The last play I wrote that was produced in New York City was in a festival in Midtown. The festival people were great and the festival was run really well. My play was a short play, so I was paired up with another writer to make a complete program.
The writer didn’t appear to know what she was doing, but was determined to be the boss. A true Retard Princess.
Getting the Equity paperwork out of her was nearly impossible and we almost missed the deadline. It squeaked in, by me hand delivering it, smiling, begging, and paying a rush fee.
I put the program together and emailed her a copy. She never looked at the email and found a typo the day before opening AFTER it had been printed. Love that.
I let her chose which play would go first. She wanted first, natch. We teched separately. I attended hers to see what we would be dealing with for a set change.
Her set had a rope tied to the sprinkler system on the 18-foot ceiling. A big heavy rope. They will have to bring out a huge ladder and take it down between the plays. Not a swift transition. If they went second it wouldn’t be a problem, but the retarded princess has to go first. So I let it go and figure we’ll deal. You don’t was a cumbersome drawn out set change between plays for the sake of the audience. For my play, we are just using a few black cubes to keep it simple.
We find out the day before opening night that we need someone to help with the box office. When I ask her, before I finish my sentence she says, “Oh I don’t know anybody.” At least make believe you are trying to think of someone before speaking. It’s my fault. My OCD is showing and she can tell I’m gonna take care of it. You have to look like you don’t really care to get her to do anything and I didn’t do that.
On opening night when she is setting up for her play, a giant bag of Styrofoam peanuts appears. “What the fuck?” I think. The next second they are dumped on the stage. To signify an ice flow on a river.
I went to tech. I saw the tech. There was not a peanut in sight. There was not a peanut mentioned. This is why you have tech, so you can strike and set up EXACTLY the way you will be doing it for performance.
I don’t say anything to her. There is no point now. The peanuts are out of the bag.
Everything on the stage for her play is labeled with signs. The rope has a sign that says ROPE. A box has a sign that says DOCK. A play by a retard for retards. I can’t figure out what it is about. Someone eats and apple and commits suicide.
After her play is performed, her actors walk off stage and don’t do dick. My actors are stuck with the fucking peanuts. The director and I jump onstage and start sweeping while her stage manager is doing a high wire act with the rope.
It was all so unnecessary. If this play had a fucking real snow machine from Hunter Mountain it wouldn’t have helped. And why not use a white sheet instead of a five-foot bag of Styrofoam peanuts? Why? Because it would be easy, duh!
We have a reception after the plays. Guess who sets up for the party? Guess who takes care of the comps for both casts? Guess who looks like she is losing her mind?
She arrived for opening night carrying a bag of things for the party. Retard Princess dumps it at my feet and says,” Would you bring this upstairs for me?” I said no. Aren’t you proud of me? When the party was over she asked me if I would bring it home for her and bring it back the next day so she won’t have to carry it. No again sister.
We get fined for the rope tied to the sprinkler. A safety violation. The director of the festival attended the play and charged out of the theater totally beet red faced with fury.
We got reviewed. The reviewer mentioned the ungainly set change. The reviewer also detested her play. The reviewer loved my play. It was Karmic justice, dontcha think?
Since then I’ve only had plays I write produced out of town. Ohio, Kentucky. All I have to do is put them in an envelope and lid the stamps. I’ve been traumatized by working with her and am still in recovery
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