The Damn "Seagull"
Part One
To Masha, who, forgetful of her origin, for some unknown reason is living in this world.
I said the phrase aloud for about the tenth time that day as I sat on a checkered blanket in the grass, hugging my knees to my chest. I looked around the dark field, and listened carefully. The only thing I could hear was a few chirping birds, and music and voices far away. Assured that I was alone, I repeated it again, louder this time and directed it to the night sky. It was possibly clearest sky I’d ever seen, a bluish black speckled with fat, bright stars. I breathed in the air deeply, my eyes closing from the its unexpected softness and purity. All of the days’ humidity had sunk below the mountains on which we were perched, leaving a clean and misty fog.
To Masha, who, forgetful of her origin, for some unknown reason is living in this world. Each time I said this I would emphasize a different word or try a different inflection. Once distracted, I had a tendency to have hazy focus on everything else. I knew I had to memorize a monologue from “Othello” and I hadn’t even begun my paper on Euripides. And I wasn’t even playing Masha. It was just one scene, one comment. That was all. “The Seagull.” The damn “Seagull.”
The thing that stuck in my craw was a comment that one of my professors had given me earlier that day. It was a compliment, but it was the kind of compliment that had a backhanded insult embe dded in it if you listened closely. I always listened too closely. And now it was a gnarl stuck inside me that I could not ignore for some reason.
I had spent the last several weeks in the mountains of upstate New York in an intensive workshop with the National Shakespeare Conservatory. From September to May the students attended classes an old, slightly neglected, but charming loft in SoHo. We would study and dissect the words of the classics part time, and fill the rest of our days and nights eking out a living with a variety of low-paying jobs, rehearsing, and dreaming of the path that lie ahead. But in the summer for three precious months we could take the intensive course. It was a retreat set in a rural town (that everyone seemed to mispronounce, including the locals) in the Adirondack Mountains. For those of us tired of sticky, sweaty New York summers, crowded and pungent subway platforms, or sleeping on a futon in an apartment swarming with roommates, it was a welcome break. Plus, it was the equivalent of knocking out two semesters at once. I sublet my room, bought some bug spray, hopped on a Greyhound, and at 20 years old, I was going away to summer camp for the first time. Mosquitoes and Moliere. Smores and Strindberg. Bug juice and Beckett.
There were two cabins that served as dorms; the girls lived in Capulet, the boys in Montague. Yes, the school took it that seriously. Among the sweeping grassy fields there was faculty housing, three theater and performance spaces, a cafeteria-slash-library, and the beloved pool. From nine-to-five we studied voice, language, scene study, movement, literature, history, and performance. At night there was always something going on; everyone busied themselves with soccer matches, parties, walks into the small town, stargazing, hooking up, gossip, and, of course, a lot of drinking and smoking over long talks.
My fellow students, about 30 in all, were from across the country, a varied lot with a common goal. Our country selves differed from our city selves. Here in this small town in the woods we were like children again: thrilled by campfires, volleyball games, walking in the woods, marveling over an especially cool rock or flower, and just seeing a woodpecker in its natural habitat.
At the time, my natural habitat was Alphabet City, a low-income New York City neighborhood that in the early 90’s was ripe with many variations on sex, drugs, and rock and roll. It was a wild and gritty hyper reality of dive bars, squatters, coffee shops, homeless people, second-hand clothes, and possessed a proud if not defiant energy all its own. It was a neighborhood in transition; old school ethnic traditions clashing with new school revolution. Day-glow painted clothing stores selling rubber pants popped up next to old tenements where elderly Puerto Rican nanas sat on their front stoops sewing. The residents co-existed in resigned, and occasionally amused, tolerance.
Many of my classmates also lived in is area, several of us sharing apartments. It was cheap, easy to find a place, and was safe enough, if you used your head. I was young and foolishly fearless, I hadn’t yet developed reservations, so it suited me fine. But just as we thrived on the city, we found ourselves equally inspired in this bucolic and decidedly foreign setting.
The damn “Seagull” incident had taken place earlier that day. I was helping Dave, my impossibly miscast friend who had been working on a monologue from the play. He was playing Trigorin, a bombastic but vulnerable writer, one of Chekhov’s many beautifully tortured souls. Dave was bombing. Adding insult to injury, it was for our scene study class that was taught by one of our most colorful and frightening professors, Jimmy. Jimmy taught at NYU and at NSC. He had worked on Broadway and with the Royal Shakespeare Company. He was loud, opinionated, very funny, very harsh, very gay, always smoking, and completely brilliant. We were scared to death of him, but were equally desperate for his approval. Actors.
