Any Given Wednesday

On any given Wednesday I go through 5 magazines, 4 pairs of underpants, 18 Kleenex, 6 t-shirts, 3 squirts of aftershave, 4 Ponds wipes, 2 Dove wipes, 1 Cottonelle wipe, 100 hairpins, 2 Nerf Basketballs, 55 ounces of water and, in the summer, a whole tube of chapstick. Is this standard ritual for a Broadway actor or socially crippling Obsessive Compulsive Disorder? To help you better decide I present to you a typical two-show Wednesday.

I hardly need to mention that my pot of coffee has been preset to start brewing ten minutes before my alarm goes off. After two cups of joe and a stroll on the Internet, or "World Wide Web," I'm out the door. I navigate the excruciating lunch-hour foot traffic in Times' Square by braving the middle of the street, or the "Equity Lane," as it's known. For some reason tourists are afraid of on-coming traffic. I tuck into Pax for a salad with regular tuna, carrots, corn, peas and balsamic vinaigrette all of which looks unappetizing in print and one of six soups of the day. Which one? I wing it. That's right. But probably the split pea. If not, then the yellow split pea. And if they don't have either, then just the salad.

Then it's through the stage door and up the stairs to my dressing room where I immediately turn on both the air conditioner, which somehow manages to cool only itself, and the hot water in the sink. That way, by the time I'm done with lunch and ready to shave, the water will actually be hot. I finally understand the sadistic gleam in people's eyes when they describe the "charm" of these old Broadway houses. After 15 minutes of stretching on the antebellum carpet, it's go-time. Which is...

The half-hour call. I'll leave out the nudity and go straight to the basic under-dress. Loaded mike pack tucked at the hip between two pairs of underwear. Tights. Custom cropped t-shirt. Warm-up shorts. Slippers. I feel for a fleeting moment what the gladiators must have felt before strapping on the scabbard and helm. I snatch my empty water bottle replaced on bi-weekly Tuesdays and wig prep and make for the stairs. 12 minutes later, 14 if there's gossip to discuss in the hair department, and I am back from the basement, bewigged, water bottle full.

Then comes the part of the day that I call "The Abyss." Six to seven minutes of unformed activity. I may shoot Nerf basketball or kibitz with my dresser or take a quiet moment to ponder the fate of the modern blockbuster musical. Before I can get too heady, we get the five minute call and life-giving structure returns. I suit up in full costume. Lips trill. Much to the chagrin of my neighbors I perform my opening monologue. Again and again. And contemporary conservatory programs say discipline is lost. "Places" is called and I wish my coworkers a "Good show." Never a "Break a leg" or a "Let's do this!" Never.

The show itself is a flurry of Kleenex, carefully parceled swigs of water, right shoe first, left shoe second, or, sometimes, not at all. Backstage traffic is as much of a well-rehearsed dance as anything appearing on stage. I could rattle off a list of precise moments of where and how I see every person in the company, on which stairwell, during which line, what state of undress either of us happens to be in, and who is properly conditioned not to talk to me about sports. When I'm alone I give myself little time trials. I try to get my pants on the hanger by a certain line. If I can get my t-shirt in the hamper not just off, but completely in the hamper... an important detail by the key change of a particular song someone somewhere wins a prize. Once, in Germany, I was fully dressed in my civilian clothes and out the stage door before the curtain call music buttoned. This involved elaborate presetting and a sound exit strategy and should not be tried at home.

Make-up removal is as precise as make-up application. The differences are obvious, while the similarities may surprise you. For example, during both phases there are containers you can line up in little parades. And whether putting on or taking off, either time is appropriate to look in the mirror and ask yourself "Is it wrong that I know how many days a MAC compact will last?" The answer, like most in life, is complicated. Both yes and no. I digress.

Dinner between shows is a crap shoot. There, I said it. My only word of warning: if you end up with more than four people at a table, even if everybody overpays, you're still going to pay $40 for a side salad and a burger and the tip will still be one dollar short. It's science. What is not a crap shoot, however, is which Starbucks to go to afterward. Crowd control is a constant issue, yes, but it is also important to know the different register techniques and people skills of all the Baristas within a 10 block radius of Times' Square. I have my system but for the sake of self-preservation I will take it to the grave.

The evening show is really a case of "second verse, same as the first." Just with less whining. History smiles on the Earls of Sandwich and the Thomas Crappers who brought us deliciousness and indoor bowel relief, respectively. But it is less kind to Georges Matinee, owner of the infamous Theatre du Coq Diabetique in Paris from 1788 through 1806, and the only Frenchman in history who never touched a drop. With his fateful words, "Hey! If we all just woke up a little earlier, we could do the whole thing twice!" he carved out a legacy that would somehow give actors even more to bitch and moan about. Georges, stage managers the world over salute you.