The Fall of Randall Pew

Thursday, 7 pm. It’s June. A small-town theatre company holds rehearsals for their upcoming show, A Ghost and a Lady. Everyone is in attendance, even old man Jones who only shows up when it benefits him. It’s a good night, full of spark, excitement, and enthrallment for the art form which enjoys latching onto the breath of its every last victim. It is in this space, a former church, where mothers forget they have spoiled children, even if only for a few hours. It is in this space, a quiet art sanctuary if you will, where former high school theatre favorites reignite their passion through a well-executed pas de bourree. It is in this space, where directors of nearly 30 years strive for complete control in a life of nearly none. It is also in this space, with the creaky wood floors that buckle under your Jeté, where the world behind seems to fade, and a new world is created of complete order, design, tension, tone, balance, and harmony. It is a nearly perfect world created by imperfect people in an imperfect world. This, my friends, is theatre.

.

Tomas: Playing the role of the ghost

The band was suddenly cut to an abrupt halt. Innocent faces, freckled with recent high school graduates and senior retirees, peer behind their oboes and violins.

“The crescendo was not good enough!”

The awkwardness can be felt through the staleness of raw saw wood and fresh coats of paint. No one has the heart to remind Randall that he is the stage director, not the music director.

“It needs to sound like daaaaaa da da da vroooooOOOOM DAAA---”

Heads turn as the actual music director inches his way out of the restroom. Randall’s rant is silenced by the crinkling of paper towel. The awkwardness is stifled by a throat clearing somewhere, until Pierre paces over to his band. He whispers something that cannot be heard by the waiting ensemble crowd. In the wings, we wait, the tension soaking into the blue velvet curtains and vibrating through the painted hardwood. The overture begins again, the crescendo sounding the exact same as the first time. Randall scrambles to his infamous chair, a pink office chair in the shape of a lotus flower; it seems to sit more than he does.

“Uhhhh places for the top of the show… I guess.”

Randall’s spidery hands overwhelm his face with dread as he witnesses the first scene of the show through the split of his middle and index fingers. After yelling commands in Spanish, then French, then Cantonese, Randall eventually climbs upon the stage with his white linen pants billowing like a paper bag in wind. We know exactly what to do and freeze in Tableau as he adjusts whatever seems to be itching his Swarovski septum piercing this time. The director dances over to the stage left ladder and attempts to balance up the steps with his 300-pound frame.

“He’s fixing the chandelier, again?” Liliah, an ensemble masquerade dancer whispers, her legs shaking in a squat and arms frozen like Lumiere’s candles. Her Tableau has unfortunately frozen just below the action. “And he’s not wearing any underwear?!”

Being a new member of the Randall Pew Production company means signing up for a lot of unwarranted experiences.

“A few of the tassels were caressing one another!” he bellows from the top step, “alright- undo your Tableau’s, everybody!”

We all unfreeze, and the deafening song crescendos once more. Randall, still atop the ladder, begins to steady himself down in order to make it back to his lotus chair on time. Through the strong command of the song, a steady voice can be heard from the back of the house, and it freezes the scene once more. The music, however, moves on.

“Randy, no! That ladder is out of commission!”

It’s Carol, Randall’s elderly assistant director and co-owner of the company. And you didn’t hear it from me, but she was actually the original owner of the company, and Randall stole it from her while she was sick with stage 4 throat cancer in 1998. The frail assistant director attempts to shuffle her way over, but she is hardly agile enough to make it up on stage in time. Carol is only able to make it to about orchestra F when the ladder slams down like a pancake, with Randall still attached. Gasps from the watching crowd overpower the slamming crescendo of the fanciful director’s fate.

Courtney: Playing the role of Christie

When I first auditioned for Randall Pew Productions five years ago, I was fresh out of college. At the time, he was holding auditions for the musical, Oregon Trail. I heard many things about Randall’s company, some good, some not so good. I remember being an hour late to the audition slot I signed up for, all due to the delay on the C train into Schenectady. I thought I had most likely blown the opportunity, but sauntered in anyways, wiping the sweat off my brow and only having time to reapply my lip-gloss before being welcomed into the audition room by Randall’s assistant, Carol. At 92, Carol had been making leaps and bounds in the Schenectady, New York theatre scene since 1945. Being the original owner of the company, Carol temporarily handed the keys to Randall during the 2004 season after she suffered a bad fall on ice. That temporary ownership lasted much longer than Carol intended, and right under her little button nose, Randall flipped the entire company on its head over the 6-month period, even going as far as changing the name to be entirely his.

