Ah, the life of a travelling actress. Depending on nothing but your suitcase and script; having no time for friends or the simple pleasures in life; never knowing where your next meal will come from or whether you'll have a bed, come dark; just hoping that it's worthwhile when you bare you soul for the world to see, night after gin-fueled night... (Actually, I've only performed in about 4 festivals in my entire life, but it sounded more interesting when I said all that other stuff. Or, 'lied.' Stay tuned for more amazing embellishments.)
Last weekend, the gang and I took our 'little one-act that could,' Fur Better Or Worse, to Ararat. The play is about two lesbians and a cat, and we all GET IT ONNN. No, no, we don't.. But you can imagine if we did, right? The play is actually good, family fun and we've managed to nab a few awards, thus far. Look, I don't want to boast, or anything, but we are pretty much the best theatre team.. in the world.
The first step in crushing all the other plays with our award-winning amazingness, was a road trip down to good ol' Ratty (that's what the locals call it. Well, I would, if I lived there. Which, having visited once, now, I pretty much am). It's an understatement to say that I'm not a fan of navigation, especially when it comes to unfamiliar areas. As my alternative to driving was to sit on our set couch in the back of a windowless van (well, it has one window. A dumb one), I finally decided I valued my pathetic existence and hit the road with multiple, intricate, hand-drawn maps and my husband's promise of a GPS for my next present.
My first stop was for the collection of my castmate James (a.k.a. Catman), which, although the closest point in the journey, somehow inspired my most detailed map. I studied the whole of Hawthorn vigorously, determining which points of entry would be most likely for a terrorist attack, and where I would go from James' house if I was craving some bandaids and a carton of milk (I assume his place lacks such necessities. [Yes, I crave bandaids]). Despite my weeks of research, and keeping my eyes peeled for the final turnoff, I began to feel uneasy when my estimated travel time of 25 minutes turned into 35. All hopes of turning-off were cruelly extinguished when I reached the end of Glenferrie Rd, the crescendo of my fears expressed through an unhappy-Rainman reenactment. When I was done rocking back and forth and chanting, "Always fly with Qantas, never crash," I strapped on a pair and successfully looked up an alternative route. But, the damage to my nerves was already done, setting the tone for the rest of the trip. James could only watch on in discomfort as I let go of the wheel to water my parched throat or to wipe the tears from my suddenly hayfeverish eyes (it was hayfever, I swear!). I was horribly paranoid we'd get lost, again, occasionally screaming in a 'Nam flashback style, "Is this the way?! Oh, god! - We'll never make it!!!"
It was only once we were a good distance along the Western Fwy that I thought it safe to stop for coffee and refuel my expended energy. Naturally, I made the common error in freeway-driving and passed a perfectly good stop, thinking, 'there'll be something again, soon.' A good while later, I was less fussy and made do with a BP, telling James, "All I want is something with caffeine. Everywhere has coffee nowadays, right? It's like a basic right for all humans, and animals, and rocks. Very, very tired rocks."
Now, is it just me, or do you think it was a horribly cruel act of that magical creature in the sky that when I strutted up to the BP coffee machine, I was faced with the sign, "Hot water only"? Hating myself all the while, I nevertheless asked the attendant the kind of question that kills me in my cafe job: "So, like... Can you only get hot water, or something?" The sweet, old, ocker girl out in the middle of Whoop Whoop had the patience of a saint, wanting to please the stuck-up Melbournite (she'd heard they were prone to explosive rage), and came out of her bulletproof cage to "give it a try, anyway, eh?" She looked more relieved than me when the machine spluttered out half a cup of coffee-like substance, so that I was sorry to ask for some milk to add to the long black it had produced instead of a cappuccino. Her profuse apologies and offer to refund my money (all $2.50 of it!) only added to my feelings of bastardness as I scrambled back to the car to enjoy my luke-warm beverage (turns out the machine wasn't producing 'hot water', afterall!). Well, I did say that caffeine was all I needed, so.. guess I got what I wanted! I should be grateful I didn't walk out of there with only a jar of instant and a straw.
(Also, I twice walked in on little girls in the BP bathroom. Not once, twice! Little shits used all the toilet paper, though, so now who's the bastard?! Should've flushed their heads. Oh, nevermind, there's more paper sitting on top of the sanitary disposal unit. Mmm.. hygienic).
Back on the road, James and I passed up many appealing opportunites, like hiking up the Grampians or panning for gold at Sovereign Hill. We even considered setting up shop and living quiet lives in a small town, a welcome alternative to that last, treacherous leg of our journey. But, we pressed on, both of us knowing the people of Ararat awaited us - nay, needed us - to brighten their sad little lives (and that love is a battlefield).
The show went down without a hitch, except for when I decided to stare into space instead of saying my last line. It was my new interpretation. We also hoped the play's reference to Skippy wouldn't aggravate our adjudicator, Ken James, who no longer wished to discuss his involvement in the series! It was apparently a non-issue, as we picked up awards for Best Comedy award and an Encouragement for James (keep working on it, little buddy. Almost there!) The truth is, the crowds absolutely love James' portrayal of a cat. In fact, he was so convincing in Ararat that one guy told him afterwards, "I've got 2 female cats I'd like you to meet." Pretty sure that's illegal, mate! And not quite the kind of.. 'cat' a man hopes to attract..
Later that evening, we sought our thrills in ye olde country pube, where the recommended special was a granny smith cider called, Dirty Granny, and the bargirl put her slowness down to 'drinking all day.' No worries, love. Bottoms up. We sat outside, gathering around the warmth of Aynslie's cigarettes and sharing the type of hearty laughter that can be fed only by post-performance air. We also shared some more personal stories that I will respectfully keep to myself. I don't think the gang will minding me repeating the one secret we found we had in common, though: It just so happens that, come nightfall.. we are all masked avengers. This became apparent when we simultaneously sighted the bat signal and tried slipping off into the toilets and phonebooth to change into our costumes. Awkward...
The next day, James bravely became my passenger once more, risking his life for the chance to return home. After spending over 24 hours cooped-up together, by this point, we didn't speak and could barely stand the sight of each other. Even our scents, which became concentrated in such a confined space, made the other gag. I'm only joking! I had a great time with you all, Laura, James and Ayns, and I look forward to the next trip, if you can handle me.
