You CAN Make That Stuff Up

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Over the last few blogs, I have been reminiscing with you about both the joys and perils of live performance. There is nothing more humbling than a faux pas on stage before hundreds of critical eyes. The beauty of reminiscence lies in its ability, through hindsight, to take a moment of mortification and make it a laughable lifelong memory. 

I would be remiss, however, if I didn't share with you the funniest such situation that I ever witnessed. Witness is the operative word here. It didn't happen to me, but I had a hand in it.

When we lived in Gaffney, the community came together every summer to fete peaches. Even though Georgia touts itself as the “Peach State,” Cherokee County, of which Gaffney serves as the seat, actually produced more peaches. The local Chamber of Commerce decided that the world should know this and organized a cadre of activities to bring visitors to the area. For a week every July, the South Carolina Peach Festival sponsored live concerts, tractor pulls, a beauty pageant, and a parade. The entire town stopped all regular goings-on to participate.

One year, I was approached about producing a variety show at the Little Theater. This would be a new type of endeavor for me. Even though I had often performed on stage myself, it had always been under some other person's direction. I had never written original material nor pieced together a program on my own. The prospect excited me and I accepted the request.

At the time, CB radios were all the rage. CB stood for Citizen's Band and they were originally designed for truckers on the highways to be able to talk to each other about accidents, speed traps, and other road conditions, but in the 80's their use expanded to the general public. Everybody, including us, bought one to install in cars.

The CB world had lingo and rules all of it's own that played out on channel 19. You never revealed your real name while chatting on the radio as you never knew who might be listening. In order to protect identities, people chose “handles” as disguises. (Captain's handle was “Wild Turkey” and mine was “Slow Mop.” I'll let you figure those out.) However, everybody was a “good buddy” even if you never saw them or knew who they were.

Conversation went something like this - “Breaker, breaker, 1-9, good buddy, in that silver Overnite eighteen-wheeler. This is Wild Turkey and I'm heading north up the old 8-5 about the 7-2 mile marker. What's your handle, good buddy? ”

In planning the Peach Festival Variety Show, I decided to write a skit about a man who bought a CB radio right before going on vacation with his wife and mother-in-law. The script imparted his excitement over the radio; his wife's consternation that he kept talking on it instead of paying attention to his driving; and his mother-in-law's mettlesome comments as she stirred the pot from the back seat. All of this revolved around a radio conversation with a trucker somewhere on the highway.

I selected the actors and decided that the set would be very simple - the three main characters on a blacked-out stage, sitting in ladder back chairs with two spotlights focused on them. The trucker would never appear, only his voice over the speaker system. Rather than find another actor to read the trucker's lines from the wings, I decided to have them recorded on audio tape and cued from the sound booth by the technician. He started and stopped the tape according to the script.

We went into rehearsal and, - if I do say so myself – the skit was funny. It went something like this.

Actors take places on stage, pretend to enter car, start car and jiggle as if riding in car.

Husband: “Well, I sure am glad that we are finally getting off, aren't you, honey?”

Wife: “I am, dear. It's been a long time since we've had any time away.”

Mother-in-law: “Time away? Time away? I thought maybe you could just leave me home so I could have some time away from him.”

Silence as the husband and wife look out their windows. Continue to jiggle.

Cue Trucker's voice: “Breaker, Breaker 1-9, good buddy in the blue Chevy sedan coming down the ramp from Highway 11 onto this big 8-5 black top, this is Holy Moly, come back.”

Wife looks up, down, all around in confusion. Husband stares straight ahead like he's startled. Mother-in-law jumps up and feigns hitting her head on the ceiling of the car.

Wife: “Who said that?”

Mother-in-law: “Who's in here?”

Wife: “Who's Holy Moly?”

Husband (laughing now): “Hey......that's coming over my new CB Radio that I got just for this trip. Here.....watch this.”

Cue Trucker's voice: “Breaker, Breaker 1-9, good buddy in the blue Chevy sedan coming down the ramp from Highway 11 onto this big 8-5 black top, this is Holy Moly, come back.”

 

Husband (laughing now): “Hey......that's coming over my new CB Radio that I got just for this trip. Here.....watch this.”

Husband pretends to put microphone to his mouth.

Husband (not confidently): “Well, hello there, Mr. Holy Moly. This here is Samson. Are you doing allright today?........I mean, good buddy.....”

Cue Trucker's voice: “That's a big 10-4, Samson. Just wanted you to know you have somebody's skirt flapping in the breeze out your back door, good buddy.”

Wife: “Samson.....SAMSON....your name's not Samson!”

 

 

You get the gist. The back and forth between the trucker, the husband, the wife and mother-in-law lasted about five minutes.

In all of our practices, things went like clockwork. As the writer/producer, I had great hopes that people would enjoy the show. Opening night came and we were all a twitter – not the modern kind – but the good old-fashioned butterfly-in-the-stomach kind. The theater was packed.

Everything moved along as planned and it came time for the CB Radio Skit. Captain and I stationed ourselves in a front wing where we could watch the actors and glimpse a couple of the front rows to gauge the reaction of the audience. The stage went dark and the actors carried their chairs out and took their positions. The spotlights flashed on.

“Well, I sure am glad that we are finally getting off, aren't you, honey?”

“I am, dear. It's been a long time since we've had any time away.”

“Time away? Time away? I thought maybe you could just leave me home so I could have some time away from him.”

Pause.....

“Breaker, Breaker 1-9, good buddy in the blue Chevy sedan coming down the ramp from Highway 11 onto this big 8-5 black top, this is Holy Moly, come back.”

“Who said that?”

“Who's in here?”

And then, before the next line could be spoken, this came out of the speakers.

“That's a big 10-4, Samson. Just wanted you to know you have somebody's skirt flapping in the breeze out your back door, good buddy.”

Momentarily stunned, the actors froze in their chairs as the entire litany of trucker lines raced through to their conclusion. For some reason, the audio tech had let the tape run without stopping at the appropriate places. Thirty seconds into the five-minute skit, the script as written was totally shredded to pieces leaving the actors to fiend for themselves.

Captain and I watched from the wing as the three actors went off into an improvisation that made my carefully designed routine look like child's play. None the wiser, the audience responded with raucous laughter to the random, spontaneous story unfolding on stage. We laughed so hard, we were crying.

Somehow, they wound things to a close and, after taking multiple bows, exited the stage. All three actors had perspired so much on stage, they were soaking wet. I jokingly asked if they might be able to repeat the performance at the next show. At that moment, it wasn't funny, but I'm sure over time when they reminisced about it, they had to laugh.

I haven't told you these stories to scare you away from performing on the live stage. To the contrary, I hope that you both will try it sometime. Nothing.....no, nothing....can give you such memories.