JUST GET ME HOME
Christmas Carol Tour concluded in Colorado on the side of a
mountain. We were exhausted but somehow found the energy to dance in the
dressing room. Maybe it was the altitude. Maybe it was the fact
that we were insanely anxious to move on and enjoy buffet-style dinners with
family around a table decorated for Christmas. I found myself unfortunately
getting sentimental. We were at this resort in Colorado that seemed a
postcard. The scenery was gorgeous. Earlier in the day I met a woman who
lived in that community while on a shuttle going up the mountain where we were
performing later that night. She was a perfect snow bunny in her skiing gear
and she produced another perfect little snow bunny in the form of an 8-year old
boy. His goggles were perfect, the way he held his skis was perfect and the way
he minded his mother was perfect. Maybe perfect scenery and beauty produced
perfect results. However, it dawned on me as we scaled the mountain on
the shuttle with the perfect snow bunny family, that if I lived in that town,
my senses would become numb to beauty since beauty was around me at every
turn.
I think if God dealt in currencies and was seeking
a place to stay here on earth in the States, he would buy a big chunk of real
estate in a perfect resort town in Colorado, and sit and look out from a
solitary deck at the mind-baffling creation He had made. It was hard to
believe I was still in the States when I heard the crunching snow beneath my
boots as I looked out onto a mountain full of trendy French skiers on the
slopes. Even in the restaurants in this over-priced resort town there
were handsome men with German accents asking what I wanted to order. If I
had a million dollars just lying around at my beck and call, I would buy a tiny
log cabin in Colorado and sit on the back deck all day in my pajamas wrapped up
in a wool blanket drinking coffee just staring at the scenery like a bug
attracted to an open flame.
Boarding the shuttle after the final performance
was a bit crazy. There were drunk people to my left and right that only
hours before were whooshing down the side of a mountain like a North Face
ad. Then there was us. Stripped of all make-up and void of hoop
skirts, some of us actors celebrated the fact that we were all out of jobs.
After the drunk shuttle took us safely down the mountain and as we waited for
our bus to arrive, Tim shouted, “Hooray for unemployment!” We all cheered as if
it was a joyful call-and-response, as opposed to what it really was…a cry of
desperation. With weary legs, we all boarded the bus and prepared for a very
long road trip back to Omaha. We were dropping off several cast members at
Denver Airport along the way so they could make it home in time to see grandma
open the present they bought in Wyoming at a tacky rest stop.
Through a series of very unfortunate events, we
drove all through the night only to arrive in Denver five hours late.
Horrible snow in Colorado prohibited us from making good headway, while our bus
company failed to be equipped with appropriate-sized snow chains. Something to
the effect that state law in Colorado prohibits entry on a certain stretch of
interstate without proper snow chains on the tires if the vehicle is a certain
weight and size is what prohibited us from getting on with it and calling this
the end of tour. I took a sleep aid, but it might as well have been a
placebo. I only sat there miserable and only half lucid. The
Currier and Ives grandeur was starting to fade into a mix of pre-menstrual
syndrome and exhaustion. Not only were some of the adults feeling
irritable, some of the kids in the cast were in tears. I felt their pain.
I wanted nothing to do with Colorado at that moment. People inevitably
missed flights in Denver. Goodbyes were rushed at best, while some of us
in the back of the bus didn’t even have time to get out and give a proper
goodbye. I shouted a half-awake goodbye from my seat as one girl waved to
me at the front of the bus. I tried not to get overtly sentimental at
that moment, but those goodbyes were like being yelled at out of a deep
sleep. Call it Christmas, call it
exhaustion. Whatever it was, I was sad. I was terribly sad that
this tour was over, knowing full well unemployment was waiting to greet me once
I returned to Chicago. I was also terribly irritated that those of us
left on the bus had ten more hours of driving to do.
I finally fell
asleep before sunrise. When I woke up I couldn’t have been more down in the
dumps by what greeted me at the window. I was used to the striking
terrain of the West for a good while, but once I went vertical out of shallow
sleep on two bus seats, the monotonous Nebraska terrain failed miserably to
impress me. If the landscape of the West was an Equity production,
Nebraska was community theatre. At the next rest stop after the sun came
up, I bought six powered donuts at a gross gas station and sat on the bus with
the other girls and uncontrollably wept. At one moment I was laughing
through the tears, then the laughter gave way to more crying yet again. My
friend Keith looked at me with disbelief and laughed a bit. He was trapped on a bus with hormonal,
exhausted girls. God bless him.
When I’m tired I cry. It has always been this
way, and I fear it will always be this way. Some girls get cranky and
mean when they’re tired. Others get loopy. I get “D. all of the
above”, but most of all, I cry. For no good reason I cry, and then the
world feels settled again after a good, hard cry. I thought Omaha would never come. I felt as
though we were stuck on that bus forever with no end in sight. It seemed
that life would be a series of truck stops and hotels off exits on I-80.
