Cougars, Tigers, and Bearcreek, oh my!

I figured that as my time on the farm is coming to a close, I should send one more installment of my "Bearcreek Travails Newsletter," as one friend called it. 

 

I started to feel like I had less stories to tell after a while, that maybe less funny things were happening, less interesting people were cropping up around me, but now when I think about it, it seems I just got used to my surroundings.  This place, these people, the everyday situations around here…they seemed normal.  But…upon further introspection and looking back, I realized: just like Brooks Hatlen, this has somehow just become an acceptable life to me, and perhaps I have lost touch with the outside.  I can only hope that I will be able to rehabilitate myself and not have to relocate to a beach in Mexico like Andy and Red; there are several places in my previous life to which I plan to return as soon as possible. 

 

A couple of weeks ago, our entire cast was invited to have dinner w/ the Amish family whose daughters work for Housekeeping on the farm.  They gave us a tour of their farm, their great farmhouse, and we sat around their giant den, exchanging names and hometowns.  All 14 of the children in the family were there, many with spouses and two or three children of their own, plus eight of us from the show and the parents of the family…the den was more than full, though cozy in the gas lamplight.  We sang songs for the Hilty family from our show, and they sang their German folksongs for us, complete with four-part yodeling.  They had made giant chocolate chip cookies and coffee for us, and though we found it odd that none of them ate any of the cookies (we wondered if they didn't eat food that was intended for the English, but we just let that go), it was a great night.  Sean, the shortest of three guys in our cast, got schooled in basketball outside in the yard…he was at an obvious disadvantage, being accustomed to depending on electricity to see in the dark.  Those Amish dudes were all over it.  They do have battery-powered headlamps, but they didn't even need them.

 

Last night, one castmate and I were invited back to the Hiltys' to help feed their baby cows.  They run a beef cattle farm, and they had just received about 80 new calves a few weeks ago.  Brett and I helped mix the powdered milk, hot water and vitamins, we filled the bottles and placed them in the pens, and watched the calves drink the milk as if they were still fighting their brothers and sisters for sustenance.  They had a limited number of bottles, about 15, so once one row was finished, we'd pry the empty bottles out of the calves' mouths, refill them, and hit the next row.  It was hilarious to watch the baby cows turn to their next door neighbor and start licking the milk off of his or her face.  The basic process of Calf Dinner Time is this:  drink bottle, make out with your sister, pass out.  Sounds more like something that you'd think happens in West Virginia, now that I think of it…but it didn't seem nearly as dirty with cows. 

 

This past Saturday, I had a day that few actors probably have on the job.  At 10AM, I was called to our Garden Room in the restaurant to co-host Elvis Bingo.  Guests played Bingo, but they were aiming to make shapes that loosely resembled things related to Elvis, such as a shoe, a church, or a lightning bolt.  As one might imagine, Elvis was the main host of Elvis Bingo.  In our case, this was David Goins, my very awkward next door neighbor, who comes by the back door of my apartment to ask to borrow random things so much that it's starting to get wayyy too creepy.  My castmate Sean caught him standing in front of my headshot during load-in for a concert, his face inches away from "mine," just staring. Mr. Goins is a performer, technically, but he's been employed here as a guitarist in two shows this season, though he's a veteran Bearcreek "performer," but he has seemed to gain too much weight to be considered a viable singer/dancer. When he came out to begin Bingo and sing some Elvis karaoke, a guest called out "wow, looks like Elvis has had too many Peanut Butter and Banana sandwiches!"  I responded, over the microphone," Wow, ma'am.  That was out loud.  We could all hear you."  Poor guy…I felt bad for him, calling out, "O-67, Oooo—hhhh, sixteh sevennnnn…attempting the Elvis waver in his voice….that is, until he'd stare scarily at me after announcing each Bingo call.  Someone reported that I did so well, they want me to come back and co-host with him again for six hours this weekend.  I don't think I've got it in me.

 

Later that morning, a castmate competed in a Barrel Racing contest at the horse show at the farm.  Yeah, we have a horse arena, they have shows and competitions there, and Olin Davidson, tall, slim singer/dancer from Seymour, Indiana, who has been known for calling out, "Jesus, Mary, my tailbone is KILLIN' me from all this horse mess….well, we're gonna warm up to Beyonce today, she'll make it all better.  Haaaaaaaaeeeeeeyyyyyyyyy!," won a gorgeous second place red ribbon for his barrel racing skills.  Both of these events occurred before our matinee.  It was a banner weekend indeed. 

 

During my tenure at Bearcreek, I also played Beer Pong for the first time in my life.  I guess I sheltered myself from it in college, too many rehearsals, Park Scholar leadership summits, and biochemistry and British and Holocaust Lit papers, maybe.  They have a whole setup at the Pit Stop, the local bar that all the Bearcreek staff frequents.  I won't go into the story, but I shouldn't have to explain the insane sanitary conditions of this game.  I didn't drink the Bud Light, as it reminded me way too much of being 18 (sorry Mama, the theatre big brothers made me do it, you remember Matt Woods), but I got better with my aim as the games went on.  As I'm not a frat boy, I don't think I'll be playing again, but now I can say I did it. 

 

Even more interesting than the events I've survived here are the people who've passed through my life.  I've mentioned several already, but there are a whole slew of colorful characters who you've not yet met.

