Number Fifty-Two: A Wave of Handsomeness
There are 52 cards in a full deck. I mention this because last night was my fifty-second time at Sleep No More, but alas, I only have 51 cards, because there was one time I met someone for a drink in Manderley and just stayed in there for the show without ever getting my room key. This bloodied king that Jordan Morley slapped on my face once will have to take the place of the missing one. Anyway, I knew I was in for a host of delights because one of the lights wasn’t working in the maze (read: it was on) so I was already chuckling by the time I got to Manderley. The woman behind me was chuckling too. “Hey, I’m just following you guys,” she said. Get used to it, honey. And intercourse.
 Mans in Bar. There were some new men in the bar, well, new to me at least. Victor was there, assiduously avoiding contact with basically everyone, and another fellow, who I was later told is named Paris. But more about this later, because once Victor stood up to call the cards I knew I’d come back to the bar soon to spend time with him and his slithering, sexy voice.Â
I came in a little bit later than usual, so I missed what was apparently an electrical malfunction that caused the first ballroom sequence to happen in pitch blackness. Shame, that would have been kind of awesome / dangerous. As I came into the lobby I was very happy to see Jesus Christ Will Seefried climbing over the countertop and inching his way towards Mister Mayfair Himself Austin Goodwin. In lieu of the old and flawless Paul/Austin pairing, Will/Austin is the best thing the lobby can offer you these days. When I am dreaming up scenes for my immersive German nightmare, I have Austin cast as Moritz Stiefel and Will as Melchi Gabor, so I like seeing them work together for real.Â
I made it as far as cabaret with Boy Witch, but that’s when he ditched me, owing to his blindness, and intercourse. He scortched a whole bunch of us. So after that I camped out with the Porter, who had the most horrifically runny nose I’ve ever seen. Mind you, as a swimmer, you see a lot of gross things coming out of noses, so he was clearly having a really rough time of things. Heartbreak does that.Â
So, here’s the thing about Jesus Christ Will Seefried: I think he remembers all the 1:1s he does, and is constantly trying to one-up his previous performances. This was the fourth time I’ve seen it, and he seems to always have some new trick to add and up the ante. It’s like he gets home from work and writes up his 1:1s, like on a tumblr or something, and stops and thinks, okay, when this guy comes back, this time I’ll do X with his legs and he’ll be totally shocked, amazed and blown away! But I’m glad for the effort, whatever it looks like; it leads to these incredible, A+ performances.
Well, I started to cry after all that, because it was really good, and I’m unemployed and generally a mess these days anyway. So I went back to the bar to collect my thoughts and have a drink with franceskoncan. By this point the mans, Victor and Paris, are chatting away with Django Conwick, so I decide to see if staring at Victor gets his attention. No dice. So I start talking about them and say, loudly, “well that one is apparently named PARIS,” and that did the trick, he came over to say hello.
 Paris is from Paris, it turns out; he was the Light in the City of Lights. But you have no French accent, Frances observed. Paris explained that he’d been caught in flagrante delicto with Mrs McKittrick and that Mr McKittrick had made him the offer: die for your transgression, or come to New York and work for me for ten years, so here he is; Mr McKittrick insisted that he learn to speak precisely as the Americans do. We inquired about his affair with Mrs McKittrick and he explained that he was a fingerpainter by trade; but that to do portraiture he has to touch his subject, and get a feel for all its curves and nuances in his hands. Well, she began to get a bit warm, and intercourse, and well now here he is. He doesn’t paint much anymore, but it’s not entirely off the menu. I told him my associates would be in touch. And then someone dropped a drink all over themselves.
Victor stood up to introduce the Django Conwick quartet (now with more clarinet) and noted that a wave of handsomeness greater than his own was about to crash across the stage. We laughed and he was very glad someone appreciated the comment. I took this as an excuse to chat him up at the bar while he waited, seemingly interminably, for a scotch. He said that he likes to watch, he’s a bit of a voyeur, and asked me what my favorite thing is? I told him being slammed against a wall and/or being smeared with lipstick. So, the opposite of watching, he said. Anything that doesn’t leave a mark probably isn’t worth doing, I said, and that even voyeurism will leave a mark if you do it right, which Victor agreed with.
So, when I audition husbands this season, please note that Victor and Paris both need to be near the front of the line.
Between JCWS and Paris and Victor I was pretty discombobulated and struggled upon re-entering the show. Paisley Sweets was fully stocked with the absolute worst kinds of candies, Malcolm was mobbed by happy girls, and it was a bit too late to give Erik Abbott-Main’s Macbeth the full attention he is due. This is obviously the guy some folks have mistaken for Paul Zivkovich, because they do look a bit alike, now that Erik has more beard. Another time, I guess.
There wasn’t much time left so I came back to the lobby, liking as I do to end wherever I started. Mrs Danvers (Emily Terndrup) had a handful of white chocolate chips and was holding them out for anyone who wanted them to take a few, so, that was a nice relief after hearing Frances’ upsetting story about having them washed down the drain. I did my usual lobby loitering, because if I’ve learned anything over the last two years, it’s how to trawl for the Porter to walk you out. But there was a stern, short woman with her arms crossed standing right in front of him and leering, so I figured he’d escort her instead. We came down to the ballroom and there was a woman on her phone, and I saw him dealing with that and then lost track of his location. Oh well. Hanging happens and as soon as the noose gets fitted on Macbeth’s neck, I feel hands clasping my shoulders. The chair is pulled and I get thrown forward. Ahh the Porter, you in fact never fail me. JCWS also gives good walkout.
Manderley was hopping until quite late. About 30% of the reason I was excited to be there yesterday was the chance to witness a reconciliatory conversation about a fight that never happened in the first place, and it did not disappoint in its awkwardness and charm. And then suddenly everyone was Facebook friends again, which was all anyone wanted (and Austra). Plus Diet Coke. And intercourse.
