Know your role

In 1990, I was privileged to serve on Ann Arbor Civic Theater’s board (AACT). I believe that my appointment to the board was a strategic action on the part of this group, one of the nation’s oldest amateur community theater organizations – not because I was a particularly helpful board member, but it let them keep me off the stage.

Oh, I don’t think I was awful, but after struggling as a baritone in Mame, the musical director quietly pulled me aside and asked that I only lip-sync during Brigadoon (and, yes, I did look smashing in a kilt). While my theatrical range pretty much ends with holding a spear “up center,” I did have two very important roles during my tenure with AACT.


The first was the 1988 title role in Bigfoot Stole My Wife (Ron Carlson – based on varied short stories including his The News of The World, 1987, Norton, W.W. & Company, Inc.). After a series of monologues directly out of the tabloids (e.g., “I ate my best friend’s brain”) Bigfoot gets to tell his side of the story. I delivered this short monologue wearing a full head mask, large oversized feet, red plaid sports coat, and, as obnoxious, red golf slacks. This was a three week run and at the second from last performance, the stage went dark at the end of the monologue and I literally got lost trying to leave the stage. The house lights came up, and there I was, groping along the wall looking for an exit!

For the closing night, a fellow cast member made an “exit” sign out of glow-in-the-dark paint that he waved from off stage. . .I did appreciate it!

Two of us from that cast, the original director and stage manager reunited 20 years later and joined a handful of very able actors to present a one-weekend reprisal of the show. While I still had the big feet, my lines were delivered behind a screen. I guess I have a face for radio.

The other role was a solo performance that called for a complex balance of traditional line delivery and witty adlibs. It was a staged in a most challenging venue and had, almost by design, a most unwelcoming audience. I spent an afternoon as Santa at a downtown Ann Arbor espresso shop mostly populated by graduate students reading Nietzsche and practicing their sneers.

Some background: the downtown merchants association offered to make a donation to AACT if we would provide individuals to play Santa at different stores throughout the month of December. The shifts were 1 pm to 4 pm and volunteers were to report to a downtown toy store to garb up in the appropriate “ho ho” uniform and then walk through town to that day’s assigned venue. There, we’d find a North Pole-esque throne and let the magic happen.

Other volunteers that month got to serve at the toy store, an ice cream shop, a chocolate emporium, and a family restaurant. My assignment was to bring St. Nick to Espresso Royale on South Main Street. Unlike today, where there are coffee shops populated by all ages on most corners throughout town, this was the first such business in town and it was populated by hipsters, the aforementioned scholars, and the occasional folk singer.

I got to the coffee shop, bedecked in red coat (over two down-filled vests to add appropriate girth), red pants, black boots and a rather well used beard and wig. Did I mention that the coffee shop's temperature was somewhere close to eighty degrees? You may be getting the picture.

My "feet" from the 2008 reprisal - thanks Martha!

After an hour, finally a co-worker from my Domino’s Pizza days, her husband and young son came in. I belched out a loud “Ho-Ho-Ho” and greeted Jonathon, their four-year-old. I think had I stuck him with a needle, his scream would not have reached such a decibel level. Tears, yelling, angst, punctuated by harrumphs from the shop’s patrons all made it clear that my first foray as the Jolly Old Elf wasn’t going well.

My friends could only console the poor little guy by rushing him out of the store. I was sweating and felt the caffeine-fueled vile increasing in the room.

Another hour passes, no children, plenty of sneers.

Just about 3 pm, a mother led her son – probably 8-9 years of age – into the shop. A bright-eyed redhead, the young lad had a look of nervous excitement as his mother prodded him to talk to Santa. My chance for redemption!

This was the exchange:

Me: “Ho-Ho-Ho! What is your name little man?”

Redhead [somewhat shy]: “I’m Danny.”

Me: “Hello Danny! I’m Pete!”

Yes, I really said that.

Me: “Pete-Santa. . .er, Santa-Pete. I mean, I’m one of Santa’s helpers, I’m ah, um, ah. . .”

Danny blanched and looked at his mother. She said nothing, but her eyes predicted the years of therapy I likely caused with that exchange. “Come on, Danny,” she barked.

I figured that was my cue to leave and I skulked out – a most deflated and withered Santa Clause. Apparently, I'm not especially well suited to play certain roles – heck, some days, it’s all I can do to be a productive member of life’s cast.

Merry Christmas my friends.

Santa hat clip art reported to be in the public domain and courtesy of http://www.clker.com/clipart-12348.html