My Mother's A Baby Boy

MY MOTHER’S A BABY BOY

THE RED ROOM THEATER

This was the first production that Jason and I went to see since we made the final move here in January. I chose the play randomly from the listings in The Voice. I had no idea what it might be like as this was a new and unpublished off-off Broadway production that was written and directed by some guy I had never heard of. That’s not quite true, I had some idea what it might like- AWFUL. In fact, I was so afraid that it would be awful that I pre-apologized to Jason saying, "I can not be held responsible for the quality of the show due to the fact that I know nothing about it." He took this as yet more evidence toward his theory that I secretly like to do things that I know I will hate so that I will have something to complain about. Why else would I order fine-dining Italian seafood dishes from a pizza place for delivery? And, without fail, the first drink I get at every dive bar that we end up in is a glass of their house red wine. But, of course, this is another story; although relevant, it does not fully explain why I chose to subject myself and my true love to something that was far less than a safe bet. Now, I’ve never thought that throwing a dart at a list of names was a good way to choose anything, so obviously there had to be something in the newspaper blurb that caught my eye. I can safely say it wasn’t the title, which, sounded like the name of some 90’s punk band. Again, not usually the sign of a good play. It was the word "communication". I won’t go into the social theories and personal feelings that have made the idea of communication, its meaning and implications, a point of extreme interest for me; but suffice it to say we were counting on this one word (which could very well have been a typo) to get us through the night.

Now it just so happens that upon arriving at the theatre, I realized that I had been there before. And, in fact, I had seen the worst play of my life (at that time) in this very venue. That was encouraging.

The "lobby" space is poorly set up, with a box office right by the front door and not enough room for patrons to wait in line for their tickets. Everyone is forced to wait on various stages of the steep stone steps that lead to the front door, with one or two people, in turn, bearing the lucky honor of holding the doors open. The theater itself has little to no house lights especially in the entrance way which was a miniature hallway that ended in a homemade set of wooden stairs that led to the seating platform. Think low-budget.

After Jason and I got cozy in the back- row (it is my policy to always sit in the back or nearest the exit whenever possible for quick get aways, again, think low-budget) we heard a huge thud, which shook the upper portion of the audience. Looking over my shoulder to the deathtrap below I saw that an old woman had fallen down the rickety stairs and landed on her head. Could this be another bad omen? The woman finally made it up the stairs, sat near us and the play began.

And you know, it wasn’t half bad. In fact some of it was down- right good. Other than the director/writer’s acting abilities, which we’re not as good as his directing/writing, everyone was decent and some better than that. By the third quarter of the play we were actually engrossed, that’s when the show in the uptairs theatre (The KGB) let out, and we started to hear the pitter-patter of another audience. They seemed to grow in size and strength as they continued down the stairs chatting away. Apparently many of them had stopped for a drink on the way down because they lingered in the lobby talking louder and louder like party- goers drawn to the small warmth of the kitchen and then compelled to shout at one another. Then, just when the endless cacophony behind us was about to reach it’s unbearable climax and I knew I would be forced to jump up and scream out profanities, a pipe broke. By pipe, I mean a long ancient tube imbedded in the left wall of the theatre halfway up the audience. By broke, I mean suddenly opened and began to pour gallons of water down the wall. This distracted me from the noisy crowd outside.

The last few minutes of the play I can only remember how I struggled to keep from laughing; because I knew once the first maniacal peep escaped from me that a rush of hereditary insanity also known as "the hammering laugh" would break out like so much torrential water from rusty pipes.

Tennessee Williams’ once spoke of the "timeless world of a play," saying that for the short duration of the performance, the rest of the world vanished and the audience was suspended in another dimension. It was a beautiful essay, one of my favorites. It plainly states the allusion in so many of Williams’ plays- the idea that theatre is a magic more powerful than a perilous reality. Fortunately, Mr. Williams never attended a certain performance.