Driving back to Rock Hill I can see them. One southern, one Oxford proper. Both gone, but not forgotten. One standing, coffee mug in hand, foot propped up on a chair with his cowboy boots on and motorcycle helmet sitting on the floor beside his chair, starting every answer with a "Weeeeelllll," The other, sitting in the back of a darkened theatre, occassionally piping up with "Ahem. Michael? Ahem. That's a dick joke," in the crispest, most proper British.
Dennis Kay was the assistant director and dramaturg the last time I came off acting hiatus with The Taming of the Shrew. He was a warm and caring man and made everyone feel like their part was important, even if you only played the drunk guy in Act 5. He had time to teach you what those tripping words meant, and never condescended. He was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer during our opening week. He made it out of the hospital to see the last performance, but died soon after that. In my too-brief time working with Dennis I got to see a love for Shakespeare, and a love for language, that I'd never known in another person.
Blair I knew longer, and better. He was my college advisor, my directing professor, my mentor. He helped me get sober when my head was fucked my junior year and I couldn't get it straight without getting straight. He'd battled those demons already, and was winning, so he knew the fight I was fighting. He kicked my ass, yelled at me, cajoled, persuaded, and generally rode my ass through four years of college. The entire department called him "Daddy B," and for good reason. We were his kids.
We kept in touch a little after I graduated, and I renewed that contact when I started Off-Tryon. I realized how much of his teachings stuck with me when I could laugh and hear my voice giving his directing notes. He could do it all - design, act, direct, tech - and he instilled the value in that in me. He was a cantankerous old bastard, and made me stronger and more stubborn by fighting with me. He was a loving man, and I miss him every time I drive down I-77 to rehearsal, because this will be a show he'd be proud of. Three of us in this show are his kids, and we always will be, even though his pack-a-day habit finally caught up to him.
These are the ghosts in my rehearsal hall. Most of the time they're smiling. But I haven't tried to get off book yet. I have a feeling they'll come back to kick my ass in about three weeks. I feel these guys in this play, Dennis because he was part of it the first time I did it, and Blair because I haven't acted in Rock Hill since his death, and he was such a part of the Winthrop and Rock Hill Community. Somewhere, I think they're looking forward to opening night even more than I am.
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3 comments:
You right really well, Sir (and by 'Sir', I mean Sir). I enjoy it.
It has been a rough a couple days and I am probably a little more raw emotionally then normal. Death hurts me, no matter who's it is. I think what makes working with you, in particular, is the memory of the two us, sitting in the back row of Johnson, a combined weight of like 500lbs, crying like schoolgirls, trying bear the the unbearable, together.
Shrew, like anything else I do onstage is dedicated to Blair, his memory.
I hear Blair's voice sometimes when I'm down near Johnson Hall walking about every so often. Or at Tillman, where I was in Romantic Comedy, and I remember him there too.
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