I never lived in Indianapolis, but I worked there a lot and, hence, spent

a ton of time there between 1974 and 2013. So, I got to know a lot of

local names. Politicians, important folk like that. Probably the most

familiar name of all was that of William Hudnut, the four-term

Republican mayor of Indianapolis. I heard the name all the time, but

even if I’d only heard it once, how could I have forgotten that name?

I mean…Hudnut.

In 1980 I was in a dinner theater production of ARSENIC AND OLD

LACE in Indianapolis. Lousy winter weather held box-office down

a bit but we did pretty good business and got decent reviews

overall. 

But one day there was a by-God blizzard in town. Several inches

of snow, plus wind, biting cold, icy streets. Having worked at this

theater before, I knew that such dangerous weather generally meant

a performance would be canceled. But the day went on, the weather

got worse and worse and no word was forthcoming. I took it upon

myself and called the box office. I was informed that we would not

be canceling. That was surprising. The box office lady, a friendly

acquaintance of mine, gave me the real scoop. Lots of ticket holders

had called to cancel. The producers wanted to cancel. But... one

group which hadn't canceled was a party of 10 or 12 reserved in

the name of Mayor Bill Hudnut. Nobody wanted to be the one to

call the mayor and tell him the show was canceled, but everybody

was praying that the mayor would call in to cancel himself. He didn't. 

Thus, the show went on. The theater seated 500 and our audience

that night was not even 50 souls. The mayor's party was just about

a quarter of the tiny crowd.  

It is very difficult for an audience to laugh and enjoy themselves

when they are surrounded by emptiness and darkness. And there

is almost nothing worse in the world than playing a comedy to

silence. This was going to be painful.

As the show started, not bad. Some laughs from the tiny crowd.

Most of the laughter, I soon realized, was coming from the mayor's

table. It soon became clear that the mayor himself was leading the

laughter. He was giving out with almost embarrassingly loud

guffaws, even occasionally smacking his hand on the table at the

hilarity. For a while the teensy audience stayed with him. Then, one

by one, they faded away till the only laughter came from the mayor's

table. And eventually -- still not through the first act -- only the mayor

was laughing. 

But his laughter got more and more forced and hollow. Soon he was

out of energy and could only offer weak little "haha" breaths, not

really laughs at all. Then...nothing. No laughter, no reaction, no sound

at all. We played the last two acts to utter, tortuous silence. By the

final curtain, we had maybe 25-30 people left in the house. But among

them, right down front and center, was Mayor Hudnut. He was gray and

slack-jawed, utterly exhausted. I looked directly at him during the

curtain call and he appeared to be in dire need of medical assistance.

He looked like a man who had just run a marathon on an empty stomach

after having no sleep for a week.

That was a long painful night. Acting never before or after felt so much

like ditch-digging. But I always held a fond spot in my heart for Mayor

Hudnut. He didn't have the stamina to go the distance, but by gum he

gave it a noble try.

I think it was his supreme effort at audience-ing which earned him a statue.