Background

I didn’t have any theater experience, but when I saw the ad for background actors for a local play, I thought it sounded fun: wear a costume, stand in the back, get paid $60 a show. I heard they were taking whoever fit the costumes.

The play, it turned out, was outside, in Greenstone Park. It was one of those new immersive theater experiences. I had to pretend to be selling shoes to a customer – also a background actor. We just pantomimed the thing to add atmosphere but not detract from the main cast, who roamed the park while little groups of audience members followed them. Different scenes took place in different parts of the park, and the audience could pick what part of the story they wanted to follow.

The first few nights, I pantomimed shoe sales with Terri: I’d show her different shoes, she’d ooh and aah, or shake her head, or whatever. There was always a stream of people walking by, watching. Then one night, a woman from the audience walked over, picked up a shoe, and tried it on. This was allowed. We were supposed to go with it. I smiled at her obsequiously – I was getting into this acting thing – then leaned down and fastened the strap of her shoe.

She turned her foot side to side, took a look at it in the shoe. “What do you think?” she said.

This was not allowed. Audience members could only speak if an actor spoke to them, and Terri and I weren’t allowed to speak at all. But, I thought, who’s gonna know?

“Pretty snazzy,” I said.

She smiled, pleased to be part of the play. “I’ll take them,” she said.

Our “set” was just a few racks with some shoes that it looked like the props department had gotten from the thrift store. I had to improvise. “I’ll put them on your tab,” I said, something I remembered from old movies.

She nodded at me demurely, as though she was in the same movie, then slipped on her flats, stood, and meandered off, carrying the shoes by their straps like someone at the beach.

Terri looked at me like what the fuck, and I just shrugged. 

But I’d broken my maiden. I’d seen how fun this acting thing could be. Now I wanted more lines.

So when audience members strolled by, taking in the pantomimed sideshow, I’d say hello, invite them into our “shop.” They’d browse the shoes, chat with me, all the while looking a bit unsure, no doubt wondering, Is this part of the story? You see, they were always in search of the story, never quite sure which actors to follow, which were going to start speaking.

There was an apothecary on one side of us, a bookshop on the other. Brandon, the bookseller, saw what was going on. He could’ve been uptight, turned us in, but instead, he gave us a conspiratorial grin, nodded his head yes. Pretty soon I saw him chatting with the audience, bringing them into the shop, unshelving the thrift store books, and handing them to his “customers.”

Esther, in the apothecary, looked confused, asked “Are we supposed to be doing that?”

Me: “Not technically.”

She wrinkled her nose. But I didn’t think she’d say anything.

The shoe-selling was fun, but, I thought, I want to be part of the story.

I made a plan with Brandon. We wrote some dialogue for ourselves. When customers came in, after showing them our wares, we’d whisper to them The king is dead. That is an impostor. This drew a lot of excited looks. I could tell our audience thought they’d uncovered the big secret of the play, that they’d done it by being clever and exploring all the little shops.

I still think what happened next was a good thing. It only made the play better, more immersive. If there was a problem, it was because the actors, the professional ones, wouldn’t listen to the audience, couldn’t evolve along with the play.

What happened was this: the king and his retinue were just across from our shop in the Rose Garden performing their usual scene, same as every night, when an audience member called out The king is dead! That is an impostor! The actor-king was caught off guard, looked unsure for a moment, but to his credit, he stayed in character and barked, “Apprehend that man.” Two guards grabbed the man by the arms, theatrical-style, which it was clear was great fun for him. Others wanted in.

The king is dead! That is an impostor! someone else called. Then, from elsewhere: He’s an impostor! Impostor!

It was full-on audience improv. And they were loving it. Only the actors were having a problem. “No, I…” the king said, then ran out of words. A stage manager, uncostumed and holding a walkie, stepped out from behind a tree. I could see things were devolving.

Then suddenly, I just knew. I strode out of my shop, holding my head up imperiously, walked straight up to the king (real name: Jerry), and removed his crown. As I placed it on my head, in my best king voice, I announced, “I am Gerald, brother of the late King, true successor to the throne!”

There were cheers all around and some huzzahs, at least from the audience. Jerry looked miffed. But he only had himself to blame.

I gave a short speech to my subjects while the stage manager was alerting Security. I bowed before they escorted me away.

#

People loved the play that night; there are still seven five-star reviews on Yelp from that performance.

Of course, I was fired. As was Brandon.

Terri is the shoe seller in the shop now. Good for her.

I get it now: it’s not just the acting that I crave; it’s the giving in, the letting it happen, whatever the moment wants, something Jerry will never understand.