Drama Queen.

I’ve always been a drama queen. At West High School I performed in seven of their productions under the oh-so-patient direction of Ms. Jill German. Some shows were better than others. None went without some sort of fiasco.

In “Fiddler on the Roof,” I played Mendel, a 5‘2” man with a full-black beard whose voice hadn’t changed yet. There is a scene in the show where Tevye and some men from the town gather around his dairy cart, discussing the days events over a cheese snack. We never had a budget for actual cheese until the actual show. When the guys began to nosh, they realized they had never actually rehearsed with a mouth full of jarlsberg. The dialog went something like this:

Tevye: Werts du ners frerm Kliev?

Avram: Zehrz gerng tur ber a porgrurm irn Urnertevker.

The scene went on forever until the cast could unstick their tongues, jaws and teeth. Poor Ms. German’s eyes practically rolled out of her head.

In “The Wizard of Oz,” I played the Cowardly Lion. Whenever the Wicked Witch would appear, it would be done in a big puff of smoke created with the use of some flash powder and an electrical charge. A human-sized smoke blast required about a tablespoon of powder. On closing night, the stage crew was setting up the various blast points and came to the conclusion that since they wouldn’t be needing the flash powder anymore that year—that they might as well use it up. It was about a half a can.

Act One: Dorothy and her cohorts were skipping through the forest when the witch appeared—in a blast that rivaled Hiroshima. The auditorium filled with smoke. Dorothy’s eyelashes had been singed together causing her to walk dangerously close to the orchestra pit. “Scott!” I heard from somewhere off stage, “Hey! The tree is on fire!” I ran over and patted it out with my brown velour mittens leaving them charred and melty. The audience hacked and coughed as they fanned themselves with their programs.

I hadn’t seen Ms. German that mad since Bryan and I made a dummy out of some stage crew coveralls and flung it down to the stage below. I guess that wasn’t mad; that was mortified.

In “Arsenic and Old Lace” I played Teddy Brewster, a man who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt. All through high school I had been afflicted with ingrown toenails. The morning of opening night I had surgery to fix one of them. The doctor loaded my foot with novocaine to make sure I’d be okay for the day, but apparently not enough to take care of the evening hours. During the show, as I charged up the staircase (aka San Juan Hill), I stubbed my now freshly un-numbed toe. My “Charge!” ended up coming out as a painful “Aaaargh!” Teddy Roosevelt ended up limping like Franklin Roosevelt for the remainder of the show.

The year after I had graduated, West High did a production of “12 Angry Men.” My friend John, had the lead but was called away to shoot a major movie a week before, Ms. German called me to see if I could fill in (even though I no longer attended the school). I was after all, her prize drama student and a superhero.

I tried my best to memorize all the lines but to no avail. I had to resort to cheat sheets around the stage. I placed them carefully and methodically in strategic locations then went to change into my costume. While I was putting on my makeup, some good-natured stagehand decided to clean the stage—of all of my notes. The curtain went up. I was screwed. This time the mortification belonged to me.