Last Dance with Mary Jane; Part IV

I've got a big bad secret. Do you know what it is? Can you read my stories and figure it out?

I'm guessing, no. You can't tell, because I'm really good at pretending I'm just fuckin' fine, even when I'm self indulgently blurting my every guttural whim and symptom to the four corners of cyberdom. I blog crazy, with no respect for myself, decency, or grammar, and you still can't tell. You can read about the time I tried to kill myself in college and not know anything. That last barrier is important to maintain. If it I don't acknowledge what's behind it, then it is not there, or at least it seems as if it is not there, and fake peace is the glue that has held this train wreck called Bunny together. That, and masturbation. And my dogs.

When I was a teen I was much more OCD about my faking, because there was no writing. I had nothing to turn to, or to dump on. I didn't like my teachers much, thought they were apathetic toward me, and my grandparents never taught me anything because they actually were apathetic toward me. My sister was too jealous and vindictive to go to, and the argument that I raised my mother while she was raising me is a solid one. Aside from my somewhat distant father, whose guidance was considerable, but quiet, I had no mentors because I had to be met with insanity to be forced open. I had built up my skin so thickly, I could only learn from crazy people.

It is with great respect and seriousness that I credit Mary Jane with teaching me two very important lessons during those high school years, perhaps the most important lessons I ever learned. The first is this:

Putting yourself 'out there' makes you a better and healthier person.

That's pretty much applicable to any situation, across the board. Trying begets growing. Had I not forced myself out of a funk, off the couch and out the door on that cold Tuesday night when Mary Jane's blue mini van pulled into my driveway to take me to a faggoty musical audition I simply would NOT sing at, I would have spent the rest of my high school days in a daze, drawing Hell from purgatory and feeling nothing.

The second lesson I'll get to later. First, let me tell you how we made history.

--

When Lindsay Oram opens her mouth to sing, it is the sound of God that we hear. She is the velvety, aged counterpoint to Leah's booming youthfulness, and though she is often difficult to hear under Leah, and thus must be heavily mic'ed, the sound that comes from her throat and through the sound system of the Reg Lennae Civic Center is the sound of God. No, wait. It is the sound of God making sweet love to Liv Tyler on a bed of Lilacs and opiates. We are left speechless by its beauty. This, along with Leah's near perfect portrayal of the youthful hoofer, will save us from disaster, placing us squarely between the "Utter piece of shit" and "Not very good" categories, in the "I want my money back" bracket.

No amount of after school training with either Lucille, or our choir teacher, makes any difference in my voice. It is still rotten. It shakes, and on the off chance I do get next to a note, I have to bump myself up or down a bit to get on key. I have been able to physically suspend disbelief for the duration of the 'Hotcha' number, whoring myself this way and that, shaking my normally unmovable hips and pretending I'm all stocked up in mammaries, but the notes just don't come. I walk the halls of JHS a zombie, alternately yawning and mouthing words about how marvelously advanced men are in comparison to the walking/talking wet hole that is woman, and try as I might to extract the meaning from them, they make my stomach churn. I will make an ass of myself in front of two and a half thousand people. I may never show my vag in town again.

The girls are still struggling with Mary Jane's crack tap steps, and Barry the lighting director is about to throttle Michelle. Rhonda Friedman can't turn her head to the left any longer, and only half the costumes are finished. Betsy is so overworked that I can't bear to ask her to find me a larger wig, so I continue on with the pillbox problem. The orchestra would sound acceptable, were it not for the obnoxious bleating of Jamie Gerber's trumpet: "Come and meet, those dancin' BLEEUURRFFT!" We have a week's rehearsal time remaining. Soon, and for the rest of our lives, we will be scrawled upon the tablets of Jamestown history as the worst high school ensemble ever to take to stage.

It doesn't help that I'm bearing the Sisyphean weight of the impending Michelle Constantino reaction to the unfinished set pieces. I am overworked and too shy to ask for help. I am also convinced that no one would want to help such a loser as myself, so I quietly bear the agony of knowing that I will be unable to get the sets finished. There will be no 6' dollar bills, 2' diameter cardboard dimes, 8' plywood seashells, colorful cardboard fish, 6' yellow taxi cabs, 4' bed frames, and so on and so forth into the black hole of Constantino fantasy.

When I fall asleep at the brush and neglect to paint the left sides of the six foot tall playing cards we coyly hide behind during a number, she falls into a rage, screams "FIX THEM!" and walks out of the theater.

