Joy on Stage Part Ch. 01

There were a lot of crew people sitting on the end of the table, nice folks, some of them quiet and a few of them vocal, Rosemary seemed to know them all but I guess she would, having hired them. Kris Nieman was an aspiring director herself, working as a stage manager for the experience more than the money or fun, and it would be her we most often reported to. Jan did costumes, Karen covered costumes and make-up, Elvin—I thought it was Alvin for half the rehearsals—worked on the lighting, J.D. handled props and helped out on sets, which were primarily Tyler's job, while Pauline and Jason would cover the booth for sound and lighting cues.

I got quite a few laughs reading for Joy, and I was very happy with myself. Between her foul language and her uncommonly male demeanor, she was easily the funniest character in the play. Harry and Tracy were the pathos of the play, the hanger for the really thoughtful elements, Joy was mostly there to give insight to Harry's damaged mind and, yeah, to keep the play entertaining and from being exclusively grim. I really liked reading the scene where Joy seduced Harry at the end of Act I, the catalyst for his seducing Tracy in the second act. Rosemary laughed along and, before the break we took between acts, she told me we'd probably come up with some bump-and-grind routine to make for a convincing seduction. I nodded along, giving her my most eager eyes, but inside I was already thinking about how much more was being heaped on me. Half-naked on stage for two hours, now I was going to have to shake my stuff. I might have to suggest dad and Serena stay away from this show.

That night I went home and the roommates and I had one of our rare nights where we all sat down at the table and ate, like a weird family that swore a lot. I answered every question from Miller and Chuck about the show—they were especially interested in hearing about Walt Nayor, but I didn't have much to say other than he kept to himself, behaved professionally, and he was hot like his dad. Miller let it slip, right there in front of me, that Lynne was doing the nude scene in the play and that peaked Chuck's interest all the more. Was she good-looking? How explicit was the show going to get? Was I absolutely sure I wouldn't be naked, too? As I predicted, he said he was sure he would make it to opening night, which he probably would have skipped otherwise.

"I am kind of nervous about something," I told Miller, shunning Chuck a little for his immature line of questioning. "We'll be rehearsing about two weeks before we finally get this on the stage... at that point we'll be starting off with costumes, everybody walking around in front of each other like that... you know I'll be in my underwear..."

"God, I'm loving this play already," Chuck chimed in.

"To tell you the truth... I think I'm comfortable with my body and all, Mill, but you know... I'm not used to being seen like that. Christ, we live in L.A. and I've probably been to the beach five times since my boobs developed. On the beach I'm surrounded by other people dressed the same way."

"If you want us to make you feel good about your body, Chels—"

"Chuck, don't even finish that sentence," I said, giving him a smile to lighten my serious warning. I turned back to Miller and shrugged. "I don't know what I can do. I'm thinking I can go to the beach more often... maybe I'll wear shorts and tops that show my midriff or some cleavage everywhere—everywhere except work, of course."

"Let's have an underwear party," Miller suggested, which made Chuck laugh and me not quite as much, but he insisted it was a real idea. "Have everyone over Saturday, we'll all be in our underwear, you, me, all our friends. We did it a couple of times in college. Everyone back then called it an underwear party. Chuck just calls it Saturday."

"Ha. Fuck you, Mill. But I do heartily agree with this."

I couldn't keep from smiling as I thought about it. "I guess. I'm not sure how much that'll help me feel normal while rehearsing, but it's a start—"

"You want to get cool with this, Chels, for real, you should just walk around here in your underwear." Both of us shouted him down, but Chuck persisted with the idea. "Why not? I'm cool with it. Mill, are you alright with it? Ah, Mill will come around. You tell me a better place to experiment with something you don't feel accustomed to than your own home. Walk around here in your underwear enough, with us as your practice audience, before you know it you won't be thinking twice about it—"

"Chuck, your devious mind is transparent," I said, turning my eyes to my plate.

"I know I'm transparent. Whatever else you can say about me, I'm not a liar," bragged Chuck. "I will never claim I wouldn't like seeing you in your underwear. But does the fact I benefit from this change anything? Mill, am I wrong? Would it help her or would it not?"