 

There's Wendell, the kitchen worker who's trapped in a rural Indiana Catholic closet during the day, though his friends call him Wendy when he's at the bar at night, and when he's in his cups, the truth comes out—and so does Wendell.  He leaves the trucker hat at home and spikes his hair up, wears colorful clothes, and speaks—often slurs—his mind.  At The Pit Stop on Beer Pong Night, I sat down next to him at the bar, and he leaned over to share something with me…

Wendell:  IIIIIIIII donnnnnnnnnnn lllllike yerrrrr hairrrr.

ME:  What?  I'm sorry, what do you mean?

Wendell:  Itttttssssssssss not red enough.

ME:  Oh yeah, it's usually more red than this, the lady who did it dyed it too brown.  I'm only here for a few more weeks, though, hardly anyone will see it except y'all, it'll be OK.

Wendell:  I dunnnnnoooo, it looks prrrrrretty bad.  I hate it.  You ssssshould wear a hat or something.  It'ssssss not you at alllll. 

ME:  Thanks, Wendell, I'll keep that in mind.

 

Then we have Matthew the bartender.  We noticed he would talk about his wife a lot, but that he wasn't wearing a ring.  Then a more astute observer noticed he wasn't just missing the ring, he was missing the entire fourth finger on his left hand.  Apparently he caught the wedding ring on some sort of slicing machine in the kitchen a few years back, and after having that finger removed, he decided it wasn't worth it to wear the ring on another finger if it meant risking losing that one too. 

 

Every small town has a town drunk—Mayberry has Otis Campbell, and Bearcreek Farms has Jack James.  Jack claims that he is "Director of Public Relations" at Bearcreek, but he actually has no official title.  The word on the inside is that he has some dirt on the general manager, so he's pseudo-blackmailing them to let him stay around and get paid to do nothing.  He knows lots of the regular guests, but he mostly floats around the farm during the day, trying to "help" people actually doing their jobs, but usually just getting in the way.  In the evenings, he walks around the farm with a 44oz big gulp of a mixture of Mountain Dew and what smells like Vodka.  He lives on the farm and has been issued (unofficially) a golf cart that he joyrides around the grounds on the weekends.  We keep wondering if we could get him arrested for a DUI on the thing, because it would keep him from being able to come in and disrupt evening events.

 

My boss is a self-proclaimed "cougar, and proud of it."  She is easily 45, and she talks about dating 25-year-olds, "if she could just find a good one around here."  When my friends came up from Cincinnati, we went to Pumpkin Fest in town, which was basically a country fair based around pumpkins, with attractions such as a petting zoo, garage sale, and a tractor-pulled hayride. Our tractor driver was a seemingly very nice young man, and my friends basically dared me to give him a piece of paper with our show schedule and my phone number on it with the promise of a free ticket, for driving us around and talking to us on our hayride. This guy came to be known as "farmer townie boyfriend," just in comparison to a guy in town that a castmate had actually been involved with during her last contract here.  Let me be very clear that the farmer and I had no involvement whatsoever other than the fact that he did come to the show—when I wasn't in it.  I came down with a severe bacterial infection, and the second day that I was quarantined on my couch, not even allowed to go down to the restaurant for soup, he came to the show, asking the others if we had one missing.  But when my boss came up to bring my soup, she informed me that said farmer had been at the show, and that her next door neighbor had been trying to set HER (my boss) up with this same young man.  Small town drama at its finest. My castmate Brett and I have taken to calling her "Cougs."

 

I am wary to mention this, as I know how potentially offensive it is…but here goes anyway.  There are several groups of developmentally disabled adults, work rehab programs, etc., who come to our shows.  Our boss affectionately (offensively) calls them "tigers," mostly from the likelihood that there could be vocal outbursts from them that could potentially disrupt the show.  So if we get a call with "places" that says "tigers in the audience today," we know what it means.  These audiences are often our best, though, most responsive, if nothing else.  In our opening number the other day, we had a 'veritable zoo' as it was put, and 20 of the 40 were dancing in the aisles to the opening number.  It was pretty awesome.

 

So I look back on this 14-week contract with great amazement that it actually happened, thinking back on all I've seen and done. Yes, I've begged to be taken away several times. I've lamented to my friends and family about the water, the food, the trailer where I live, and all aspects of the "show" I've been doing.  I've called out to the Heavens, "what am I DOING with my life?!?!?!?" Admittedly, my positive attitude has been chipped away.  I have a hard time smiling during the "show" about anything other than my inner countdown of the remaining performances.  However, I'll take these insane experiences with me for the rest of my life with great humor and no regret.  This contract came along at a great time when I needed to save money and have an excess of free time to finally finish my Masters' Thesis.  I'm not done yet, but I'm 80-something pages in, and I will be done soon. Unbelievably enough, here at the end, I'm pretty thankful. 

 

I'll miss my Amish friends, the Hiltys.  I'll miss the pickled eggs and the occasional steamed vegetables that the kitchen guys made upon my request in our restaurant.  I'll miss Louis's ability to roam around outside off of his leash.  I'll miss The Olds who seem to renew their patriotism and faith in young people just by seeing our ridiculous show.  And Rich—the dishwasher/cook with the ankle monitor, I like to believe that your statutory conviction was just really unfortunate timing, I just know that you and your 14-year-old girlfriend were deeply in love.   You mock me with the other guys for being a hippie liberal actress from North Carolina, but you pass me your copy of The Nation under the dish line, knowing if the guys knew your most hidden secret, that you're onmy side of politics among these rural Indiana Catholic ultra-Republicans, it would destroy your rep and masculinity among them—I think I'll miss you most of all. 

 

Love to all, and I'll be back in North Carolina in a few weeks to start the Christmas show @ Temple Theatre in Sanford.  Probably not nearly the thrilling stories from there, but I bet at least the water will be potable.