I'd finished performing our final show after surviving Hell Week and Opening weekend.
( Hell week is actor speak for tech week, the week leading up to a play's opening night, when you basically live at the theatre and one day are even there 10 hours.)
It's exciting and challenging but when you work a 9-5 as well it also means you're majorly sleep deprived.
I ran off of mostly adrenaline those performances over the weekend.
So when Sunday rolled around I was a sleepy kitty.
I was also slightly disillusioned because when the house manager came to the green room to hand me a bouquet of flowers I thought for a moment they were from him.
They, of course, were not from the Phantom and I felt overwhelmingly silly for thinking a man who wouldn't accept a cigar from me & won't acknowledge any texts was going to drive thirty minutes to pay $35 to watch my three hour musical and bring me flowers to boot.
Why must infatuation and lust drive us to irrational madness? I couldn't even pretend it was so innocent as hope. It was merely me avoiding acceptance. I knew he wasn't coming.
The flowers were actually a different surprise altogether.
They were a gift from someone I'd never met who follows my YouTube channel.
He even brought flowers for my Bestie.
It was crazy amazing.
Kind of poetry in feeling the permanent rejection of one lost love immediately intertwined with the admiration and applause of a complete stranger.
So when I was leaving the theatre there was a moment when I wanted to cancel my plans and just go home.
But.
I really wanted to see this other play that night and I wanted to see Puppet and I wanted to see my friend, Arthur, who was working the bar at this other theatre that night.
So I swallowed the disappointment imploring me to wallow and headed instead towards the city.
Puppet and I met at a nearby bar for a couple of preshow drinks which meant that by the time we got to the theatre to visit Arthur at his bar I was already a little drunk.
Heeeeeeeeyyy boo.
But when we got there he was nowhere to be found.
"Where's Arthur??! I want Arthur!" I nearly shouted.
No.
Not nearly.
SHOUTED.
With conviction.
I may have even sung it.
The guy that was filling in for Arthur politely informed me that my friend wasn't working but asked what he could get for me.
"Get me Arthur! I want Arthur!!"
I'd like to think my belligerence was adorable but I'm pretty sure the bartender wanted to open a beer for himself and pound it just to get through the remainder of our interaction.
He did, however, fill my glass of wine all the way to the top so I told him we could be friends.
Puppet and I drank in the courtyard while we waited for the play to start.
I was wearing a white halter dress with lace appliqués and a vintage silk bed jacket while drinking red wine.
Drunk.
'I can't believe what you're risking right now,' Puppet said with concern.
I looked at the wine and then looked at my dress.
And then realized I would go into physical convulsions if I spilled red wine on my Sue Wong couture.
So I held the wine out to the side and continued drinking with my mouth as far away from my dress as I could manage without falling out of my chair.
By the time I safely consumed the wine it was time to pick our seats for the play.
I skipped into the theatre and sat right in the front row.
(House right. Because that's where my new friend, the bartender, told me I should sit.)
But upon sitting down I got the sinking suspicion we were in the spitting zone and I should sit somewhere else.
Like the wine not pairing well with my dress I figured spit wouldn't either.
I looked behind me and there sitting all by his lonesome was the cutest cutie patootie I ever did see!
Just your average blonde hair blue eyed buff Abercrombie looking model typical to the theatre audiences in Portlandia.
(Are you fucking LOST?! Where did you come from? A Hollywood film set?)
"Is anyone sitting there?" I asked, batting my fake eyelashes still glued on from my matinee.
'No,' he smiled.
We leapt up and sat next to him.
"You are SUCH a doll!" The wine exclaimed, as I practically climbed into his lap.
'I was hoping someone would think that so I wouldn't have to sit by myself.'
I leaned in.
"Sorry I'm not a guy."
No one that beautiful is ever straight.
NO ONE.
And after the play he asked for my number.
Gay or not, nothing makes you feel prettier than a hot guy asking for your number.
I had found my new boyfriend.
It was love at first sight.
No comments:
Post a Comment