Last Updated: May 31, 2000
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One of six articles in a winning series by Ken Fuson of The Sun,
Baltimore that won the non-deadline writing category of the 1998 ASNE Distinguished
Writing Awards.
Thursday June 5, 1997
Chapter V: On the eve of opening night, their nerves
are shot. Their voices are cracking. And the trumpet section is under orders:
No snickering.
Attention Cast of West Side Story
This is it, guys. The week we've all been waiting for. There's no more
time. Know your lines, know your cues, know the MAMBO. We are on in less
than five days.
Sign posted on drama club bulletin board.
MONDAY
After school ends, senior Starr Lucas, the drama club president, stands
near the North County High School entrance and talks to Keith Jeffcoat,
who plays one of the Jets in West Side Story, the spring musical.
Keith is on crutches. His left ankle is in a brace.
"You've got to be ready," Starr says.
"Mr. Shipley told me that if I'm not walking by Friday he'll break both
my kneecaps," Keith replies.
Early Sunday, while he was delivering newspapers, Keith plucked a red
tulip for his girlfriend. Jumping back into the truck, he tore ligaments
in his ankle.
This is a problem. Keith plays Diesel, the biggest member of the Jets
gang. He and one of the Sharks begin the fistfight that leads to the gang
rumble. Wayne Shipley, the show's director, choreographed the scene blow-by-blow.
If Keith can't walk, how can he fight?
"I'll be there," he vows.
Maybe they're jinxed. Last week, Jason Morgan, who plays Chino, one
of the Sharks, suffered a collapsed lung. He's still recuperating at home.
"I may have to be Chino," Starr jokes.
"You're a goofball," Keith tells her.
"I didn't mess up my ankle," she counters.
"You're just jealous because that flower wasn't for you," he says.
"Ha!"
Starr heads outdoors, where ballplayers practice on the fields that
surround the Anne Arundel County high school. She transforms her blue Volkswagen
Beetle into a mobile billboard for the show, taping West Side Story posters
on the hood. She's going to drive the car in the local Little League parade
this weekend.
"I don't know how I'm going to make it this week," she says. "A lot
of people aren't cooperating. They don't understand."
They will tonight.
THE TAPED MUSIC PLAYS. PAT Reynolds and Eli Senter circle each other,
knives brandished. Eli plunges forward, Pat counters and --
"You haven't gotten that right once," Mr. Shipley says, interrupting
them. "Listen to the music. You're 12 bars early."
This is the rumble, the final scene in Act I, the dramatic high point
of the entire musical. It's the scene in which the leaders of the Jets
and the Sharks are killed.
Pat and Eli -- the gang leaders -- have rehearsed their fight for weeks,
practicing fake kicks, an over-the-shoulder flip and an ankle trip. The
problem is, they must coordinate their moves precisely so that the fatal
blow is delivered at the exact moment the music roars to a crescendo.
"Guys, you should be listening to this music," Mr. Shipley pleads. "There
is no other agenda. What we're seeing just doesn't work. You don't realize
the seriousness of your situation."
TONIGHT, FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE cast members will sing each of West
Side Story's 11 songs with the orchestra playing. Neil Ewachiw, the 27-year-old
music director, has hired two dozen professional musicians; the drama club
foots the bill.
"Ladies and gentlemen, you're on my clock now," Mr. Ewachiw (pronounced
e-WALK-q) announces, tapping his baton on the metal stand.
Up first: Eli Senter, who plays Riff.
Eli snaps his fingers. The music begins. He looks at Mr. Ewachiw, gulps
a deep breath and, as usual, misses the cue by a half-beat.
Ah -- When you're a Jet
you're a Jet all the way...
But Eli trudges onward. By his vocal standards, this isn't horrible.
He actually hits a few notes, and he almost nails the ending.
Orchestra members peek at the stage as Eli finishes. Mr. Ewachiw has
reminded them not to laugh. Last year you could hear the trumpet players
snicker.
Next comes Brian Forte, the senior who plays Tony, the leading man.
