PLAZA DE ARMAS
Being There
It's murder
By JADE ESTEBAN ESTRADA
August 26, 2011
Sifting through my 5,000 Facebook friends, deciding which ones to delete to make room for cooler people, I come across a message from an actress of my acquaintance seeking one male actor to play a role in the murder mystery A Fistful of Meatballs at the Spaghetti Warehouse. My vanity, a big, green monster named Phil, stops dead in his tracks, turns his head, and raises a wiry eyebrow. I've done a variety of things onstage – operas, musicals, straight plays, cabarets, corporate gigs, stand-up comedy, street theater, sketch comedy, improv, one-man shows – as well as radio, television and film. But I'd never taken part in this thing they call murder mystery theater. I'm suddenly vexed by its absence from my resume. I "reply all" with a brassy, "i'll do it" – no capitalization, no punctuation.
I sit there waiting for the little red balloon to say "1," pondering the precise definition of the genre. A trip to Pleasure Island runs through my memory, in which the attractive, animated actors maintained their eccentric roles while mingling with the guests. This has to be something similar: me in a in a funny costume, speaking in a funny foreign accent, feigning melodramatic astonishment when the murderer is ultimately revealed. It couldn't be as dull as those Agatha Christie murder mysteries the Harlequin Dinner Theatre sometimes puts on.
Ten minutes pass and the red balloon pops up. Admittedly, I'm not really taken aback when I get the part. (Hello. I'm a famous PdA columnist.) I'm informed that the script will be emailed to me and that rehearsal with the cast is the next evening. The excitement of something new whisks through my veins. Jessica Fletcher, eat your heart out.
Not all of the actors make it for the read-through. I learn that the actor who usually plays my role, Dave Cortez, was double-booked. I'm their one-time only filler, so emotional attachment to my small, insignificant part is a virtual impossibility. The authoritative voice across the room belongs to Nova Aragon, the actress who sent out the mass Facebook message. With a look heavenward, she tells me she was asked to find a replacement only two days before the show. I've worked with her in the past and know her to be an indispensable mother figure in the world of flakey, last-minute actors. She whispers her surprise that I'd take a gig like this – especially for a mere hundred bucks, but anyone who's perused my resume can ascertain that I've done more for much less in the name of caprice.
In the 24 hours since I've been in possession of the script, I may have glanced over it once – and then again, not really. It couldn't be any more than a quick "I'll get the doctor!"-sized line and that assignment can wait till the rehearsal. Rehearsal, where I discover through hints and glances familiar to first-time bungie jumpers, that my part requires me to speak – alone or with others – almost non-stop for about 85 percent of the show.
A moment later, my phone beeps. Aragon has tagged me in a status update: "Jade Esteban Estrada is joining the cast for a night! Wow! Don't miss it!"
With an involuntary gulp, I open the script again.
It's 1881. The spaghetti western murder mystery musical (Wait. Musical?) unfolds at the Last Chance Saloon. Ashley and Mary Kate Cartwright (Kes Scudday and Ashley Rose Trevino) are twin sisters who own the establishment. They also have a younger sister, Samantha (Aragon), who, "despite her ugliness, makes the damn best meatballs in town." The characters have gathered to celebrate the 21st birthday of the beautiful Miss Kittay, played by the tall, mannish Isidro Medina in drag.
I play evil Sheriff Jed, who wants to marry Miss Kittay (pronounced Kitt-tay), steal the meatball recipe from Samantha and take over the Last Chance Saloon.
Holy mother of God. His lines – funny and specific – are endless.
"Man with No Name," played by Michelle West, is an IRS auditor who comes looking for Miss Kittay all the way from Arizona, and plans to bring Jed, a wanted criminal with a "100,000 buckaroos" reward on his head, back home.
At the end of Act I, Jed takes a bite of the birthday meatball, keels over and dies in front of the audience. Everyone has a motive. Everyone is suspect.
There is an oh-so-brief moment of elation when I think that my character's death will send me to the dressing room for an hour-long cigarette break. No such luck. Act II opens starring me as Marshall Jud, Jed's twin brother (uncreatively, a 1940s New England detective is the accent of choice), who has more lines than a world without Photoshop.
After an all-night cramming session, I turn up at the Zumbro Lounge for our 5:30 p.m. call time. Sifting through the costumes, I find a sheriff badge and a cowboy hat to complete my homemade get-up. West, a student at NYU, looks good in everything and I secretly hate her.
I'm entrusted to open the show and explain the rules to the audience. I try to walk onstage twice but keep turning around.
"Wait, tell me again what I'm supposed to tell them?"
Jim Zaccaria, owner of the Cameo Theater, tells me to say things like, "Welcome to the show. If you've come to see a great show ... you've come to the wrong place."
Oh, crowd work. In the iconic words of Reese Witherspoon as June Carter Cash in Walk the Line, "I can be funny for five minutes."
I also tell them to boo at the mention of Sheriff Jed (important) and to cough at the mention of Miss Kittay's "21st" birthday. To my surprise, the audience, mostly families out for dinner, keep up their interactive duties.
They also get to call out actors who screw up their lines. The first one to raise their hand at such an occasion gets a sort of murder mystery currency that's good for future shows at the Cameo Theater. I didn't know about this bit. But, bring it. No turning back now. The audience is bustling, ready for a good time.
And I need to stay off Facebook from now on.
Backstage, the beautiful West does her best to make herself look like a man. She draws a beard on her face, pulls her full, brown hair back under a hat and dons a cowboy outfit that includes her own blue jeans. She has it in her head that she should stuff herself down there, and the sock she's using is all over the place. She needs a little help. I happen to be an expert at this. Before we know it, I'm giving a lecture on the politics of penis direction. Some go up, some go down, some go sideways. It's an indication of political leanings. Finally, we get it right and she struts onstage anatomically correct.
Catching the wrong cue, I enter prematurely.
"Did someone call my name?!"
I'm oozing with evilness. The audience boos. I'm amazing.
Aragon slips out of character.
"You're too early – go back!"
A sea of hands reach for their murder mystery bucks. Son of a bitch.
There's a pitcher of sangria for the actors on the dressing room table. I shrug my right shoulder and pour myself a glass. There will be no Tony nominations tonight.
Medina as Miss Kittay, dressed like Miss Kitty from Gunsmoke, is a huge hit with the audience, as expected. The fact that he never smiles is quite possibly his secret weapon.
Dragging me offstage after I die is a show in itself. One of the actors worried the audience would not believe that I was dead if I got up at the end of the act all by myself. What is this, Ibsen?
The pivotal moment of the play arrives for me when Jed eats a bowl of meatballs. I'm still a vegan and the Spaghetti Warehouse is still animal fat central. Aragon to the rescue. She's kind enough to fetch some vegan meatballs that taste like rubber, but maintain my dietetic integrity. Aragon's talent for fixing things? Even I depend on it.
Every time West comes back from the bathroom she has her cotton penis in a new direction, and I fix it. Moments after the show ends, I notice her fake manhood has morphed once again. I reach over to pat-pat-pat the sock back into place, and compliment her on how well it blends into her body.
"It looks good," I say, nodding, giving her creation one last pat of approval.
She looks at me blankly.
"I've taken the sock out, Jade."
A slow look to the camera.
"Murder mystery theater – check!"
