The Workshop
Service
by M. V.
Montgomery
One member of our traveling
troupe, a young man in his early twenties, grew
uncomfortable as we pulled into a small town in a
rural area. We weren’t long teasing out the
story: he had grown up nearby, on his
grandparents’ farm, but had had no contact
with them in the years following an abrupt
departure. Now his tone of genuine sorrow brought
out the mothering instincts of a couple of middle-aged
actresses who hugged him, encouraging him to end
the breach. Don’t worry, we’ll all
go, they offered.
I gave them both a dirty
look—these overzealous thespians could never
pass up an opportunity to be part of a dramatic
scene!
So we packed up our little
caravan and drove into the country. We soon
spotted the farmhouse, which, according to the
young man, was just as he remembered it.
As he shakily approached
the door, the troupe formed a close ring behind
him, partly in solidarity and partly in curiosity.
The old farmer had heard us
coming, of course, opening the door before his
grandson could even reach it. He was a real Grant
Woods character, wrinkled from years of hard toil,
yet still spry.
After the young man
sputtered out a heart-felt apology, I-I’m
sorry, Pop, it took only a beat or two for
his grandfather to pull him close in an embrace.
This time, I actually had to raise my hand to
keep the others from applauding.
We were all invited inside,
where a second tearful scene with the grandmother
played out.
Eventually the polite
question of just who we all were came up.
Fortunately, we had dressed our most
conservatively in honor of the occasion. Bull, a
gay actor from Charleston, stepped forward and
announced solemnly that we were a community of
believers who had taken in the wayward lad. A
couple others took his cue, suggesting we all
join hands in a prayer circle.
I saw the young man frown
as the rest of us took our places. But then he
too linked hands with the others, lowering his
head.
We all held this posture
for a minute, then a few dropped out, then a few
more, until soon it was just Bull with the young
man, who visibly started to squirm.
Bull placed his hand on the
young man’s head and made some murmuring
noises. While all this was going on, the old
farmer approached me on the sidelines. In a
hushed tone, he invited everyone to stay for
supper. He apologized for not joining the prayer
circle, confiding that he and his family had
always been firm atheists.
Then he paused.
But—you all are
actors, right? Henry always wanted to be an actor.
I nodded, smiling. Of
course, I wanted to yell out “Cut!” to
the others, but it was too late to say a word to
them about their little charade. When they got
into workshopping this fervidly, they were
already too far gone.
As if on cue now, they
kicked into a chorus of “Amazing Grace.”
This was too much for the
young man’s grandmother, who got up from her
chair, covering part of her face with one hand,
and headed off to the kitchen.
Anyone would think she was
overcome with grief—but as she passed, I saw
her stifling a giggle.
Now that, I told
myself, is the best little job of acting I
have seen all day.
|