In past musicals, this is the week when the normally nonchalant Brian gets
serious.
Tonight, though, something is wrong. Brian's voice cracks, he forgets
lyrics, the high notes are impossible. He seems -- this is a first -- nervous.
"I don't know how to sing this part, Mr. Ewachiw," he says after one
song.
"Don't yell at me for doing it wrong when you were doing it right."
"Mr. Ewach -- "
"You were doing it right!"
When he slumps off stage, Brian no longer exudes the panache of the
leading man. He's no longer the happy-go-lucky teen.
"I'm just feeling miserable," he says. "I'm feeling really horrible
about the musical aspect of this musical. The mikes, the orchestra, the
mood, myself not excluded. Everything is just very malingering."
Mr. Shipley corners him.
"What I saw was a little scary," he says.
MR. SHIPLEY SITS BY HIMSELF IN THE theater, jotting notes on a yellow
legal pad.
After 30 years of teaching, this will be his last musical. At 53, he's
retiring at the end of the school year.
"You know," he says, smiling wanly as the students struggle, "I think
the thing I dislike most about musicals is the music."
Friends arrive to help. In addition to Mr. Ewachiw, a former North County
teacher who returns each spring to work on the musical, Mr. Shipley relies
on other adults. There's David Richardson -- the kids call him Dave the
Piano Guy -- who plays at rehearsals. There's David Garman -- Dave the
Light Guy -- a former student who helps with the theater lighting. And
there's Mike Strehlen, who handles all the guns, knives and cigarettes
used as props, enough weaponry to intimidate the boys from calling him
Mike the Gun Guy.
"I couldn't do it without them," Mr. Shipley says.
Next on stage are Anna Schoenfelder and Angela Brown, whose characters
-- Anita and Maria -- sing the last songs in the musical: "A Boy Like That"
and "I Have a Love."
Shortly after they begin, a scream punctures their sweet duet:
"NOOOOOOOO!"
Something has irritated Garman as he works on the lights. His
voice is so loud and surprising that Mr. Ewachiw stops the orchestra and
turns around angrily.
"Please don't do that," he snaps. "This is my rehearsal."
"It's my rehearsal, too," Garman says.
"I'm on the orchestra's time clock," Mr. Ewachiw says. "You're wasting
my time."
The students watch, mesmerized. This is better than the rumble. Maybe
the adults will duke it out.
Calm prevails. Typical last-week jitters, Mr. Shipley says later.
Flustered, Mr. Ewachiw tries to remember where the song was interrupted.
"Let's just do it over," he finally says.
It's worth hearing again. This is the best song in the show. The harmonies
-- Anna's alto and Angela's soprano -- mesh perfectly.
As the two girls finish, Mr. Ewachiw calls Brian Forte to the conductor's
stand.
"Look," he says, pointing to his arm.
Goose bumps.
TUESDAY
SOME CAST MEMBERS ARE SPENDING so much time at school that their parents
bring supper to them.
When Phyllis Lucas arrives, Starr unloads.
"Mom, I'm sick," she says. "I'm running a fever. Shipley's yelling at
me because people aren't here. The senior adviser is mad at me. I tried
to take a nap on that mat over there, but I was interrupted seven times."
Her face is flush, her forehead hot to the touch.
"I'm not responsible for people not being here," she says.
"I know," her mother says.
This is what Starr needs; somebody to listen. Here, at school, Starr
is the mommy, even for the teachers. There's a problem in the costume room.
Talk to Starr. I need more tickets. Talk to Starr. I need to add something
to the program. Talk to Starr.
Starr can handle it.
But not always.
Every night, she goes home and anxiously checks the mail. She's waiting
to learn if she will get enough financial help to go to Shenandoah University,
a Virginia college where she can major in theater. The school is perfect:
Because Starr has cerebral palsy, she needs a small campus to avoid weakening
her legs. If she can't afford to attend the college, she's not sure what
she will do.
"I have my moments," she says, "but I keep them to myself."
