On my way back to the dance studio tonight from babysitting on the Upper West Side, I had one of those experiences that I've come to realize is typical to New York City, and unheard of nearly anywhere else.
A man got on the downtown 2 train at 96th Street, and spoke, in full, clear voice, making my fellow commuters and I shift nervously as we realized he wasn't addressing anyone in particular:
"Jesus is coming! He told me to tell you. I am his servant, I only do what he say. If I am making love with my wife, and my master say stop, I stop. I do not argue with Jesus. (author's note: this is verbatim; I assure you, I started composing a note on my phone immediately once he said the former line.)
"Jesus, why you not hurt me? He say, if you go to Oprah Winfrey's house, and her dog jump on you and start licking your lips, you do not hurt that dog, yes? American people are like that. They are smart and they know not hurt you. I am God's dog. Jesus is Oprah. I am licking your lips right now. I would not hurt oprah winfrey's dog because I love oprah! I! LOVE! OPRAH!!!"
Then he exited the train. I'm pretty sure the sermon was intended to conclude with something about Jesus, but it didn't bother me. I knew just how appropriate it was to deify Oprah.
When we were in Chicago on the Annie tour last year, one of the little girls, the littlest "orphan," in fact, had a big fancy LA agent for a Dad. This meant that each of the adults in the cast, orchestra, crew, and Orphan Parents got a ticket to the Oprah show if they wanted one. It was a huge coup; I'd heard about people booking trips to Chicago a year in advance just because it was the soonest they could get show tickets.
My group of girlfriends signed up, and our guy friends in the orchestra reluctantly added their names, grumbling things like, "Only if I get a car," and "We'd better get some kick-ass free stuff for this." We prepared our outfits in accordance with the dress code (bright solid colors; they look best on camera), and we all agreed to be at Harpo Studios at 7:00 AM, which meant leaving our downtown hotel at a little before 6. We'd had plenty of bus calls earlier than that, it would be no problem.
Then, at dinner, our "Rooster," Chicago native Zander announced that all his "boys," 5 or 6 of his friends he grew up with from Hebrew school on, were going to take us out in Wicker Park that night after the show. "Oh sure," we said in the dressing room, "sounds like fun, no big deal, we'll get dressed up, they'll show us their favorite place, we'll have a couple of drinks, then come home and rest up for our brush with greatness in the morning."
A converted gas station with amazing small plate nachos and samples of many flavored tequilas later, we should've headed back to the hotel. But oh no, there was the ridiculous, swanky speakeasy across the street that we simply couldn't miss. I don't even know what was in those cocktails, I merely knew that they were only available by the $98 carafe. The gawky young men making fun of one another's noses and reminiscing about one another's Bar mitzvahs insisted, and insisted on paying, so the next thing I knew, it was 3:30, we had gotten a free round of rye shots (I do remember exclaiming, "Rye?!? Isn't that what hillbillies drink when the moonshine runs out?") because Lynn, our "Miss Hannigan," had claimed to have cut her lip on a chipped shot glass, and my girls and my friend Sean (who refused to let the girls get in a cab on our own that late) were all headed home, with Jillian screaming at the driver, "Sir! Sir! I am going to climb up there and piss all over you if you don't drive faster! Seriously! SIR! I will give you the biggest #%*&ing tip of your life if you get us back as fast as you can!" (Jill was always the delicate flower of the group. Ironically enough, she's the one from the cast who didn't drink.)
The short of it was this: we arrived home and had to wake up in 3 hours. When the alarms went off, the three of us started stumbling around, and were horrified at what we saw in the bathroom mirror. We weren't even walking straight, much less camera-ready. We started apologizing aloud, to Oprah herself: "Oh no, Oprah!" "I'm so embarrassed!" "This is not in accordance with my spirit!" "We're sorry, Oprah!" These phrases, or a general beseeching of forgiveness from the Almighty Oprah became a running joke when anyone was struggling to pull themselves together for any reason. I, for one, had no more nights (or mornings) like that one for the rest of tour.
On that fateful morning, by the time we got through all the crowd warm-ups. the anonymous surveys asking us if we were satisfied with the amount of sex in our marriage, and the bovine-like herding process of taking our seats, our eyes were clear, our bright sweaters and dresses were straight, and we miraculously performed an impromptu "Tomorrow" in four-part harmony when the pre-show warmup lady announced we were in the audience. Rosie O'Donnell was the guest that day, and we good musical theatre actors would NOT disappoint her.
As others beside me on the train shook their heads, laughed, or adjusted their earbuds to their Ipods, I was lost in grateful reflections, thankful that Oprah's dog wasn't there with us in Chicago a year ago. He wouldn't have wanted to lick ANY of our lips that morning. They probably still tasted like rye.
No comments:
Post a Comment