Good Grief, John Boy - Part Ten

So for the next few days, a sort of Transportation Symbiosis develops between work and the play. I could take the bus to work no matter how late it was since right after work I was "hitching a ride" with someone down to the play in Nelson County to do "my scene" (and curtain call). Afterwards, I would catch a ride home (usually with Gregg), all the while trying to get the money together to release my car from the iron grip of "The Man."

And to me it's bizarre. Onstage, everyone else was in deninm, faded cotton, and wool, trying to look like it's a cold Virginia winter in 1933, and there I was, no shirt, no shoes, but still holding service as Reverend Hawthorne Dooley in my sandals, sweater, dread locks and great, dark cloak. And here's the weird thing ... no one else seemed to care. All anyone said to me was how nice the singing was. Maybe that's the thing. Maybe they were reaching for something more polite than, "What exactly were you supposed to be up there, the Black Friar Tuck?" but they didn't come across that way.

What is our relationship to the audience then? How much do they need to go with the show? During grad school there was all this fuss and furor over making things exactly right. Can't have the wrong piece of clothing or a prop outside the period onstage or else the illusion is lost. Well, 2005 walked right into 1933 and all anyone saw or heard was one of their favorite Christmas carols.