I couldn't believe Miller seemed to agree with Chuck. He said I didn't have to, of course, and it wouldn't bother him either way. I was beginning to think sharing a place with our warped roommate had started getting to him, but Mill did say it might at least put me at ease for the underwear party, if we did that, too. I could then probably figure out how much was getting used to wearing a skimpy costume. I told them I would think about it, then resumed dinner.

Nobody had a date, which didn't surprise anybody, so Chuck and I laid on the couch together, Mill sat in his grampa chair, and we watched the double-whammy of Seinfeld and Quantum Leap, which were both repeats. When we all could get together, we loved catching the local TV affiliate playing reruns of WKRP in Cincinnati, but it meant sticking it out through the news, which we watched on mute, always a downer full of local fires and murders. Chuck turned his eyes on me and grinned in a way that made me nervous.

"Are you going to start? Better to start early. By the time the play opens you'll be all that more comfortable with being in your underwear."

"Um, I think not."

"I'll get down to my underwear, if you want." I had to crawl to the other end of the couch as Chuck took his shirt off, then unbuttoned his pants. Miller was telling him he was already too comfortable wearing nothing in front of us, but it didn't stop him. Chuck stood up and shook his hips like a go-go dancer until his khakis fell to his ankles. As he stepped out of them, he looked to me again. I tried not to look at the slight tenting in his boxers.

"Don't be a baby, Chelsea. You couldn't ask for a more supportive family than us..."

"That's enough, Chuck. She's not like you, she doesn't like parading around in front of people..."

Funny enough, it was Miller's defense of me that pushed me to feel insulted. I stood up, staring at him like I was a gunslinger, and then started pulling my T-shirt up over my belly. Chuck, way too excited, broke into a drumroll as Miller only shook his head and sighed like a disappointed parent.

I lifted my shirt over my black-cupped breasts, letting Chuck ogle them as if it didn't bother me, reminding myself he had seen me in a swimsuit before and this was essentially the same. I popped the shirt over my head and my red hair fell free.

"I hope you're having fun," Miller said to Chuck, who assured him he was. His eyes didn't leave me, which didn't make me feel any better about what I was doing, but the little perv was right, this would take me a little closer to where I needed to be on opening night.

I unbuttoned my jeans and opened them up until he could see the tops of my black panties. If I had stopped myself there, I probably wouldn't have faced much grief from either of them, but I knew I would feel like I had just put it all off. I began to push them down, but the jeans were taking my panties with them as I squeezed out, which brought a few wisps of dark hair over the waistband of my panties, to my embarrassment. I pretended nobody had seen nothing, though both of them were staring right at me, and then worked my pants off and let them fall. I stepped one leg free and then kicked them off toward my room. Miller laughed, then joined when Chuck applauded, and I held my hands out at my side like a lame Vegas magician's assistant.

"That is super, Chelsea. Absolutely great. If you wanted to keep going, hey, I wouldn't think less of you. You could even act out the Tracy scene if you wanted, I would be happy to help—"

"Chuck, c'mon, enough."

I widened my eyes as if in love with the idea, turned, and pulled my panties down just enough to give him a quick look at the top of my ass—maybe a little more than I meant him to see, but I was happy to quiet both him and Miller. I sat back down on the couch, put my back to Chuck's arm, and leaned against him as we waited for WKRP to start.

The quiet didn't last long.

"I knew you had a fine body, Chels, but I had no idea you had an ass to die for."

"Chuck, lay off."

"Can I see it again?"

"Chuck! For real."

I had to laugh, but the only thing I gave Chuck for the rest of the night was my middle finger.

* * *

I spent six days walking around the apartment in my underwear, at least during the few hours I wasn't rehearsing the play or trying to squeeze as much work as possible into my hours at the warehouse. Miller put off the underwear party until the weekend, but he didn't think he was going to get a great big crowd unless he could assure some women showing up. He asked me to invite my friends, which forced me to remind him I didn't have many women friends. Lacey, that was about it, and she was in serious boyfriend mode for the past few weeks, I hadn't even been able to get her on the phone to tell her about getting my big job. But the underwear party seemed as if it might not happen.

After our rehearsal Monday, which seemed to continue the process of slowly making us gel as a cast, Rosemary took me aside and looked like she had bad news for me.

