OUAM

I stand just off of stage left, leaning against the wall and twirling the two thin ropes that open and close the curtain. It is a nervous habit, and one I often undertake when the fear and exhilaration of knowing I am about to walk out on stage in front of a crowd is upon me. I watch Patrick Caraher finish his solo song and dance routine as the jester, for which he receives wild applause, both from the audience and from his supporters backstage. I condemn them as a crowd of unprofessional high school kids before joining in myself as the mood overtakes me. As he finishes, the lights dim and I wait for the musical cue for my entrance.

When I hear it, my heart jumps into my throat and I take my first steps out onto the dim stage. I am listening attentively for the footsteps of Elise Vreede, my partner in the coming duet and dance. When I hear her come on stage I turn around abruptly and blurt out my line: “Who goes there? Friend or Foe!” Now that this bit of timing is accomplished, I relax a bit and get more into character as our brief dialogue continues. I turn away from her as I admit that in a way I have changed, the cue for our song to begin.

My first note is not strong. I am still scared and am not as confident as I should be. However, as the phrase comes back, I force more air through my lips and bring the rest of the measure out more strongly. I think to myself that maybe I am up to the task, that maybe I am not the failure I suspected I was. As I come to the end of my first section, where I confess my newly strengthened love for Elise’s character, I begin to feel different. I am no longer anticipating the coming words and notes, not fearfully planning and hoping that they will come out correctly. I enter a zone where everything becomes automatic, where I no longer have to think or worry but simply sing, and revel in the music pouring out of me. It isn’t really about the play anymore, but really just belting out the song and loving it. I honestly forget the audience is there, my attention riveted on Elise.

I have never experienced anything like this. It is simply wonderful: months of practice and training and worry building and then falling away when the song becomes effortless. I barely knew what I was doing except that I felt more alive than I had in a very long time. I was performing, but for myself, not for the paying audience. The joy that comes with success, with outstripping your expectations is one I don’t often experience, but the feeling is like no other.

When our song ends, Elise is in my arms and I lean down to carry out the scripted kiss. When we were rehearsing it was at times awkward and unnatural. But here, when we are both full of the moment, it feels perfect, the matchless conclusion to our duet. When it is over I beam down at her, not smiling because I was acting like I was in love, and not smiling just because I kissed a pretty girl on stage, but smiling because I had achieved something great, something beautiful. It was a genuine grin expressing how overjoyed I was at proving wrong the doubting voices in my head.

We run offstage and into each other’s arms once more, ecstatic. We congratulate each other and receive congratulations from other backstage actors. The moment did not last long because we soon needed to be back onstage, but I will never forget the exhilaration of coming down from a stressful event in which we pulled through despite secret fears. The rest of the show was, for me, a denouement, because my peak that evening was not on the final note of the show but at the kiss that marked our triumph.