Me and My Magnet

 

by Jafar in Louisville

One week in and I am weary.

I am weary of the British accent they make me do in the show, which makes absolutely no sense seeing as we live in the fantastical world of Wheedelphia.

I am weary of Maleficent. One of my primary scene partners, unfortunately. Her part is a bit smaller than mine. I have one extremely long monologue for example, and she has none. She wears her jealousy like a cloak. She wears a cloak, as well. But just because she’s thrice my height doesn’t mean she deserves more lines. Obviously, I won the part for a reason. But when we’re getting set for the first scene, it’s like she won’t even speak to me. Last night, I asked her for a sip of her Fiji water and she just kept on making that same expression she always makes. Like she couldn’t even hear me. And I was thirsty the whole show. Very hard to do British when you’re thirsty.

 

But my weariness today stems from a rather harrowing experience I had during our last show in Louisville. I asked for a few shows to recover, but of course The Sisters don’t want to replace me. They brought understudies but that little C-list fairy from who-knows-what straight-to-video piece of crap sequel can’t fill in for me. We all know that. So, I must go on. Despite the fact, that minutes before our last show in Louisville…

I lost my magnet.

That’s right.

I hope I’m not giving anything away by revealing that the way we pals stick to this rickety little tree-set covered in steel is by magnets that have been glued to our feet (or butts if we are sitters). Still, The Sisters think it’s safe to throw us pals into a bag together for transport. Well. They learned the hard way when they were hastily setting up that Pocahontas had magnetized my magnet to her magnet and I was left with none. Takes 24 hours to glue on a new one. So what do they do?

They throw me onstage anyway.

In the very first scene, the Grandwhees start upside down and their room is flipped up when it is revealed. Guess who was in for a wild ride? Me. A Sultan. Without a magnet to hold me on the flip, I was hurtled through the air, flying and flailing until I landed at the feet of a very nice audience member who pointed to me so the Sister could grab me very toughly and slam me down on the set, glaring at me as if it was my fault.

Then She expected me to speak my lines like I wasn’t out of breath. Like I wasn’t aching from the fall. Like I wasn’t terrified for the next flip of the scenery.

I slipped throughout the entire show. Every time they changed scenes, they forgot I had no grip. I fell and I fell and I fell.

It was the longest hour and fifteen minutes of my LYFE.

I texted Jasmine soon as we were finished and she sent me a pic of her and Raja, laughing and eating Portillo’s.

 

I miss them. I miss Chicago. I miss my magnet.

I have a new one now. It’s not in quite the same place as it was before. I feel a bit off-balance, not that anyone’s bothered to ask. This is a non-equity production, so anything goes, I suppose.

Alas.

I lift my weary head, stare up at Maleficent towering above me, asking if I want to run our termite announcement before tonight’s show. (Bit of a line fumble last night. Her fault, of course.) I sigh and say I shall. Because the stage isn’t the only thing made of steel. So am I, dear plebeians.

So. Am. I.