It doesn't take a genius to understand the gravity of designing a theatre set where the only way audience members can exit is by way of the stage. It is, quite plainly, a major design flaw.
I'm sure the director didn't think it would be an issue. The show only ran ninety minutes, and who can't hold their bladder for ninety minutes?
Then again, who said anything about bladders?
It was closing weekend of for colored girls. The house was intimately packed. My wife--the lady in blue--was on stage, delivering a monologue. I was engrossed, wrapped in the words being delivered to me, marveling at my wife's performance. The entire audience seemed to be entranced. Then came a stirring, on my left.
"Heeerrrrwwwppp."
The sound diverted everyone's attention as the young woman it belonged to stood up, her hand over her mouth, and ran onto the side of the stage as the vomit spilled through her fingers and onto the floor.
Whoa my god!
As the woman fumbled with the thick black curtains that separated her from the exit door, looking for the seam to get her the hell out of there, running back and forth, swatting at the curtain like it was a swarm of biblical locusts, I realized that yes, that really did happen.
It jumped to the top of the list of firsts.
Like an unexpected prop malfunction, the vomit sat there, mimicking the Pollock-like splattering of colors on the stage. It sat there. And it sat there. Begging for the spotlight one more time.
The gentlemen sitting closest to the vomit--it was close!--moved his feet as far from it as he could, pushing his body into his neighbor, recoiling from it like it was threatening him to a duel he knew he couldn't win.
All I could think was I was supposed to be sitting in that seat but through no act of my own I had been moved! In my mind I high-fived and belly-bumped baby Jesus. Secure in living through my own miracle, my mind quickly switched to the actresses. Having seen the show the week before I knew the actors sat on the floor, a lot. Oh, son-of-all-that-is-holy, don't let anyone sit in it. I thought how if one of the actresses put her hand in it she could set off a chain reaction, and the next thing we knew, we'd all be making our own Pollocks.
My wife, always a professional, continued on as if nothing had happened. And because my wife is such a seasoned veteran, during her next monologue a mop was produced, doing it's best to inconspicuously wipe away the smell and stain of a foiled exit strategy. Since the show was still in progress, there was no applause line for the mop, but the collective sigh from audience members could be felt as it traveled from inside out.
Standing in the lobby, after the show's conclusion, reports soon spread: vomit landed on the guy's shoe (originally my shoe!), an actress slipped in it, the woman made it to the trash can but didn't score a direct hit, the woman felt awful about it, the actresses were aware it was there, and so on and so forth. It was all anyone could talk about.
When it comes right down to it, the ego of vomit cannot be denied. And neither can the idiocy of giving the audience no way out.
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