Dearest Duke, might I ask that you share another one of your fabulous theater stories. They never fail to bring me out of the darkest of hours. It would most certainly be greatly appreciated either way. Good day.

dukeofbookingham:

Okay, here’s a short one because I really want to cheer you up but I don’t have time for a long one today. Story time:

Once upon a time I was in what might have been the world’s worst production of Julius Caesar (like, I actually asked friends and family not to come and told the ones who insisted to bring a flask and take a hit every time someone pronounced a word wrong). I was a hat-changer playing like five different roles, one of which was Strato, who–if you don’t remember the six million minor characters, because why the fuck would you?–helps Brutus shish kebab himself in Act V. Obviously this should be a intense moment. So Brutus charges at me like I’m a goddamn matador, I shove a sword under his arm and then we stand there sort of awkwardly hugging and gasping for few seconds before I struggle to lower Brutus (who is a lot bigger than I am) to the floor. And I’m supposed to kneel there, gazing sadly at his noble lifeless body, until Antony and Octavius come in and break up the pity party. Only, on like the third night of run, Antony and Octavius just don’t come in. Nothing happens. I drop Brutus on the floor but nobody enters to interrupt and because the director loves melodrama he’s asked me to cry so I’m awkwardly crouching over Brutus’s body and weeping in absolute silence for like an uncomfortably long time and I sense Brutus getting really tense where he’s lying on the floor pretending to be dead because how the hell is this skinny-ass sophomore girl going to drag him offstage if the winners don’t come in? 

Now what you have to understand is that this is a small theater, and it’s theatre in the round, so we’re very closely surrounded by audience members on like every side. And in the middle of this prolonged and agonizing silence, this woman in the front row leans over toward the guy next to her and says, in a completely clear and audible whisper, “This is sad.” And you guys, Brutus and I both fucking lost it. Like, it’s sad??? YOU THINK SO??? NO SHIT????? Brutus barks out a laugh but he’s supposed to be dead so I sort of fling myself on top of him and faceplant on his chest because all hope of subtlety is already gone and with my face smashed in his toga you kind of can’t tell if I’m sobbing or laughing and at this point who even gives a shit.

By this time like half the audience is crying and half is laughing and like at least five or six of them are whispering to their friends “Shut up you guys this is sad” and Brutus and I both just actually want to die and then finally the fucking victory party comes in like five minutes late and Octavius goes “What man is that?” and I sit up with tears smeared all over my face and I’m like as a red as the blockheads from Gumby and Brutus is still lying under me stiff as a board with his fists clenched trying not to laugh out loud and Messala just looks at me like Uhh? Strato? Where is your master? And it took ten years’ acting experience and immense willpower to not just go, “MESSALA. PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER. THIS IS SAD.”

And that is the story of the time Julius Caesar was sad.