‘I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell that summons thee to heaven or to hell.’
I resisted the temptation to rush off stage, but it was difficult. The scene called for a quiet stalking – a half-determined, half-resigned Macbeth making his decision and walking, not only towards murder, but towards his own fate. Andrew told me later it looked like I’d pooed myself and was desperately trying to stop a large lump dropping down my trouser leg onto the stage. He’s not always supportive, Andrew.
When I got to the wings I almost collapsed with exhaustion and nervous tension. But I kept to my trembling feet. This was the time, I knew, when applause from the audience – the entire freaking school – would tell me if I’d been successful or not, whether I’d made connections. The previous act had been a heavy metal band and they’d gone down really well. The rafters didn’t exactly ring, but they kinda throbbed. A bit like the audience’s heads. As I waited, I saw Destry Camberwick in my fevered imagination, eyes shining and brimming with tears, clutching her hands to her bosom and sighing as I left the stage.
Or maybe she was rolling on the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.
There was silence after my act. This could be a good thing or a bad thing, I told myself. Possibly the audience was stunned by the power of my performance. It might take a few seconds for them to regain mastery of their emotions and then the applause would echo, not just ringing in the rafters, but maybe bringing them down altogether.
Here’s some context.
I’d spent an agonising fifteen minutes backstage waiting my turn. All the symptoms of panic attacks battered at me. I had difficulty breathing, as if the atmosphere was solid. It was like trying to breathe in jagged rocks and my airways could not get them down. There was a ringing in my ears (even before the heavy metal band) and I thought I was going to vomit. I tried all the tactics. I breathed deeply. I used some relaxation techniques that had helped in the past. It made no difference; I was still terrified. I waited while the other acts performed. All of them appeared to be having fun, confident and happy even when the acts themselves turned pear-shaped. There were three bands, a bad comedian and someone who did impersonations that no one recognised. Even he got a decent round of applause.
I died.
That’s a show business term.
I died.
The students didn’t even hate it. Boos would at least have been evidence of a connection. Storming the stage and running me out of town, tarred and feathered on a pole, would’ve been a reaction, if not the one I’d hoped for. Only the staff applauded and, I suspect, Andrew. How can you tell it’s staff applauding and not students? No idea, but I’m certain it’s true. Pity and professional duty rippled through the air towards me.
Looking back, I should’ve guessed the response. My act and a boring English class were twins separated at birth and it probably wouldn’t have surprised the audience if I’d set them an essay when I was done. Maybe I’d put them straight to sleep like a stage hypnotist.
It didn’t matter.
You see, I’d done it. I’d gone on stage and performed in front of eight hundred people. Who cared if they didn’t like it?
Well, me, to be honest. But I’d survive.
I was beginning to think I could survive almost anything.