken pledge made real by the active dedication of leaving all other promises and filling this one. The action of living the dream together, even when it’s a nightmare, of sharing the burden, of seeing each other handle the glory and the loneliness. “Sorry”.
Outside the theatre, one hour later, Rooster and I are tying the trunks to the roof of the Buick. Locals have helped us pack and stack, have rolled joints and uncapped beer, but at this point, Rooster tells them, “Stand back, we've got a system going here”. The ropes whip over the piled suitcases and trunks of costumes and props, and do our lash into place routine. “So you guys took this car to England with you ? asks a curious local.” Yeah” I say, “We drove there and back” There is laughter. “You guys are amazing”, another one says, “I thought your show was really cool, crazy as all shit, but cool”. Finishing the pack-up, we go inside for tacos, beer and weed. I am free because I choose to be. Soon enough, bruises fade, change colour, and, unlike wounds, completely disappear. Soon enough.