The other students don't realize how difficult this show has been for
her. For the first time, she's directing instead of acting.
"She would love to be on that stage, dressed up and in makeup," her
mother says.
But she won't even get a curtain call.
AN HOUR LATER, HER FACE STILL red, Starr addresses the cast in a classroom.
"Tonight what we're doing is running the show from beginning to end,
without the music," she says.
"We will run this at speed," Mr. Shipley adds. "If there are any train
wrecks, figure out how to get out of them."
There are no prompters in a Wayne Shipley production. If cues are missed,
the students are expected to improvise their way around them. There is
no curtain on his stage; he believes it detracts from the audience's willingness
to suspend its disbelief. If the script calls for a nightstick, then he
wants a real nightstick, a wooden one, with a real leather handle, not
some cheap-looking piece of plastic.
"All right, guys," Starr says. "Let's go. We're doing this in two minutes."
AFTERWARD, BACK IN THE CLASS-room, Mr. Shipley is upbeat.
"We were almost good," he says. "But Riff got killed 12 bars before
he was supposed to. I want the Jets and the Sharks here tomorrow at 5:30
to go over that fight scene."
He looks around. The students are tired and apprehensive. Their expressions
say, This is going on in three nights?
"We have a show," Mr. Shipley reassures them. "But we have a lot that
needs to be done."
Starr climbs into her car and heads home. The West Side Story posters
on the hood flap in the spring breeze.
She needs sleep.
They all do.
WEDNESDAY
TIME IS RUNNING OUT. DURING A free period in school, Mr. Shipley grabs
Brian Forte and Angela Brown to work on their love scenes.
Maria's balcony is finished. It is covered with spray-painted Styrofoam,
but it looks like a brick facade. Mr. Shipley waited to finish the set
until now; he knows it will send an excited buzz through the cast.
With Brian and Angela perched in the balcony, Mr. Shipley directs Brian.
Wrap your arms around her as you sing. Sway with the music. Look happy,
for crying out loud, you're in love.
Tonight, tonight,
The world is wild and bright,
Going mad, shooting sparks into space.
Mr. Shipley likes the way it looks. It will present a nice picture for
the audience.
Brian, though, has a secret.
"When I'm singing to Maria, I'm thinking about Anna," he says. "When
I'm cradling and kissing her, it's Anna."
Just last week, Brian and Anna Schoenfelder, who plays Anita, realized
they liked each other as more than friends.
"The stuff that I tell Anna sounds like song lyrics," Brian says. "I
know it's hokey, but that's how I feel."
DURING A CLASS, A FRIEND NOTICES Anna's face. She is pale.
Anna has hardly eaten since lunch the day before; she says there wasn't
enough time.
"Are you OK?" the friend asks.
"I feel like I'm going to fall over," she says.
The friend escorts her to the health room. They find an orange and some
soup.
AFTER SCHOOL, SEVERAL CAST MEMbers head to their refuge, the Honey Bee
Diner in Glen Burnie.
"Hey, look," Brian Forte says.
He turns his eyelids inside out.
Angie Guido groans, then laughs.
She has mostly recovered from her disappointment over not getting the
role of Maria. She has a key part in two songs -- "America" and "I Feel
Pretty." She sings them well, but without much joy. Like everyone else,
the drudgery of rehearsing is wearing her out.
"I'm ready to graduate."
TONIGHT IS DRESS REHEARSAL WITH the orchestra, the last scheduled practice
before opening night on Friday. Mr. Shipley wants to give the cast Thursday
off.
Jason Morgan is back. A collapsed lung kept him out of school nearly
a week. He says he should get through the show, even if it happens again.
"I'll ignore it," he says. "I won't die from it right away."
In a classroom, Mr. Shipley addresses his troops.
"Listen, guys, there is no -- "
"Other agenda!" a half-dozen students shout in unison.
"Let's do it," he tells them.
Mr. Ewachiw pulls Brian Forte aside.