"Can I ask you to do something for the play?" My first thought, as insecure as it was, was that she was going to ask me to give up the role to someone else. Quite an ego I've got. I waited for her to go on and she did nothing to allay my worries in that moment, then she drew a breath and asked, "I would like to cut your hair."

I lost all the tension in my body at once, really, I was surprised later I didn't piss myself at that moment from feeling all that relief. "I don't mind cutting my hair."

Her hesitancy continued, and I started to get worried again. "I'm talking about a pretty drastic cut. You've got beautiful hair, Chelsea, it's such a shame... but it is pretty important to the vision of the play I have—"

"Okay, what are you talking about? Do you want me to shave my head or something?" I was smiling, treating it as a joke, but Rosemary was disturbingly stone-faced. "Oh god, you want me to shave my head?"

"Not really. Not all of it," she said, then she tried to explain a hurry as she seemed to lose me. "I want something more punk. That really identifies the id to me. I feel like Joy is not just Harry's joy, though that much is obvious. She's his sex. His fury. His passion. His fear. Everything but the insecurities and hyper-rationality that dooms him. You're separate from him in this play so people can ask themselves what cages their id. Right? As Harry gets weaker... you get stronger. Until the end of the show, where you're working him like a puppet. It gives us all some hope for escaping these cages—"

"This is great insight... but my hair?" I touched it reflexively, defensively. I couldn't remember the last time I had cut anything more than a few ends off my hair just to keep it looking good. Rosemary went back to the table and collected her big book. She brought over some pages and photographs. The drawings looked mad, like there was no way I was going to do that for the play, and I was already thinking of how to tell her I wouldn't. But the photos of real models looked better. It was a unique look, and though Rosemary called it a "Mohawk" a few times—talk about doing nothing to make me feel better about it—it wasn't like what Mr. T would wear. It was cut pretty close, shaved on the sides, and in some of the pictures where it was slicked back or worked into a bouffant, it did have a very punk look. Not what I would have done to myself, that's for sure, but it was very bold. It definitely fit Joy. The last picture she presented to me was of Winona Ryder, sometime between her usual long-hair looks, her black hair cut very close and succeeding with a style somewhere between Goth and punk. Rosemary illustrated how it hung in her eyes, curtained her face like a somewhat sleeker bob, still wild, but nothing alarming. She promised me that I would keep enough hair on the top of my head to have the same look when she was done. It made it easier to consider. "Can I have a day to think about it?"

She was very reluctant to agree to that, impatient, I could see, but she gave me the night. I could tell her tomorrow. But what was I going to tell her? I had made up my mind to say yes before I left the theater. I couldn't very well go back and tell her no, she might have pretended she was asking me, but this was what she saw in the play, and if I refused, well, maybe she would stop seeing me in the role. It wasn't like my acting was the best anyway.

After a full night spent playing with my hair, even doing the old shampoo unicorn horns while I took a bath that I hadn't done since I was a kid, I felt pretty confident the look would be flattering. I could make it work. I would have to make it work. I woke up, shrugged off a general lack of sleep, and went to work at the warehouse. From there I got a co-worker, Sylvie, to give me a ride to the theater.

Rosemary was pissed. She met everybody in a foul mood, gathered everyone together to remind us that we were all dedicated to the same goal—making this play effective and successful—and that when one person dropped the ball, it left the rest of us scrambling to get it. I felt horrible, like I had done something wrong, but I asked Papa what was wrong after Rosemary stormed out and he told me with none of the animosity or worry that Rosemary had displayed.

"Lynne quit this morning," he said. I felt shock, fear, and eventually outrage to hear we had been abandoned, but Papa calmed me down and suggested I not worry about anything but my performance.

I spent most of my time on the rehearsal stage in the basement of the theater, working with Walt on our scenes. Pam had the night off and without her or Lynne around, we were stuck as Rosemary's point of focus. She was quiet, corrected us when she felt it was necessary, but otherwise letting us play around a little with the blocking and our deliveries until we went too far from what she liked. In a lot of the blocking we had worked out, I was always on the other side of Walt from the main lights, though I had my own, reddish-tint spotlight, or would when we took the stage; I was supposed to hover in his shadow, always over him, but feeling ethereal to the audience so they got a sense I wasn't really there even before Papa's arrival made it clear.

