I was cast as Miss Amelia, the lead in Edward Albee’s adaptation of Carson McCullers’ The Ballad of the Sad Café. To be performed environmentally in a local pub-with-food place. Actors and audience would be seated elbow-to-elbow, sharing small tables. And Miss Amelia would barely exit, throughout.
About a week before opening I got sick. So ill, I dared not drive. A cast-mate had to pick me up for rehearsals. Then maybe three days before opening, he drove me to the doctor. “Flu,” was the verdict. Doc prescribed an antibiotic. Oddly. I’d always heard they couldn’t help with flu. But OK. I was willing to try anything at that point.
“Take with food,” directions said. Took half an hour to choke down half a cantaloupe so I could chase it with a pill. The rest of rehearsals were cancelled to save whatever energy I had for performance.
Opening night. My ride came. In the car, I leaned back. To rest. Unspoken thought: Get me through the night.
The greenroom was a converted storage area. We applied makeup. Tried to run lines. Mine kept floating away. Evaporating into haze. In the mirror, I looked. Tried to focus: I look yellow. Inner corners of my eyes.
“Am I yellow?” I strained my eyes to one side to show the others. No one could say. Or wouldn’t commit.