I do not cry, because crying is the sissified result of excess emotion. I am, however, a little rubbed raw by the fact that my sanity lies in the chubby hands of a crazy person.

Leah sees my eyes glaze, for she sits next to me with her hand on my knee. How does she do this? How does one care so openly?

"It's okay Er-Bear. We'll figure it out."

The following afternoon, while manically slapping paint on the sets by myself in the basement, Leah comes to help. She has organized a set painting party to which the whole cast shows, and enthusiastically aids me in finishing the work in one fell swoop. The pieces are carted off to the Reg Lennae Civic Center, where Michelle Constantino inspects them and finds them to be sub-par. She says, "THEY'LL HAVE TO DO."

I care not, because I got to take a nap and eat a real dinner at a dinner table for the first time in weeks.

--

Mary Jane never quits. Ever. She has unlimited energy, it seems, and just when we're sure she is going to shut down and pass out, leaving us with badly needed break time, she winds herself back up and goes for another hour.

On the night of our first dress rehearsal, she stands center stage, screaming "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8!" over and over as she leads us through a taxing round of shuffles that take place in Act II. We are in full costume, scary makeup included. It is the last of our rehearsing, and the only thing that stands between us sucking in front of ourselves, and us sucking in front of everyone in town. We are not exhausted any longer because we are scared. We only hope Leah and Lindsay are enough. And the pyrotechnics of course. The fire is good.

When Mary Jane feels that we are warm enough, she says, "Good luck, ladies," and exits the stage ominously. The curtains close. We take our places for the opening audition scene as Mr. Lydell, the orchestra leader taps out four counts on his steel music stand. The music begins, and Jamie Gerber's trumpet bleats. I turn and look at my fellow tap mates, my companions on this journey through the fires of Michelle Constantino's Aryan fantasies, and I think, 'Our wigs look good.' Really, that's all the cheer I can muster.

I turn my head front and center and take a deep breath, for here comes the build into our round of Time Steps. I feel like pooping my tap shorts. We are a "5, 6, 7, 8" closer to horrible infamy, when there is a quick ballchange and then...

Time Steps. Just some Time Steps, really, and they don't sound so bad. We move to the Waltz Clock Turns, and there's no drama there, and by the looks on everyone's faces as we do the intricate basket weave Mary Jane conjured from the depths of Dante's inferno, this is going okay. We're smiling, even.

Later, while sitting in the Green Room rubbing sport cream into my shins, I hear Leah and Lindsay's duet fully mic'ed with orchestra for the first time. Poor Rhonda Friedman takes a fall on the wet floor. The girls keep going down in the accidental leakage that sprung forth from our "water tight" rain machine. While there is usually chatter among us, lipsticks rolling off tables, complaints, tap shoes clacking this way and that, and the sound of six oscillating fans on the perimeter, at this moment there is only the fans oscillating. The fans and two perfect voices. We are bemused, optimistic even. Rhonda Friedman stands above me, stabbing the impossible wig into my oversized but heavily lacquered scalp (for it is the only way we can get it to stay down). When Lindsay hits the high note, I hear Rhonda gasp, and it is not because she tried to move her head to the left.

The sets are in place at the right times. The high wire act is light and airy. The fan number comes together, and it is fluffy and decadent. The tapping sounds clean, the singing powerful, and when our sixty-member crew (boys included) high kicks in perfect unison at the apex of Lullaby of Broadway, Barry the lighting designer trips over a spot and tumbles six steps. When it is done, Michelle Constantino weeps. This time she cries because we are good. Real good. How did this happen?

--

We wouldn't be living in Jamestown, New York, if a group of adults didn't try to stop us from being excellent. A second bulletin concerning the musical has gone out at JHS. The teachers are angered that the musical participants are taking extra sick days to rest, and are unable to make satisfactory grades. The teachers have never much cared about their students before, except for when they are fucking them, or course, but the mass dipping of grade levels affects the careers of the ones who don't have tenure yet. If any cast member refuses to show at school the last Friday before the show, he or she will be unable to participate in the musical.

Shaun Chili doesn't get the memo. He doesn't show up for school, preening queen that he is and has been throughout rehearsal, and though he is having an affair with the married, forty-something choir teacher, we are not sure its enough to keep him eligible to perform. Three of us skip fourth period to go pick him up. His arrival, post lunch, is enough for the principal to grant him permission to perform, which is good, because his understudy had a nervous breakdown and quit when Michelle Constantino's "Your life belongs to me" contract went out and had to be signed by each cast member.