"Because you're an animal, Harry! If you aren't an animal, what are you?" I winced a little at mis-emphasizing a word, thinking too much about where I was standing. "Don't feel so bad. It's good to be an animal. Animals don't have marriages. They don't have divorces. They don't even get jury duty!"

"Chelsea," Rosemary said quietly. She was writing something quickly in her script, but I couldn't guess what. She looked up at me in the silence, didn't smile—she almost always smiled. "Can you take your clothes off?"

I straightened up, moved my shoulders around uncomfortably and bit my lip. "Um... what do you... you mean right now?"

"Feel free to say no if you won't," she said, looking back at her script again. I couldn't tell if she meant what she said or not. I decided she didn't. "If you're wearing something embarrassing underneath... or you didn't get a chance to shower today. I don't need a reason..."

"No, I'm good," I said.

I anxiously, with shaking fingers, unzipped my skirt and let the black cloth sail to the floor. I had worn pretty black panties underneath, those and the skirt were part of my attempt to appear a little sexier and freer with my body on the set while my walking-around-in-my-underwear strategy worked its wonders at home. I had on a sleeveless T-shirt that I thought personified punk, at least the only thing in my wardrobe that did, and I had to take it off while Rosemary occasionally looked up at me like a critical teacher. My breasts felt like they had gone up a cup-size as soon as I had my shirt off. I collected it and my skirt, untied my sandals and removed them as well, and put all my clothes on top of my script and purse. I had been so proud when I came in that day, happy to be mostly off-book for all of my big scenes, but Walt hadn't even learned a third of his lines yet. He sat on the couch the whole time I changed, too, as if I were sweeping the floor behind him.

"Good," Rosemary said simply. This is it, I thought, she's going to ask me to take over the role of Tracy. She would have one of her talented friends or one of the other auditioning girls take over Joy. She had seen her mistake, and as much as Lynne fucked her over, this gave her a chance to fix it.

"Is that... all? Just go on from—"

"Pick it up from, 'Whoever said you were special,' sugar."

There was nothing for me to do but to proceed as usual with the scenes, trying to keep my head on the blocking and the lines. What followed was maybe not fairly called "falling apart," but I really sucked for the rest of the night. I forgot lines until I had to bring my script back to the floor and keep it open, I fumbled through the blocking, read lines woodenly or with too much volume when I attempted to overcompensate, it was all around humbling. If Rosemary had no notion to fire me before I took my clothes off, she probably would at the end of the night. I recovered from my mistakes as best I could, summoned up my enthusiasm when I worried I was going to let my errors kill my energy, and waited for the sword of Damocles to fall. All night I expected Rosemary to stop me, shake her head, and then pull me aside and finish me off.

Finally, mercifully, we reached ten o'clock and Rosemary said there was no point in beating the horse any deader. Not high praise, I knew. She gave us notes, both Walt and I were called out for mistakes, a few of them obviously really irritated Rosemary. I didn't think at the time that she had already come in with her mood bad, it wasn't likely to change while watching us struggle to give her what she wanted. After giving us a chance for questions, a period when both of us wisely kept our mouths shut, she said we'll get it where it needed to be. Walt gave me a weird little smile as he looked me over. I was almost glad I had forgotten about my state of dress until he reminded me.

Rosemary waved me over as I told Papa he had done good work and I couldn't join him for beers at the Posie that night. I wanted to put off my conversation with Rosemary; for a minute I had started to believe I would get out of there alright. Of course she was just waiting until Walt had gotten through the rehearsal. Maybe she would offer me the Tracy part. Would I take it? Naturally, I was getting ahead of myself.

"I'm so glad we're done," she said to me, sounding wearier than usual. I nodded, asked if I should put my clothes back on, but she said that could wait. Rosemary drew another long breath, like the kind just made to tighten tension, then she smiled at me almost regretfully. "Are you ready to cut your hair?"

I exhaled with frustration. "My hair? You still want me to cut my hair?" She did, she responded. I laughed and lifted my hands to my head, throwing it about. "I've got too much of it. Sure. I'll cut it. Is there someone you want me to go to...?"