Jimmy was exasperated and randomly picked me to read a different scene with Dave to get another perspective, but especially to “give this Goddamn monologue a break before I kill myself,” he subtly suggested, exhaling smoke with his enviable dramatic flair. We read the scene, and it went pretty well. When we finished, Jimmy was still for a moment, looking at us as if he was trying to figure out a long division problem. Everyone cringed, awaiting his critique: either a burst of creative and inspired direction, or a drive-by theatrical assault. He jumped up in a fit of excitement.
“Yes! Fuck, yes!” He lit a Merit and exhaled. “Finally. Well,” he turned to the class, 12 pairs of eyes immediately darted towards him. “So? Tell me. What? What did we think?”
Everyone started talking, offering up his or her thoughts. But oddly, they had forgotten about Dave, and were focusing on me. I was complimented on my read. “You fit right in the scene.” “She really made the text work.” “You brought it right out of him.” “I never thought of her like that.” “It seemed effortless, really natural.” It was so unexpected. I’d never even read the scene aloud before. It was a small scene, and not exactly a pivotal one, but nonetheless I was blushing and proud.
After class Jimmy put a hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eye.
“Doll, study the hell out of that scene. You can do Masha. You should do Masha. You are Masha!” I walked away feeling a rush, I felt great, I felt smart, I felt….
Wait.
Masha? Masha, who, forgetful of her origin, for some unknown reason is living in this world? OK, I understood Masha’s role, I think I got what Chekhov was trying to convey with her character. She was definitely interesting to play, so heartsick, and terminally melancholy. But I wasn’t Masha.
When someone makes such a strong comment, intentionally or not, you can’t help but wonder. Why would Jimmy see me like that? Masha was so sad, so lost, so hungry; she was acquiescent in her place in this world. Masha was unfulfilled and would never dare to reach for anything not within her immediate grasp. She was a junkie and a drunk. She dressed like she was a grieving Italian widow. She was excessively careful, never careless. She was deeply sad. Of course, it was fucking Chekhov, and everyone was deeply sad and filled with longing. I wasn’t Masha. I was impulsive, I had a loud laugh and more dreams than my head could contain. Masha, please.
“Hey!”
I turned towards the loud, happy voice emerging from the woods. It was Brian, a talented actor who would never play Chekhov. He was wild, funny, playful and seemed to live without boundaries. He was possibly a little off kilter. Naturally, I thought he was cool as hell. He was rare and real.
“Whatcha’ working on?” he said, lying down next to me and reeking of beer and wet grass.
“The damn ‘Seagull.’ You?”
“‘Loves Labour Lost.’” He chuckled. He stretched out and his fingers and legs were tapping, keeping rhythm to some song lost in his head. He looked at me. “So whatcha’ thinkin’, Abraham Lincoln?”
“Eh. Just about something Jimmy said.” I watched Brian’s face in the moonlight. He was so peaceful and happy. How did he do that?
“OK. It’s Friday night and everyone is being boring as fuck. Let’s go do something.” It wasn’t a question.
“What do you want to do?”
“Dunno.” He hopped up and held out his hand, helping me up. He looked at my dog-eared copy of Four Plays by Chekhov. “Nuh-uh. Not tonight.” He took the blanket and wrapped the book inside. We started walking towards Capulet.
“OK Sher, meet me in ten outside the cafeteria. Bring your wallet, and some smokes.” He saluted and walked off.
20 minutes later Brian showed up, he had changed his clothes, but his hair was wet. “Just jumped in the pool. Smell my hair.”
“Mmm, chlorine. I like it.” And I did.
“Yeah? Me too.” We walked up the hill to the parking lot. Brian stood by his motorcycle. “Let’s go.”
“You sure? The fog is kind of thick. And haven’t you been drinking?” I was trying to think of any reason to back out.
“I’ve always been drinking,” he laughed. “Come on.”
I had an easy friendship with Brian, and against my better judgment, even trusted him. Climbing on the back of the bike, I fastened my helmet and situated my body. He took my hands and wrapped them tightly around his torso.
“Hold on. Hold tight.” It was the last thing I heard him say for an hour.
The engine roared and we sped out of the parking lot, pebbles tossed in our wake. He made a sharp left and I felt like my fingernails were going to pierce right through his skin. We headed up the mountain; speed increasing as we rambled along the dark, empty road.
Part Two to come…
