Chicken

Last night, at our second to last show, the Artistic Director of the festival came into the dressing room a few minutes before curtain, to ask us all a favor:

"Guys, tonight after the show we are doing a tribute to one of our playwrights, and I'd like to do some 30 second excerpts from his works over the years. I've got scripts here: would you guys be willing to perform them, impromptu?"

We all look up from the makeup mirrors, murmur our acceptance, and Jim begins to cast the excerpts. I return to my makeup and am not really listening, when I hear him say,

"And we need someone to play a woman who clucks like a chicken. Lisa?"

Thanks, Jim.

We do our show to a sold-out and incredibly receptive crowd, and then run back to the dressing room to scrape off our cartoon-like makeup from the final piece, throw on our street clothes, grab our 30 second scripts and return to the stage. The house lights are on, so we can see the audience now, Jim is chatting, and it is all very casual. We sit on the stage, on the raised step that runs across the back, and as Jim announces the various excerpts, we step up in groups or pairs and read our playlettes.

Jim announces our chicken play, and as I find my feet, my inner chicken takes over. My arms fold wing-like into my sides, and my head starts jutting forward, sharply angling from the chin. I open my mouth, and begin to squawk and cluck, as I peck and scratch and strut about.

The audience is laughing loudly.

My scene partner tries to get his lines out, as I continue to impersonate poultry, and now my fellow actors are laughing on the stage behind me. I let out a particularly loud and inspired squawk, and then, surrounded by all this energy, all this glee and silliness, I give over to the moment and I break: I crack myself up and I start laughing.

The audience now becomes hysterical, which makes me laugh all the harder. My fellow cast members are rolling around on the stage behind me, and my scene partner is holding on for dear life, managing thus far to keep his straight face. He's supposed to have me under hypnosis (hence the cluck like a chicken routine), so he takes two fingers and points them at my eyes and then at his own, trying to help me regain my composure. We are nose to nose when I produce another cluck which cracks us both up and I wind up spitting in his face as laughter and saliva spew out of me like a geyser.

The room is vibrating with laughter: we have all lost control and no one cares. We can't wait to see what will happen next. I consider trying to lay an egg, and decide I might actually lose continence if I take this any further. I settle down and listen to my scene partner, who has now reached the part of the script where he is bringing me out from under hypnosis. He counts 1, and I cluck in response. He counts two and I cluck twice, cracking us all up for a final time. He counts 3 and I snap out of hypnosis, and end what might rank as one of the most enjoyable 30 second intervals of my life.