Performers all have their stories of great shows, nightmare ones, so-so programs, and experiences with audience at hand. In all of my years of performing, I experienced a first on
In the past, like every performance artist I know, a dusty stage, an oncoming or existing cold, a passing mosquito which happens to fly into your mouth just as you are breathing in, and other such causes can elicit a coughing fit. Your voice raises several octaves or disappears into an ethereal realm as you turn for the water bottle you have cleverly hidden under a prop. Your stage partner, a seasoned actor, takes over your lines. This has happened to me. It has happened to those with whom I perform. It makes the audience a bit uncomfortable, but the show goes on as you and your colleague have experienced this before and know how to handle it smoothly.
On the 24th, however, it wasn’t a cough that crept upon me suddenly. Carrie Sue Ayvar and I were telling a tandem tale about Brother Monday, the Great Florida Alligator Conjure Man. There he was, marching across the Blue Sink Lake toward Old Judy, the medicine woman, whose lying, bragging tongue forced Brother Monday to teach her a lesson.
“Old Judy, one bad word against one conjurer is a bad word against all and harms the good we try so hard to do.”
The rhythm on the paddle drum in my hand inspired the audience to clap along as I continued, “And he was followed by a hoard of alligators, following him like an army follows its leader. And they were bellowing.”
Carrie and I began chanting, “Alli Alli Alli Alli Alli Alli Alli WAH!”
My nose began to twitch like a rabbit nearing the cabbage patch. I knew my facial expressions, which at first matched the import of the words coming out of my mouth, now were at odds with these words and this chant. As I chanted, my mind said to my body, “Wait! WAIT! Wait until the scene is over. As soon as Carrie says her next line, turn away. Sneeze then.” However, the brewing sneeze caused my nose to now twitch as though it were not only a cabbage patch, but also a carrot patch this rabbit was nearing. Right at the climax of the story, drum resounding loudly as Brother Monday turns himself into an alligator right before the terrified eyes of Old Judy, the sneeze overtook the power of my mind.
“AHHHHHHHHCHOOOOOOOOOOOO!” crashed like thunder through the wireless microphone clasped upon my shirt and poured torrentially through our powerful Mackie speakers. The audience of 300 third, fourth, and fifth graders laughed uproariously. I, too, was on the verge of a giggling fit as was Carrie who piped through the noise, “I guess Old Judy was allergic to alligators!”
Carrie and I have been known to spur each other on into giggle fits. Neither of us could look at the other right at a point in the story where we usually have an intense rapport. We continued, my nose no longer twitching, the sneeze out in the open, the cabbage and carrot patches gone. However, underlying our lines were muffled guffaws. For the rest of the story, I knew my facial expressions did not match the words pouring out of my mouth. I tried, and in a few isolated moments, I pulled myself back into the story. But an involuntary smile bordering on laughter now took over where before it had been a twitching nose; and a smile and laughter did not properly accent talking about Old Judy swearing that “What she said happened at Blue Sink Lake that night happened exactly as she said it did,” or that “When she could stand on her own two feet again, she knew it was Brother Monday himself that had put her back on those two feet.”
Perhaps this will inspire another story, a creative new journey that Brother Monday conjures through a sneeze. Under the circumstances of that moment upon the stage of Sandpiper Elementary, the clock ticking away at the far end of the cafetorium reminding us that we had four minutes to finish, say thank you and goodbye before the first lunch shift at 10:15 A.M. would begin, there was no choice but to continue the story as is and hope that its powerful impact was not totally destroyed by a powerful sneeze. Judging from the children’s applause and, as they filed out, their questions about Brother Monday and whether or not “he was a real man who really lived and could really turn himself into an alligator,” I think not.