A bitterly cold night in Denver.
1977. DAMN YANKEES.
Dinner theater--unless it’s Simpsonville, Kentucky-- also means drinking theater. Sometimes people over-indulge.
Like this night. Early on we heard loud, overly-raucous laughter and blaring voices. No understandable words. Nothing to throw off the show.
Then, “Whatever Lola Wants.” Just me and Isabelle Farrell onstage. Isabelle was cute, talented and, as required for Lola, pretty hot.
Isabelle sheds some costuming and wiggles into the number. And a drunk makes himself heard. “O0h-ooh, baby!” LOUD! Then more which I can’t remember, mostly unintelligible.
By now he was YELLING whatever he was yelling, following each comment with an ugly bray of laughter. Audience members started “shhh-shing.” We plowed on with the number.
Through the whole scene he yelled, he laughed, the number--usually a highlight-- died utterly. Lights out. Isabelle and I were furious.
I’ve never been given to anger. Fewer than five times in my long life have I expressed public anger. This was the worst. I could barely speak for the rage.
At intermission all backstage discussion concerned the drunk. I was too angry to join the talk.
Then I had an ugly, wonderful thought. Creeping out to the lobby, I stood behind a curtain, peering at audience members milling about, prior to re-seating themselves for the next act. I wanted the drunk. I wanted to beat him soundly. Convince him to go home. Or to the Emergency Room, if need be.
But the lobby emptied, the show restarted and no sign of the guy. I stood in the empty lobby, steaming. Glancing out the front doors I saw the drunk being loaded into a car by his friends. I started to run outside, but the car was already moving. The drunk had escaped my awesome, hellish anger, an anger now compounded by frustration.
I finished the show, hoping my fury was hidden under my performance.
The show was over and I was still angry. Teeth-grittingly, fist-clenchingly, murderously angry.
We loaded into the van for the drive to our downtown hotel. There was a young lady in the show with whom I’d gone out a few times. We had been casually “keeping company,” to resurrect an old phrase. So I sat by her, as usual. She tried to make conversation, but I was in no mood. The frustration at not being able to beat the drunk to a soggy mass had multiplied my anger. I was in a blind, overheated rage. My young lady slid as far away from me as possible. It would take several days of cringing apology to get back in her good graces.
Later I was told I’d been cursing non-stop, and saying, “I want to kill him!” I don’t recall saying that, but it feels right.
At the hotel, I hopped out of the van and started walking. I had another bright idea. I headed for a part of downtown we’d been warned to avoid. I was going to walk until somebody tried to mug or abuse me. That person would be my substitute for the drunk and it was going to be the worst day of his life.
You’re thinking, “this sounds like a bad idea.” I agree. For one thing, I’d never been in a fight in my life. But mine was not a rational mind that night.
I stalked through that frigid night, praying for an attempted mugging, walking down gray, icy streets for a solid hour. Only when I finally felt the deep cold did I know my anger had abated. I turned around and hurried toward the hotel, thinking, “Boy…I hope I don’t get mugged.”
