“Everyone, on your feet,” Clark says. “Let’s see what you guys can do.”
We scoot our chairs back against the wall and stand in a circle. Russell and the lighting designer stay against the part of the pizza slice where the crust would be and talk quietly to each other, and I kind of wish I could join them. Alberto settles himself in the point of the slice, the bite Zoe would save for last, and starts scribbling madly in his notebook even though we’re not doing anything yet.
“Let’s take some time to explore the space,” Clark says. “Touch it, notice it, pay attention to how your body feels moving through it. There’s no wrong reaction. Go.”
It’s so different from our master class yesterday that I actually snort. How is anyone supposed to learn to act here when we’re getting such conflicting instructions?
“Is there something amusing, Brooklyn?” Clark asks.
“I, um. I’m just reacting to the space?” I catch Russell’s eye, and he puts his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Fine,” Clark says. “Come on, people. I want to see some motion.”
I start wandering around the perimeter of the room, dragging my fingers over the walls. They come away fuzzy and gray with dust; I doubt anyone has cleaned in here since the end of last summer. “Play with levels,” Clark calls. “Nobody wants to watch you people walk all day.” Bench-press guy gets down on the floor and rolls slowly in my direction, accumulating a film of grit and dust bunnies on his black T-shirt. I hop over him a couple of times, and he reacts by changing direction. Pandora rubs her body against the walls, making what she must think is a sexy face. In the corner, the blond guy swings on the rails of the low balcony that lines one edge of the triangle. One of the wooden rails breaks loose, and the guy is left clutching it like a club while he dangles by one hand. Three long nails protrude from the end like the spikes on a stegosaurus’s tail.
“Oops,” he says. Then he starts whacking the other rails like some kind of deranged percussion player.
“Destruction is creation,” Clark shouts over the racket. “That was very organic. Are you getting this, Alberto? I’m giving you gold, man.”
From his corner, Alberto nods furiously.
“The floor is made of tar!” Clark shouts so loudly, I jump. “You’re wading through a lake of molasses!”
“Wait, tar or molasses, which one?” asks Natasha.
“I don’t care! Make it happen! Make me see it!”
I try my best to move like I’m slogging through a lake of tar, but this whole thing is starting to feel more and more absurd. I’m all for theater being a collaborative effort, but it works a lot better when someone in the room seems to know what’s going on. I tell myself this is only the first day, but there’s no way walking around like my feet are sticking to the floor is going to help Alberto write a play.
Over the course of the next hour, we bounce like we’re on the moon, run like we’re being attacked by swarms of bees, tiptoe like we’re on hot coals, and walk like various animals—peacocks, elephants, cats, kangaroos. All of Pandora’s animals involve making the same sexy face. Then Clark has us close our eyes and create a “soundscape.” I think he’s aiming for something like the time we created a rainstorm in elementary school by snapping and clapping and drumming on our thighs. But since he doesn’t lead us at all, it ends up sounding like a lot of random humming and howling and popping that doesn’t go together. When I open one eye and glance at Russell, he’s got both hands buried in his curls like he might rip them out by the roots.
It’s after eleven when “rehearsal” finally ends. Instead of giving us a pep talk about how well we’re starting to bond as an ensemble, Clark picks up his clipboard, says, “That’s enough,” and walks out the door. Alberto gathers his notebook and pens and scurries after him, like he’s afraid to be left alone in the room with us. I realize I haven’t heard him say one word the entire evening.
The other six cast members and I look at each other for a minute, but nobody has anything to say. After a second, people shrug and start heading out. Nobody bothers to say good night.
Russell comes up next to me. “Well, that was…something.”
“That’s one way to describe it,” I say. “Your lighting designer friend looked like she was about ready to puncture her eardrums with a fork. I can’t say I really blame her.”
“Did you know it takes only seven pounds of pressure to rip your ears completely off?”
“Eew, no. And I wish I still didn’t know that,” I say, but at least I’m laughing. “This has seriously been the weirdest week of my life. Marcus Spooner threw eggs at me yesterday.”
“What? Why?”