Technically, it’s the afternoon, but whatever. My friend Sir Joseph Carloughrider has started a blog that is full of various nebulous qualities, such as quirk, whimsy, and preciousness. Go look! Snailboat, Snail Away.
Anyhoodle, he’s collecting dreams from people, like the BFG, although, knowing Joe, he will keep them in a fishtank rather than jars. So here is my favorite dream; it’s from waaay back in seventh grade, although this write-up is one I did freshman year for an acting class. It’s long and not terribly good, sorry, but since I haven’t posted in months, I don’t care.
It starts in media res, and I find myself standing on a stage that looks like the one in my elementary school’s gym. There are the same dusty blue velvet curtains, the scuffed oak boards, and the multicolored lights that hang rather precariously from a metal bar. There is a great commotion a few feet from where I am standing in the wings. People rush around the stage and suddenly they are coming towards me, they are behind me, brushing past and taking no notice.
Max Christian, my sister’s high school crush and the school district’s favorite musical prodigy, appears on stage. He is tall and lanky, stretching up over six feet, his youthful gangliness almost completely filled out. Everything about him seems exaggerated, from the broad Slavic cheekbones that give his face a strong diamond shape, to the unruly mop of black curls that sprawls on his head, to his giant hands, the long fingers knobby and indicative of a dedicated pianist.
Posing ostentatiously in the midst of the madness, he plops a top hat on his head, a wide-brimmed, Dr. Seuss-type chapeau that curves in before opening at the top in a dramatic flare. It easily sets him over seven feet, and that’s when I notice his black platform shoes. Covered in the same shiny material as his hat, they peek out from under his white bell-bottoms. His attire appears to have been modeled on John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever by way of Elton John: the lapels of his jacket are covered in white sequins with more sequins mincing up the seams of the sleeves as well as the pants. The black silk shirt underneath is open in a deep V, revealing a slice a beefcake that is attracting a fair amount of attention. As I watch disbelievingly, he takes out a pair of white sunglasses and fussily settles the enormous round lenses on his nose.
What the hell is he supposed to be, I wonder. I may have said it aloud, maybe not, but one of the harassed-looking stagehands tells me Max is Bottom the Weaver in this modern adaptation of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And I am supposed to be in make-up but of course I couldn’t be expected to know that because heaven forfend the actors use their brains for anything except regurgitating lines and coming up with asinine demands for the overworked people who really do something, the screws that hold the cogs together, and speaking of being screwed—
“I’m an actor? Wait, what am I, like a tree that sings or something?”
“Are you serious? You’re the fairy named Tupperware, now get your ass into makeup.”
Fab.
Confronted with a situation like this, there isn’t much that anyone can do. I reluctantly find my way to an area where people are being slathered with paint, so that I can be plunked unceremoniously into a chair by a surly man. He circles me, stroking his goatee before thrusting his hands through his close-cropped gray curls and letting out a frustrated yelp.
“You are clumpy,” he says.
“’Clumpy’? Do you mean ‘clunky’?” This is not any better but I’ve never not taken advantage of an opportunity to quibble semantics.
“No, I mean clumpy because it is what I say and it is what you are, a clump of a person made of clumps of hair and clumps of skin and clumps of ill-advised makeup.”
“Please stop saying ‘clumps,’” I ask, feeling slightly nauseated.
“Stop being clumps,” he retorts. “There is nothing I can do for you, you are not fairy-like in the least.”
As though it might actually help, I offer a timid, “I’m named ‘Tupperware.’”
“Hmm.” He stalks around me again. “You shall be my Everest. Yvonne!”
A frightened-looking lackey scurries over. I quickly wipe the meek expression off my face, not liking how it looks on Yvonne.
He gives her the same eagle-eye that I had been treated to and abruptly announces, “No! You are too much like the frozen rabbit. I need a lemming, ready to be herded over the cliff at my convenience. Yvette!”
A bland woman quietly appears at his side. Without looking at her he snaps, “Get Eggshell and the Hanes cotton thingies. And the plastic.” She melts away, the giant pile of costume supplies rustling as she burrows into it like a hamster into its bedding. Every so often an arm pops out holding some new element, filling me with increasing trepidation.
Faster than I can register what is going on, I am hauled up and shoved behind a scrim with instructions to change into the “Hanes thingies,” and quickly before someone has to come back there to deal with my unfortunate clumpy self. To my relief, the disconcertingly skimpy garments are nothing worse than a white boy’s undershirt and cotton short-shorts. Yvette rubs Eggshell paint on my exposed limbs while the Maestro, as I have begun to think of him, critically supervises. I sense him leave his post right behind but can relax for only a second, as he is soon back with a stepladder. He mounts it with precise steps, and, with a perfunctory “Watch out,” proceeds to dump a bucket of silver glitter over my unsuspecting head. While I sputter, trying to get the metallic shards out of my mouth, I am hustled over to dry in front of a giant fan. As the breeze swirls the glitter in sparkling eddies, I wiggle my toes, the only parts of me that can move while the Maestro directs Yvette in the wrapping of clear cellophane about my person.
He stands back to gain perspective of the fruits of his assistant’s labor. He prances ten feet away. He skips forward fifteen. He leans in very close, his pointy nose thisclose to my own undoubtedly clumpy feature.
“She is missing something. What is she missing?” he demands.
“Her name is Tupperware,” stammers Yvette.
“But of course! She needs a lid. Get me a lid!”
I resign myself to wearing some sort of plastic bucket on my head for the next few hours. Yvette, when she returns, doesn’t seem to be carrying anything of that nature, but my happiness is short-lived when the object of her retrieval turns out to be a blue trucker hat. It is crammed onto my head with little ado, my hair, huge from fan, fluffing out crazily from underneath. After a dizzying spin of appraisal, I am sent stumbling towards the stage, the Maestro behind me like a farmer’s wife behind a wayward hen.
“Shoo! Go, sparkle fabulous, make magic! Be the best Clumpyware you can be!” With these wise words, he gives one last fierce tug on the hat to cock it sideways. Suddenly, I am in the middle of the stage, hundreds of eyes staring, the footlights harshly glaring, and it feels like all the air has been knocked out of me.
Cold Comfort Blog 