Dispatches from Home – Memories of Damn Yankees and a Drag Queen.

Goodness grashus! I look like Hitler after a three-day drunk, in this snap! (Big smile!) I still have that crusty mustache in my makeup kit, and when I see it, it conjures a funny, fond memory.

During the 1981 production of “Damn Yankees, ” at the Gulfport Little Theater, I learned a valuable lesson. My dear director, Ruth Ann Pecoul Black, had given the cast and crew several lectures on the value of concentration during a performance. “Concentrate on your performance, not the people in the audience.” But of course, I did not listen.

After all, I was Mr. Applegate, the star of the show. I had my own dresser, and I’d been the lead in many other shows, so there was no reason to give me coaching advice. Due to my “vast” experience, I knew it all. The show had been a smash success, and I was on cloud nine. That is, until something happened, and my theatrical knowledge was broadened.

It was about thirty minutes into the show, and I was downstage left, fully immersed in my performance as Mr. Applegate. I was pontificating on some subject, as only Mr. Appliate could, with all the amateur theatrics I could muster. And then, out of the semi-darkness at the rear of the theater, a sudden, unexpected sight appeared. A six-foot, black drag queen, resplendent in a shimmering, skintight white silk gown that would have made Jean Harlow jealous, was being escorted down the aisle by Mikey the Lackey.

As her feather boa fluttered in the breeze caused by the whoosh of turning heads, and Mikey the Lackey found them seats near the front row, I was mesmerised by the unfolding performance before me. The audience’s reaction was palpable. Some gasped, some giggled, some were just dumbfounded. The boys in the light booth were glaring. And the silence was deafening.

It was in that screaming silence that I had a sudden realization. I hadn’t done much of anything for what seemed like minutes. I muddled through the rest of the scene, not really remembering my lines or dance steps. As I left the stage for the sanctity of the wings, the words of my director echoed in my mind. I remembered her admonition to concentrate on my performance, not the people in the audience. And in that moment, I truly understood the value of her advice.

Come intermission, she pulled me into a corner, smiled, hugged me, and never said a word. She didn’t have to…I had learned my lesson. It was a lesson I remembered each time I treaded the boards in my future productions. And I still do. Fifty years later.

Big hug, y’all!

(Originally posted May 19, 2013)