Thud

Live theatre is such a perilous and rewarding endeavor. We strive, we risk, and sometimes we fail so hard that everyone notices and all we can hope to do is recover and make it look like we did that on purpose.

Such is the case with the current production in which I play a tiny piece, Elektra at The Lyric Opera of Chicago. I play the court jester to Clytemnestra, and I get to be in the most electrifying costume I’ve ever had the privilege of wearing. It’s not that I’m mostly naked, but between the corset and spike-studded codpiece thong, it’s the most revealing thing I’ve ever worn that I didn’t strip down to.

I have such fun getting into costume and makeup. A delightful man named Roger laces me into all of my leather (yes, the whole outfit is red leather), and I couldn’t get into it without help. He makes sure the dressing room is stocked with chocolates, oranges, and Oreos. Then the wonderful professionals in the makeup department affix me with half a bald cap and a wig before two to three people grab brushes and slather me with white paint on every bit of exposed skin.

Yes, every bit. The fellow who paints my butt is named Eric, and he is very thorough.

I have only two entrances in the performances, and I spend every moment of my stage time finding the limits of my physical ability. I leap, I spin, I do my best to break a sweat in the least possible amount of time. The entrances both are tricky owing to the nature of the set.

Both times I rush down a flight of stairs. They’re constructed at a skewed angle; the bits which are ordinarily parallel to the ground are instead leaned slightly forward making each of them a downhill slope. But that’s not all! They’re also angled off to one side. If you pour several hundred gallons of stage blood onto one upper corner (spoiler alert), it will run downhill to the opposite corner and make the whole flight rather more slippery than it was in any rehearsal.

Opening night was exciting. I spent the afternoon teaching some basic stage sword fighting to two of my favorite people on the planet, showing off whenever I could how adept I can be at making my body do as I tell it.  In the evening they sat among some 3,500 people in the audience and watched the performance, bearing witness to a short moment which will stick with me for years to come.

My second entrance. Clytemnestra and her various attendants are on stage, antagonizing Elektra in a most grand fashion. I rush down the stairs to deliver news of (3,000-year-old spoiler) the death of Orestes, dragged by his own horses. The first few steps I take singly; there are two women on the staircase holding torches with honest-to-god real flames, and I don’t want to knock into either of them. Once I’m past them – about halfway down – I leap down two steps at a time.

That was the plan. That was what happened in rehearsal. That was not what happened on opening night.

My first double-step was perhaps a bit too far, maybe a bit too fast. I absolutely lost control, feet shooting out from under me, and landed hard on my unprotected ass. That might have been the end of it if it weren’t for the slickness of the steps, my butt paint, and the extreme angle. I positively skidded down the lower half of the staircase, my tailbone THUMP-ing on every step. Face locked into a surprise, arms flailing, only gaining speed until I hit the landing with my feet and traction reasserted itself.

My momentum was such that I shot forward and up into a standing position, only a foot or two away from where I intended to end. I kept my wits enough to deliver the rest of the scene as intended, cheeks stinging, wondering if I was bleeding. Clytemnestra then signals her retinue to leave, but I’m the last one out, mocking Elektra’s misery for a few moments by being the best clown I know how to be.

The mocking culminates in mooning Elektra and slapping my (surprisingly firm) ass. “I wonder if I’m injured,” I thought to myself. “Whelp! This is how I find out,” I figured, and spanked myself for all I was worth.

Side note: I am worth a lot.

When I came off stage, the entire ensemble was waiting for me to ask if I was okay. At the very swanky opening night party, at least a dozen people involved in the production individually approached me and asked if I was okay. At our second performance a few days later everyone’s favorite question was, “How’s your butt?”

But my favorite comment, which I heard a handful of times, came from those in the audience. Many of them were certain that the whole thing was on purpose. They may have jumped in surprise, but afterward I fell into place so quickly that it looked like the whole thing was planned, staged, and repeatable. This included at least one of my two friends in attendance, whom I several times had to reassure that that shit was on accident, but I’m so goddamn good at what I do that I made it look intentional.

Never committing an error is a skill to strive for, sure. But given the choice, I’ll take the talent which integrates a total fuckup into part of a master plan which is more successful than any amount of perfect execution.

And my butt is just fine. Thank you for asking.