It is no matter, for we are whole again. Crisis averted.

--

It is opening night, one minute to curtain. I stand at center stage unable to feel my scalp. I am but a few feet behind the proscenium, two and a half thousand people on the other side of its few folds of velvet. We girls whisper "good luck" back and forth to each other as the house lights dim and Mr. Lydell, dapper in a tux, taps out four counts on his metal music stand. Just as we performers got our act together, Jamie Gerber has finally hit his stride, lending artful horn to the rest of the brass section. My legs shake as the music builds into our quick ballchange and spot-on round of Time Steps, bouncy, stompy, in unison. The curtains open. We do not suck, for the audience stands and roars, big macho football players too. Planets have aligned. Stars have uncrossed. The beautiful lunacy of Michelle Constantino has, at last minute, coupled with the endless energy of our Mary Jane to form what can only be described as stage magic. Awash in their applause, I experience what folks call "self worth," and it is a rush.

The sets are magnificent. The dancing is masterful. Leah and Lindsay are brilliant, and even Rhonda Friedman gets a nod in the paper for her acrobatics. Not even my questionable singing can damage the reputation of our project, for never before, and never after was there a better JHS musical.

At the cast party, I am awarded 'Miss Congeniality' for my tireless efforts, and when I accept my crown, I burst into tears. I wish I could say that I was internally thinking, 'I am overcome with love for my friends.' What I thought was more like, 'Why the fuck are you crying?! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU CRYING!? Emotion will be a problem for me for a good while.

--

It is Spring of our senior year. Mary Jane leads us through another round of shuffles, a quick warm up before the house doors open, and our last musical begins. Leah and Lindsay are starring yet again, and due to the infamy of our sophomore effort, people come from as far as Canada to watch us perform. People come in tour busses. We do two weekends of shows to accommodate the extra ticket holders, and the pyrotechnics, costuming and stage tricks have only escalated in grandeur--dry ice smoke, live horses, disappearing set pieces and magical elevators that do not function until dress rehearsal night, but somehow magically work out. I don't have to sing any more, because I proved I could not do it the first time around. I am, however, trusted set decorator, leader of twenty-six tap numbers and seasoned show veteran even Michelle Constantino can't crack.

We're exhausted, of course. Mary Jane does not accept my lack of energy, for she knows I am capable of much more. Instead, she smacks me on my ass and says, "Get to it!" This is my last dance with Mary Jane. Had I considered this at the time, I probably would not have mouthed, "Go to hell" back to her.

The musical is great, not as great as 42nd Street, but then, we've never been able to recreate that original magic. When we graduate a few months later, we go our separate ways. The bulk of my friends go on to get various run-of-the-mill degrees, and settle into run-of-the-mill lives in non-descript places. I go on to art school and a nervous breakdown, a tenuous advertising career and writing. Throughout my journey they tell me: Get a job. Settle down. Find a husband. Accept mediocrity.

Leah goes on to major in musical theater. She makes for herself a career on the stage, of course, and when I let her in on the details of my life she tells me: Go for it. Don't give up. Chase your dreams. It is cliché and over emotional, for sure, but I'll be damned if I don't need to hear it at least once a year. It fuels me.

Mary Jane's endless energy runs out just shy of Leah's graduation from college, when she is diagnosed with an advanced stage of Lymphoma, and given a few months to live. She lives for several years on a macrobiotic diet, an active lifestyle and sheer force of will. I like to think that when she finally left us three years ago, it was because she was bored and needed a new adventure, which brings me to the second lesson I've learned from my loopy friend Mary Jane:

Figure out what makes you happy. Work tirelessly to get it.

It's simple, but so important. I remember that every morning, when I roll out of bed with dread and think, for just a moment, 'I can't write today. I can't open up. It's too embarrassing.' Writing makes me happy, so that's that. Get to it.

But that doesn't mean I've become comfortable with sappy talk. So when I ask little sis across the table, "How's your father?" I do it with my head in the green bottle of Pellegrino. She understands why. She leans into me and puts her hand on mine, and I wonder, 'What will she say? Will she talk about Mary Jane? I don't think I can handle that. Oh God, don't cry. DON'T FUCKING CRY!'

But she smiles and says, "He's just great. He's dating again, Linda Probst, you remember her daughter Lisa? Well, they're great together. They're coming out to visit me next month, and we're going to go here, and we're going to go there, and we're going to do this, and we're going to do that..."

Of course they are.

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