The Man With One Green Eye

Contributed by Rivka Jacobs on 20/08/09

It was the dress rehearsal for the Marysville High School production of “Peter and the Wolf.”

In the orchestra pit were members of the high school’s symphonic band, making all manner of noises with their instruments. Squeaks, giggles, and the chitter of voices accompanied the squawks and blares and scratchy sounds of teenage violins.

Gillian Love, drama teacher and director of this performance, ran from stage left to stage right, upstage and down, crying and waving her heavily notated script in the air. Her plump face was red, her golden hair flew in all directions. “Bill, Bill, Bill, no, no, no,” she wailed. “You have to stay downstage center, get off the apron. You can’t block the other actors. What did I tell you in class about ‘windows’?”

Bill, who was playing Peter and was dressed like a Russian peasant, gave Mrs. Love a thumbs up and stepped backwards while muttering the words, “Fuck you.”

All the actors on the stage started laughing.

“No, no, no,” Gillian Love bawled. “This is the dress rehearsal people, you are supposed to be seniors. You are drama majors.”

Bill grabbed Nancy Southby. She played the cat and her costume was replete with tail, cat-hat ears, and adhesive whiskers. Bill began a pantomime rendition of humping Nancy, and Nancy joined him, turning her rear-end towards Bill and lifting it and her faux tail in the air.

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Love shouted. “What are you doing? People, you have to take this seriously.”

Angela Myrtle, who was the bird, and linebacker Bob Krakowsky who was the wolf, began dancing as if they were in a 70s disco. Angela beat her feathery wings as one of the band, flautist Samantha, began playing “She Works Hard For Her Money.” Bob began doing Travolta steps in his woolly wolf suit.

Gillian Love collapsed to her knees on the forestage screaming something like “Arrrarrarrr,” and began repeatedly slamming the script against the varnished wooden floor.

At which point assistant football coach Frank Bruck, who was also the physical education teacher and was performing “Grandfather,” bellowed, “All right kiddies, listen up. One more of you little ass-wipes gets out of line, and you’re getting a detention.”

“Ooooooo,” Bill said, pretending to shiver. “I’m scared.” But he moved away from Nancy, and took his position.

Students Richard and Ulla, art majors, who had been waiting backstage for an opportune moment to approach Mrs. Love, decided this was their chance. They darted from the wings, and came to a stop one on either side of the director. Richard was holding the first official program hot of the presses. He waved it excitedly and said, “Look at this Mrs. Love, isn’t it beautiful?”

Gillian Love staggered to a standing position, pushed back a few strands of her wild hair, and sniffed, wiping her nose with the back of her fleece-covered arm. She grabbed her glasses which had been hanging around her neck, and slipped them on. Her face contorted, her brows drew together, her frown lines gave her mouth the appearance of a snout. “What is this?” she demanded, yanking the glasses off her nose and throwing them against her chest. She flicked the front page of the sample program with the middle finger of her left hand. “What is this supposed to be?”

Ulla Lambert, already fashionably pale, turned white. Her black-lined eyes filled with tears. “It’s a portrait of Sergei Prokofiev,” she answered with a quaver.

Gillian Love impatiently studied the square in the middle of the lavender paper; she tried to follow the squiggles and lines of what appeared to be the head of a man. One eye was bright green, and there were swirls of magenta and purple around his head. Seed-like dots of orange fell from his face. “This is supposed to be Sergei Prokofiev?”

“I intentionally used elements of Matisse and Picasso and Modigliani,” Ulla said with a shaky voice, trying to retain her self-esteem. She wiped her nose with one finger. Her rings sparkled, he black fingernail polish glistened. The hot-pink and violet streaks in her hair glowed like neon under the stage dimmers.

Gillian Love sighed raggedly, and shoved the program back into Richard’s hands. “Okay, okay, good Lord. Everything had better be spelled accurately, and I hope you used the teacher’s guide and biographical notes I gave you. Now, please….” She took a deep breath. “Both of you, get off my stage.” She turned back to her cast, who were pushing each other and playing with parts of their costumes. “How old are you people? You are seniors, for God sakes,” she said like a plea.

Behind her, she could hear music director Roscoe Porter’s distinctive rapataptap on his lectern. The orchestra pit fell silent.

“Are we ready now?” she asked, glaring at each one of her students in turn. “This is a one-act play set to music. The story flows from one episode to the other. There will be no improvisation. This is a tableau. There will be children in the audience. Their parents, and yours, will be in the audience. You will be guided by the music.” She paused, glowering, making eye contact with each one of them once again. “‘Peter,’ where do you enter?”

Bill answered, “Stage right, Mrs. Love, opening up the gate. Meadow on scrim behind me, music playing Peter’s theme….” He tried to smother a guffaw as he added, “…Skipping and skipping … as happy as a little girl….”

“Peter is a little boy, Bill dear. And little Russian boys skipped on collective farms in the 1920s.”

The tapping on Mr. Porter’s metal music stand grew louder and more frenetic. He made a grunting sound.

Gillian Love turned around, all five-foot-eight and two-hundred pounds of her, one fist holding the script, the other raised. “I hear you, Roscoe. We all hear you,” she intoned with the savoir faire of Norma Desmond. She pirouetted back to her students. “All right, then….” she said calmly. She held her breath, opened her eyes wide. “Let us begin.” And she hurried off to the opposite prompt as the first slightly off-key strains of “Peter and the Wolf” filled the school auditorium and assembly hall.