Undergraduate / 'minutes until show-time...' - Rice Supplement [6]

Hey guys, I was just wondering what you all thought about my Rice supplement essay. It's pretty lengthy, but I'd really appreciate it if you could comment your thoughts or opinions on it.

Thirty minutes until show-time.

You can literally feel your heart pounding inside of your chest. Somehow it has managed to synchronize itself to the clock, beating out every second for the whole world to hear. You grab your arm and check your pulse underneath your hand to make sure you won't pass out before the show even begins. Beyond the darkness, beyond the curtains you can hear the shuffle of feet and the excited voices of people you may or may not know entering the auditorium. Great. You think to yourself. My mom probably invited every person she's ever met to this. Like I need the extra pressure. More people to impress. More people to embarrass yourself in front of. Your heart beats just a little louder, and you try to cover your chest so the other cast and crew members won't reprimand you for being so noisy.

Twenty minutes until show-time.
You unconsciously wipe your brow of
sweat you perceive to be there. You look at the back of your hand and see faint black smudges under the poor lighting. Ah! My aging lines! You panic. You're supposed to be the father of the main character; you're supposed to look at least 45, not 17 and filthy! You frantically run into the makeup room despite the stage manager's signals for you to stay put. The makeup artist gives you a disgusted look.

"Really?" she says, exasperated.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" you plead. Reluctantly she grabs an eyeliner pencil from a nearby cup and reapplies the aging lines. You wince as you feel the sharp point dig into the creases of your forehead, and the longer she takes the more you squirm. Finally, she releases you and you thank her. Then, with a quick prayer that the god of acting never make you go back there, you sprint back to your place in down backstage left.

Ten minutes until show-time.

This is it. Crunch time. Now you're certain that your heart will burst soon, and you can't tell whether it would be from excitement or nerves. You start to settle into your 'zone', and you think about your character. You think about how your character holds himself, walks, and talks. This is not your first performance, so the stage fright recedes as you embody your role. The stage manager calls you over to rehearse your cue.

"So remember, you go on when Susie calls 'P-' "

" 'Pa! Where did you put my new dress?' Don't worry, I know." You cut her off. She gives you an affirming look, and you return to your place. You breathe. You tap a steady tempo on your chest to slow your heart down. This is no time for stress. This is a time for performance.

Five minutes until show-time.

What if I forget my first line? What if my blocking is all wrong in the first scene? What if I forgot my pants? Your hand instinctively shoots down and you feel the comforting texture of khaki. You take another deep breath.

Four minutes until show-time.

Last night you had the actor's nightmare: a vivid dream common among actors where you walk out on stage in front of an expectant audience and forget all of your lines. What if that happens tonight? You mentally go through all of your lines in your head. Your hand has now sought permanent solace in your pant leg. At least you have your pants.

Two minutes until show-time.

You can hear your director in front of the curtain warming up the audience. She stresses how hard all of the cast and crew members have worked on piecing together this production. She thanks all of the audience for coming. You're fairly certain you can hear your mother yelling, "You're welcome!" back.

And then you realize it. You realize that everyone in the audience is on your side. You realize that no one out there wants you to fail. They came here expecting a great show, and that is exactly what you intend to deliver. Your morale rises, and a ridiculous grin spreads across your face.

One minute until show-time.

You realize that acting is incredible. To be able to deliver a message in front of an audience with bated breath; to be able to portray any character in any time period you desire. When you act, you can go anywhere, do anything, and be anyone. Then you realize the futility of the actor's nightmare: you should not fear forgetting your lines - any actor worth his salt can improvise - but rather fear performing to an audience that refuses to listen. You, however, have what you expect to be an entire half of the auditorium filled with your mother's coworkers waiting to hear you. Your fists clench and you give the stage manager a decisive nod. She looks slightly confused, but returns it regardless.

Thirty seconds until show-time.

Susie walks onto the stage and starts fumbling about, searching frantically for an article of clothing that simply refuses to be located. The audience chuckles, and you chuckle with them. You mouth Susie's line as she calls it out,

"Pa! Where did you put my new dress?" The stage manager gives you a small shove.

"Go get them, tiger," she whispers. And then you start to move. You start to walk onstage and every inch of your being crawls with that indescribable feeling of exhilaration. You are a performer, an entertainer, a scholar, an interpreter, a father, a 17 year-old with eyeliner in the creases of your forehead, an actor, and unstoppable.

Show-time.