DIRTY ROTTEN REDDING, CA

The drive to the very northernmost part of California is an eye opener. We drive for hours and hours through more orchards and vineyards than I have ever seen. Mile after mile after mile of neatly organized rows of trees and vines, all watered by a major aqueduct that snakes it's way through the valley.It is agriculture on a grand scale.

The location of our hotel in Redding is not quite so panoramic. (I discover later that Duff's family has told him to pass along to us not to walk anywhere in Redding at night, and that our hotel is on "meth row".) We are staying at the hotel that all of us love to hate, The Quality Inn. It's a brilliant stroke of marketing to call this chain "Quality", but I am sure that no one who works for the chain could define or even spell the word. The slack-jawed heifers behind the desk at this particular hell-hole are especially stupid.

At Check In:

Tyler:
This is Patrick Brown, he's sharing with Michael Greves who has already checked in, so could you just give us another key to whatever room Michael is in.

Stupid Brunette Girl Behind the Desk:
(Looking at the cast list)Brown? Greves? Michael?

Stupid Pink-haired Girl Behind the Desk:
(stares blankly through little piggy eyes)

Tyler:
Michael isn't on that list, he's on the crew. They've already checked in.

Brunette:
(Still staring at the cast list)
(Time passes)
He's not on this list

Tyler:
No. That's the cast list. Michael is on the crew.

Pink Hair:
(Still staring)

Brunette:
I'll have to find that other list.

(time passes)

Tyler:
All right. Could you? Please?

Pinkie:
(Stares)

Me:
Um.....couldn't you just look him up in the computer?
(Both desk idiots now look at me as though I've just spoken Greek)

Dumb Brunette eventually discovers what room Michael is in and asks Pinkie to make a new key. To my astonishment, Pinkie breaks her statue-like stance to make me a key, though she does not move off of her stool.

The theatre is another space that shouldn't be hosting us, but is. It is actually the Convention Center, and has arena-style seating, no orchestra pit, and dressing rooms that used to be offices and are up several flights of stairs. The audience seems very far away, but they are loud laughers, thankfully, and respond enthusiastically throughout the show.

On the local crew is a very, VERY handsome young man with dark hair, dark eyes, just enough five o'clock shadow, and a smile that could make Hitler blush. All the women and gay men are aflutter over this guy, and he is much discussed and flirted with. In the girl's dressing room, they discuss the dirty things they'd like to do with him. Several times, in her most lecherous, hillbilly voice, K.K. says, "He's yummy. I'd like to poke him." It's only at the end of the night that one of the dressers, who has been in the room with the girls all night, says to the girls, "Is he the one wearing a t-shirt that says, STAFF?". The girls affirm this to be true. The dresser says, "Oh, that's my son."

During one of my final scenes in the show, I fall apart like I have not fallen apart on stage for years and years. I am about to make a rather purposeful entrance that helps lead us to the big plot-surprise of the show, where I announce that, "The Jackal has been captured". Just as I step on to the stage, my suit jacket catches on a piece of scenery which is being stored in the wing I am entering from. Because I am moving quickly and with purpose, from the audience's point of view, it looks as though I am being yanked back into the wings by an invisible hand. They do not hear the tearing of my suit fabric as my jacket pocket is almost ripped off. Nor do they hear Stephen, Cooch and Chad, waiting to enter directly behind me, burst out laughing. I try to ignore them as best as I can, and make my entrance. The problem is that the whole series of events has just struck me as being so hilarious, that I can't speak. I can barely keep control of my face, scrunching it in a bizarre parody of seriousness as I make my way to where I should stand. On a normal night, Brian, who is already on stage, would unlatch the briefcase he is holding and prepare to open it, but would be stopped by my entrance. On this night, because I have not yet spoken, he is finding new and interesting excuses to NOT open the briefcase because his character cannot, yet, know what is inside. Eventually, I manage to squeak out my line, and Stephen, Cooch and Chad make their entrance. Stephen is a mess and as I catch the odd glimpse of his twisted, pained, laugh-suppressing face, and hear the odd squeak in his voice, my own attempts at recovery are thwarted. The crew, now aware that something is up, has gathered in the wings to watch the carnage. The orchestra, also aware that things are not as they should be, is grinning up at us like lunatic mimes. I, thankfully, have no lines for a few minutes and manage to gain a little control by staring at the floor as I listen to Stephen struggle through a few lines of song. We are both doing our best to avoid eye contact, convinced that any control we have gained will dissolve if we face each other. Eventually, somehow, over what seems like eternity but is, in fact, about 3 minutes, we manage to make it to the end of the scene and, without further incident.

Later, in the dressing rooms, Stephen thanks me for a memory that will stay with him for a very long time (and a theatre war story that'll be dragged out in many a post-show bar).