I called mom and told her that I wouldn’t be home until four in the morning on
Christmas day. She was an awesome mom and arranged for a last minute
flight out of Omaha on Christmas Eve. When we arrived in Omaha, I said
goodbye to those on the bus, and was truly sad to leave Theresa, Andy and Keith.
They grew dear to me on that tour. They all possessed the gift of making others
laugh. I envy that gift a great deal.
The general manager of the tour was kind enough to
drive me last minute to the airport, and I left my car behind in Omaha.
The thought of getting behind the wheel and making the nine-hour journey to
Evansville by myself was more than I could handle, so I was grateful for a
plane ticket home. Home is always a good idea when you are exhausted
beyond belief and in desperate need of comfort food.
I sat and waited in that terminal, and I was
alone for the first time in over seven weeks. I didn’t allow myself to get
entirely close to all members of my cast, but for those few whom I grew to
love, I missed them as I stared at the tarmac waiting for the plane to
arrive. It was Christmas and Christmas is a time to be with family.
In a way, theatre has a way of creating family out of strangers. I was
about to board a plane to see my biological family. Truth was, I was shocked
by how much I missed the family I just created over the past few weeks. I
wanted to call Keith so he could tell me a story in a funny voice. I
missed drinking champagne on the back of the bus with Betsy that night we
thought we were going to die going down the side of the steep mountain in
Colorado. I missed trading stories about Tennessee and whispering in
hushed tones about boys in the cast with Adriana. I wanted to sit on the
edge of the bed and talk about life stuff with Theresa and Dana and I hoped Andy
would call and tell me a story about his childhood. In theatre, people
are always going through an imaginary revolving door and on to the next family,
but sometimes I want to put everything on hold and take these people with me
whenever I want to hear a story or have a good cry or enjoy a stiff drink in a
hotel lobby. I didn't know it at the time, but this was like an adopted family. Signing that contract was much more than just filling out paperwork for my taxes. I signed adoption papers for a new family. I signed on the dotted line that these strangers were my world for several weeks, without escape. I am not sure the powers that were could have picked a better adoption situation.
I boarded the plane and found the closest window
seat as possible. I turned off my cell phone for the first time in a long
time. My shoulders released all the stored tension from the last 24 hours
as I put my head back. It was then that a slow, dull ache of quiet began
to settle over my heart as I realized I knew no one on that plane. No one
frankly cared about what I did on tour. I couldn’t turn around in my seat
and wink at Tommy for no good reason whatsoever, because he wasn’t there.
If I turned around in my seat to wink at the stranger headed home for a turkey
dinner, he would’ve been shocked or horrified at the psycho sitting in front of
him. If I had stretched my pillow and blanket across the floor of the
plane and into the aisle, I would have been recognized as a terror
threat. On the bus, that was a customary practice with no
repercussion. Bodies were strewn everywhere on that bus, and it took me
nearly four minutes to reach the bathroom in the back as I crawled over arms
and legs and fleece blankets. But on that plane, I was not only alone, I
was lonely. Loneliness on Christmas Eve is an interesting
sensation, since I was used to being surrounded by a slew of people at this
time every year. I was alone on the eve of a major holiday, but I
thought about how I had these individuals like Keith and Theresa and Tommy in
my story, if only for a brief part of my life. My sentimentality
eventually gave way to small bursts of laughter on that plane. Over a
small plastic cup of juice, my loneliness began to fade as I remembered little
things like dancing in a dressing room and Andy’s daily bus songs. I’m sure the
reticent passenger next to me was getting more annoyed as each entertaining
memory flashed in my mind.
I was over a thousand miles from that town with
perfect snow bunny children in perfect Colorado, and sadly I thought about how
I will never have millions of dollars in my bank account with which to purchase
real estate in Colorado. However, it was nice to sit and dream on that
bus for awhile about the luxury some Coloradans experience as they sit in
pajamas all day and drink coffee in the solitude of mountain-gazing. I
was headed home to Indiana where there was no snow or mountains or handsome
French skiers. But it was a place where people were genuinely concerned
about my safe return as they prayed for traveling mercies for my snow-ridden
journey. Mom and Dad gave up Candlelight service that year to rescue me
from the airport in St. Louis. I stepped off the plane and when I rounded a
corner after a long walk down a sterile hall lit by unfortunate institutional
lighting, they were standing there in Santa hats while waving enthusiastically. I was home. Not because of a town or a
place, but because family was waiting to greet me. With smiles and arms open wide, they welcomed me away from
the plane of unfamiliar faces.
On Christmas morning, I sent a message to my
adopted family across the miles.
The message read, “God bless us…everyone.” Messages and phone calls came
from the adopted family that day.
Whether it was as close as the dining room down the hall or the memories
I made in and out of dressing rooms, I was blessed indeed.