Carol just didn’t have the heart to confront him about it, and the company stayed in Randalls name and ownership, much to the dismay of the board.

The first time I saw Randall behind the desk in the audition room, my first impressions were masked behind his blue eyeshadow and pink faux fur shawl.

“You’re late, hon…”

I gulped. My mind swarmed with empty thoughts of the next few months without a show opportunity. I immediately began running through a script in my head of the other theatre companies I had passed up.

“C train?” He guffawed. The guffaw lasted longer than it needed to.

I nodded and breathed a sigh of relief, but before I could even finish the breath, Randall leaped from behind the table and to the piano to begin the first note of my song.

“Tempo at 102, okay?”

I started before I was ready, but sometimes that is better. My imaginary vision clouded with the potential opportunity of being the lead on stage. The lights; blinding, my costume; fitted, my makeup; pristine. My visions shrouded the reality of my voice, having just come off Laryngitis. When I finished the song, my eyes darted from my focal spot and onto the director, who had a gasp covered with his hand covered and dangling with gold and silver bangles. The loudness of his attire could not be hidden by his excitement.

“You, my friend, are going to be my Laurey!”

Like a new actor using sharpie to mark their stage direction in a borrowed script, I knew I would then be a permanent fixture of the Randall Pew Production Company; And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Year after year, I kept coming back, and year after year, I kept getting the lead.

In the audition room, at that.

“You, my friend, are going to be my Donna!”

“You, my friend, are going to be my Minnie!”

“You, my friend, are going to be my Anna!”

And this year’s production:

“You, my friend, are going to be my Christie!”

Randall does not care that it’s bad practice to give people roles in the audition room, but no one has the heart to tell him. They know he won’t listen anyway.

Lilah: Masquerade Ensemble, Townsperson 3, Beggar 2, and Old Hag

If you ask me, suffering a broken big toe is way less painful than having to attend a rehearsal at Randall Pew Productions ever again. After Randall went down, the entire rehearsal did too. As soon as he was whisked away on a stretcher, we diverted from our conversation circles of concern and went to join Carol for a cast meeting.

“Cast meeting!”

“Thank you, cast meeting!”

I am brand new to the theatre community as of this year. I have no idea why we have to say thank you for EVERYTHING. Nonetheless, we circle up on the stage. The ladder is collected by the backstage crew. I watch as they toss it in a nearby commercial garbage barrel. I push my way through so I can stand next to Tomas. Once I find my way next to him, he passes me a half smile, but by the look of his prominent Adam’s apple, his throat is tight with concern. Tomas has been doing shows with Randall Pew productions since he was a child. He has played many roles, mostly leads. You are screwed; he often tells me, his baritone synching so perfectly with his vocal fry. Apparently, once you audition once for Randall and are cast, you are cast for life. Even if you don’t show up to the audition, he will incessantly call and manipulate you into putting up with him for another 3 months, and you have no choice but to say yes to him to stop him from calling.

You didn’t hear it from me, but Randall wasn’t even the original owner of the company. The original owner was CAROL. Apparently, Randall stole the company right underneath her while she was pregnant with her fifth child and out on maternity leave.

“My dearest actors. I must report”-

Carol: Assistant Director and Co-Owner of Randall Pew Productions Company

The original name of my company was Merrily Players of Schenectady. After losing my mother at 18, my only parent, I was down and out. I lived with friends, acquaintances, you name it. It wasn’t until my pastor Horace took me in that I began to see the light descend upon me and what I was meant to do in this life. He was getting old and frail and knew he wouldn’t be around much longer.

In the lock of a wise old hand and the comfort of an old dusty sofa, he said to me:

“Caroline, I had an epiphany last night. God came to me in a glowing and loving light, and he has given me a final life mission. He told me to hand the church over to you. As a woman of God, we both know that you are the one meant to withhold this mission. You can do with it as you please. You can live there, you can preach there, you can sleep even there. Just do not let it fall.”

