When I was in High School I was in a play. And not just ANY play, but the single worst adaptation of Dante’s Inferno that has ever been created. To be fair, all the people in it were really good… the problem was that rather than use an actual script our teacher decided he would just write the thing himself.
It was hailed by many discerning viewers as “I’ll never get that hour of my life back.”
And in this production I played Emily Dickinson. But not just any Emily Dickinson… DEAD Emily Dickinson. Complete with all the creepy stage makeup that one uses to make someone look eery and foreboding and literary.
And we took this show to competition, because I think that is the law of high school drama class. And it turns out that this show was just as bad at competition as it was at home, but luckily there were also a ton of other horrendous plays from other schools and we had to watch them all. By the end of it everyone in that audience was steeped in tears and their own self loathing.
Our play was last and I was so exhausted and embarrassed by the time it was over that I just jumped in the car and took off right after the show.
About twenty minutes later I came across a random traffic stop. So all the cars slowed down and everyone pulled out their licenses. When it was my turn I rolled down the window, extended my license to the cop, and then…
Cop: <nervous stare>
Me: <getting uncomfortable because of the nervous stares>
Cop: <more nervous stares>
Now it was about this time that I finally remembered that I didn’t wash off any of my dead person stage makeup….
Me: “I promise I’m not a crazy person.”
Cop: “Just… just go.”