MAKE MINE COGNAC

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session.
- Lord Byron

In the 1960s I appeared in a one-act play.

The playwright's description of the character I played was "voluptuous and extroverted." I weighed ninety-eight pounds and was so shy my thoughts trembled.

"I am casting you against type," the director told me, adding, "The character you play represents man's inhumanity to man."

I accepted the part of "The Girl." None of the characters in the play had a name. We ? "The Girl," "The Hero," "The Young Woman," "The Mother," "Old Man I," "Old Man II," and, intriguingly, "Woman's Voice Under a Blanket" ? were, we were told, all symbols. Acting a symbol is as easy as singing a Picasso.

After weeks of rehearsal it became depressingly clear that no one in the cast had the slightest idea of what the play was about. There was some discussion about whether it was a comedy. This was the one thing I was sure it was not. Comedy may be born in pain, but it rarely retires there. The director said something about "symbolic juxtaposition" ? iced tea to a drowning man. Finally one of the symbols clanged.

"What the hell is this play about," demanded Old Man II. The director smiled that knowing, smug smile only directors and successful orthodontists seem able to accomplish.

"Its meaning, its poetry, its symbolism cannot be explained. It cannot be verbalized."

I knew then that all was lost. I was appearing in a play that could not be verbalized. What was it? A ballet without dance?

My part consisted of walking on stage, giving a brief speech and sitting silently on stage for the remainder of the play. The only other acting I had done was "the lead" in a children's theater production of Sleeping Beauty. I n that production I walked on stage, pricked my finger and played possum for two hours. There seemed to be a tendency on the part of directors to place me on stage and just leave me there ? the thinking being, perhaps, that no matter how bad the play might be, the audience would not attack a ninety-eight-pound weakling.

The play began with "The Hero" lying in bed, studying his hands. He gave a monologue on sexuality, women and war. "The Young Woman," an actress who quite possibly had the best figure and the worst diction in New York, entered his bedroom. She gave a monologue on sexuality, men and war. During her speech a man and a woman appeared at opposite sides of the stage and walked slowly toward each other, scattering small paper valentines as they walked. They embraced and walked off stage. "The Mother" ran on stage, screamed and hit "The Hero." After a long exchange between "The Hero" and "The Mother," "Old Man I" entered on stage and pretended to die.

A funeral scene occurred. Six actor-mourners, wearing raincoats and carrying umbrellas, walked on stage. A sort exchange between "The Young Woman" and "The Mother" followed, while off stage a voice shouted in German. I was willing to buy all of this, conceding that something does not have to be understood by me to have validity. Where would the theory of relativity be had it waited on my cognizance? But what I found perfectly mystifying was why the six mourners, closing and tucking their umbrellas, suddenly also fell dead. Six bodies strewn on miscellaneous spots on stage may have had a dramatic effect on the audience. It certainly had an effect on the rest of the members of the cast who, when not worried about going up on lines, were worried about falling down over bodies.

At this point in the play, for reasons known only to the playwright (and even here I have my doubts), an actor crawled on stage, passed center stage, barked twice and said "Make mine cognac." He mimed drowning a drink with his right paw and crawled off stage. I did not own a copy of the script, so I never knew if the two barks were written by the author or were added by the actor. I was afraid to ask. I cannot explain, verbalize or dance out the effect this moment had on me. It indelibly marked my psyche. During rehearsals and performances I had to bite my lower lip and pinch my arm to keep from laughing. Had the play had a longer run, it is possible that I would today speak with a terrible lisp and never be able to wave my left arm.

The only thing more terrible and mysterious than this moment was that, immediately following it, "Man's Inhumanity to Man" entered stage right. I stepped over several "dead" bodies, walked downstage and asked the air, "Is this the Kitty Kat Café?" I then sat at a small table, extremely downstage right, ordered a cream puff and a cup of coffee, and recited a monologue about soldiers and the Black Forest.

The play was done "in the round," on the same level as the audience. I was so close to the audience that I could discern individual colognes, mostly Jean Naté and Old Spice. Had the house lights been up and had the play been a comedy, I could have examined bridgework.

I had been directed to be "mechanical and puppet-like," a sort of Machiavellian Muppet. I walked, stood and sat in sparse, machine-like moves. On opening night, completely, I confess, out of puppet, I happened to cross my legs. Between the action and its completion, I had kicked a member of the audience in the shin, hard. He was a big man, able to bear pain soundlessly. I do not know who was more startled. Bathed in embarrassment, as if in full spotlight, our eyes locked, and for one mad moment I thought we were going to say hello. I carefully tucked my leg back "onstage" and considered apologizing, but I was afraid this would lead to an introduction or, worse, to chitchat. He looked warm and conversational. ("The leg's fine. How long have you been acting?") Breaking illusion seemed sacrilege enough; conversing during that break, unthinkable. He smiled and rubbed his leg. My fears of comradeship confirmed, I looked away. The incident was closed, except for his date's insensitive query, "Did she hurt you, Eddie?" For Eddie and for me, it had been a very real moment, possibly the only real moment in the play.

I was understandably somewhat apprehensive for the remainder of the play, a soliloquy by "The Woman's Voice Under the Blanket" and a scene between "The Hero" and "Old Man II." I could not shake a feeling of acute intimacy with Eddie.

I believe in karma and know that, in the silent scheme of all things, there was a reason for my appearing in this play. But it, like the meaning of the play, has yet to be revealed to me. In the meantime, Eddie, if you are reading this and if we should ever meet for an after-theater drink, make mine cognac.

by Barbara Welch

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