I know of the rumors, and none of them are true. I don’t want the cast members to know the true story because it is way more damning than they make it out to be. After being handed the church in the summer of 1950, I decided to bring life and creation into it by making it into a performing arts hall. Being a woman business owner in 1950 was not easy, but pastor Horace made sure to put all the paperwork under his living brother’s name before he passed a year later of natural causes. The Merrily Players of Schenectady opened officially in the fall of 1951, with the first show being a play that I wrote myself: The Women of God. It was a story of my own life. It was a wonderful show, with a lovely leading lady by the name of Patricia; played by a true woman of God and strength. I did this show every fall for 10 more years and waited until the church told me that she was ready to move onto something new.

After spending countless hours at the library doing extensive research of various plays, I stumbled upon a darling little production: At Nightfall. The play had 4 principal characters, one being a little boy between the ages of 7-10.

After holding auditions, I decided to cast a little boy of the name of Randall Scott Pew. As a little boy, he was very shy, almost insecure, but he played the part very well and I ultimately decided to cast him in the role.

The rest was history.

Randall Scott Pew: Director and Owner of Randall Pew Productions

“Get me out of here!”

I am wheeled out of my hospital room in a squeaky chair that millions of other butts have sat on and placed in the hallway with a couple other patients. They have no teeth, nor soul.

“I said… get me”-

Lilah

An email comes through as soon as the crickets do. Randall will be back Sunday. I breathe a sigh of relief, but also of anguish. He is a cat! Immediately, I text Tomas, but he beat me to it.

Meet me at Crestview, tmro at 8.

Carol

The morning rush at Crestview Diner can only be muted by few people walking through the door, and one of those people is Randall. The sun glares through his purple aviators and reflects off the metal paneling of the restaurant. I wave him down, and he makes haste to join me.

He’s not saying anything, I read, he’s tense.

Tomas

The coffee at Crestview is gross, but I drink it anyways. After getting no sleep, the cheap cup of diner coffee provides me with just enough gumption to get through a conversation with Lilah. She texts me.

Be there in 5.

I make one last attempt to scarf down the rest of my ham and cheese omelet before a familiar voice can be heard in my left peripheral ear. It’s not Lilah.

Amidst the clanging of dishes, orders being rung, and the sizzling of a pancake being poured onto a griddle, I can only make out faint conversation with not just one, but two familiar voices.

“I never thought you had it in you to do such a thing…”

“How dare you-”

Lilah

After slapping on foundation and mascara, I find my way out of my apartment. Tomas is already at Crestview, he claims, and has already ordered. At first, I apologize for being late but then backtrack and erase. I instead write I would be there in 5.

The bell above the door announces my entrance and I make my way over to Tomas, a towering yet familiar presence with a head full of uncombed auburn locks. I pat him on the back and join him at the busy order counter with the seat I figured he must’ve saved for me.

“You won’t believe who’s here…” his voice is tired, yet strong.

I can hear exactly who the people are and try not to make eye contact.

“Are they arguing?” I whisper, “that’s unusual”.

Tomas nods and slides me the menu.

“I already ate.”

I order the bacon, eggs, and toast special for $3.99 with a black coffee. Tomas calls me an old man and swings out of his chair.

“Imma use the restroom”.

I watch as he exits the counter, only glancing at the public display of counteraction between the feuding directors for a quick second, before leaving my sight.

I listen as their argument goes on.

And on.

And on.

***

Sunday, 7 pm. It’s still June. A small-town theatre company holds yet another rehearsal for their upcoming show, A Ghost and a Lady. Only 5 of the most passionate cast members are in attendance. It’s a bizarre night, full of rumors, A lack of AC, and dread for the art form which enjoys latching onto the breath of its every last victim. It is in this space, a former church, where mothers remember they have children at home to take care of, and remind themselves they will be home in just a few hours. It is in this space, a quiet art sanctuary if you will, where former high school theatre favorites reignite and forget how to do a basic pas de bourree, causing the scene to have to be rehearsed yet again. It is in this space, where directors of nearly 30 years-

“My dearest actors, it is with my greatest sympathies that I must announce I will be turning over the keys to my company.”

It is also in this space, a new world is created of complete order, design, tension, tone, balance, and harmony. It is a nearly perfect world created by imperfect people in an imperfect world. This, my friends, is theatre.