You see this mark here? And this one here? How about these over here? Of course you don’t see them, but if you could you would witness the horrible disfiguring that “Fiddler on the Roof” has done to me.
I am forever scarred…
Abby, who was in the play, can attest to this. Several people became burned or charred as a direct result of the actions on stage. In one scene, the family is celebrating Sabbath. They sing a song called Sabbath prayer. A couple verses into the song, a troupe of candle-weilding freaks (i.e. me and three middle school girls) can prancing on stage with lit, flaming candles.
You can imagine what happens. Abby stood right next to me in this song. We would be standing there and my singing would either blow the candle out or cause the flame to snuff itself. Either way, I need a light and I need it bad. So I would lean my candle over to hers and take some flame. Everytime I did this, I managed to pour a good quantity of burning hot wax unto her hand.
We used candles for 8 nights. You do the math.
If you know Heather then you know she’s prone to unpredictable, socially unacceptable behavior in quite social settings. She started what is affectionately known as the “Ass Slapping Reign of Terror.” This title is slightly misleading. HEATHER didn’t hold the reign. It was the guys that held the reign.
ASROT began as affectionate signs of affection and a means of inspiring that “Go Team” atmosphere that footballers love so much. It soon spread to the Russians in the play who are more than buff. These guys are Rusky Gods. When they discovered that hitting someone on the buttocks was okay by theatrical standards, they launched right in.
Laurie had a hand print and three welts on her butt the next day. Heather was equally flustered but less bruised. I, myself, enjoyed quite a lot of bum-touching, but I never got hurt. The only bruised I sustained has not been accredited to any given source, yet.
I’ll just say it’s from ass slapping.
I chocked Heather one day. It was great. She looked so helpless. I could have just squeezed her back to Jesus.
But just think about those kids without a mommy.
This, I can safely say, only Nathan experienced. Nathan Hoffman is a middle schooler. He also played a Russian, so you know he works out. In the bar scene, at one point, he collapses into a bucket and proceeds to empty his stomach of everything he’s consumed since breast milk.
In the next scene, we stumble drunkenly across the stage. During this one Nathan is drug from one side to the other. Since everyone is supposed to act drunk, no one bothers to get a proper grip on him. I can only imagine what being drug across a stage on your stomach with your shirt up at your chin is like.
Can we say ‘pink belly’?
I can personally report on this one. My first story is a boring one. When the play was over, I checked my arm, and I have a cut. I have no idea where it is from or who gave it to me or if I can claim workman’s comp for it. I guess I’ll just have to test it out.
My other injury is a more colorful story. Colorful like blood, that is! Recover, Miles. This took place right before the Wedding Scene. In this scene Motel and Tzietel get married in front of all of us as we sing “Sunrise Sunset.” To set up the scene we all bring on our own benches.
I had already changed into my robes for the wedding and was standing there ready to grab my bench and head on stage. Nathan Swanson was one step ahead of me. He held two benches, legs out at face level, and then let his mind float through space. As a result, I never noticed what he held until it met my eyebrow.
The collision was enough to bring Nathan back to earth long enough for him to say, “Oh, sorry.” Pause. Oh, I’m okay Nathan. I was just nearly rendered blind or completely retarded for the rest of my adult life. Thanks for caring. I thought nothing more of the injury, except a dislike for Nathan, and grabbed the remaining bench and sat down on stage.
We sang and we sang gooooooood. Then the Wedding Dance scene starts. We remain where we were in the previous scene. Then the women of Anatevka come out and do this nice little dance, and we all clap and pretend like we haven’t been watching this dance all bloody week. Then the bottle dancers walk out. They act all tough and macho and then place bottles on their Old West style duster hats.
About this time I noticed something wet enter my eye. I wiped it away (am I sweating that badly?) and noticed that my hand was fairly bloody. Well, way too bloody for sweating, that is. I needed a plan. As the bottle dancers finished up, I pretended once again to care, and I got up to congratulate them. Once offstage I began a steady stream of cursing Nathan, blood, and Nathan’s parents.
I mopped up the blood, answered all the “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you in this scene?” questions, and figured a way back on. During one particular angry outburst (at this point the wedding has turned into Jewish Jerry Springer) I walk on and say things like “What is going on? What’s the noise?” Seamless and cool; most people didn’t even notice that I was gone. They did notice the mark on my eyebrow, though. To this day I have a bruise there and a scab.
Of course, this happened on Friday.
So, here I sit. Bruised, bloody eye. Bruised thigh. Cut up arm. And of course all the psychological damage that comes from hanging around the same people for too long. I hate you all. Don’t you dare add me to MSN or I will block you and then chop you up into tiny pieces. I will feed those dripping, steamy pieces to my snowblower and make meaty, romantic, pink-colored snow out of you.
I mean it.