"High notes can smell fear," he says. "Don't be afraid of them. It doesn't
have to be loud, just comfortable."
THE OPENING ACT IS RUGGED.
During the song "Cool," sung by the Jets, two members of the Sharks
gang mistakenly strut on the set while Eli is singing. They look around,
then walk out.
In the back of the theater, Mr. Shipley nearly tosses his legal pad.
"If I ever do another high school play, I hope somebody castrates me
and dumps the body in the Atlantic Ocean."
INTERMISSION. IT'S ALREADY PAST 9 p.m., the time they usually stop.
"We're not going anywhere yet," Starr tells them. "Call home if you
have to. We're having an early night tomorrow so I don't want to hear any
complaints."
The students are exhausted, their faces drawn, their bodies slumped.
Mr. Shipley reviews his Act I notes.
"The Jets song, frankly, sucks raw eggs," he says. "We're going to work
on it tomorrow so it's credible. Plan to be here until we nail it."
He turns to the Jets' girlfriends.
"I'm not getting any characters from you," he says. "Eli has this great
line -- got a rocket in my pocket -- and you just sit there. Ladies, what
would you do if you heard that?"
"I'd laugh if Eli said it," one girl says, and the room erupts.
Mr. Shipley holds a hand in the air.
"Guys, this show has a real chance of being fantastic, it really does,
but it's going to take every ounce of concentration that you have."
He wants to go over the opening number again tomorrow. And the fight
scene. And a couple other things.
So much for having Thursday off.
THURSDAY
THE NORMAL AFTER-SCHOOL ENERGY is sapped.
"I'm just so rushed," says Rob Mackin, a sophomore who plays one of
the Jets. "I have school to worry about. I don't see my parents enough.
I have track practice. I've gotten four hours of sleep every night for
the past three weeks."
Anna Schoenfelder still looks tired.
"I came to school late today," she says. "My Dad told me I had to stay
home and sleep."
FIRST JASON'S LUNG COLLAPSED.
Then Keith hurt his ankle.
Then Anna nearly passed out.
Now this.
"I'm in pain today," says Angela Brown, who plays Maria. "My throat
hurts."
MR. SHIPLEY WORKS ON THE OPENING scene. He has put in several sight
gags -- the Jets play keep-away with an apple; one of the Sharks swings
on a rope from the balcony; there are some tumbles -- and he wants to make
sure they click.
He stalks the stage, urging the students to stay in character. He's
getting less sleep than anyone but looks the most energized.
"It's crunch time," he says. "That's half the fun."
They finish the scene.
"That's good enough," one boy says.
Mr. Shipley corrects him.
"It's never good enough."
IN THE MUSIC ROOM. MR. EWACHIW works with Brian and Angela one final
time on their wedding duet, "One Hand, One Heart."
Don't sing so loud, he tells Brian. Just be soft and gentle. Think about
the words.
"You're doing a very good job for us as far as the technical stuff is
concerned," Mr. Ewachiw says. "You're not singing it the way I want to
hear it, or the way I would sing it. You know why? I don't think you've
ever been in love like this before.
"The first time I heard this song after I got engaged, I nearly wept.
I think that's what's missing. That absolute conviction. It's just a matter
of feeling what you're saying."
This is a setup. Mr. Ewachiw knows about the romance between Brian and
Anna. Without saying it specifically, Mr. Ewachiw is asking Brian to sing
to Anna.
Brian nods.
Then Mr. Ewachiw turns to Angela. She wears a shirt with Mickey Mouse
on it. He has heard about her sore throat.
"Rest your voice tonight," he says. "Don't talk, whisper. Wear a patch
that says: I'm on voice rest. You've got a big job tomorrow."
Angela nods. Her throat still hurts.
ELI SENTER IS THE LAST TO LEAVE.
"You look fabulous up there," Mr. Ewachiw tells him.
"Why?" Eli says, disbelieving.
Mr. Shipley answers. "You're just" -- he pauses -- "Riff."
Another pause.
"Even without a rocket in your pocket. Go get some sleep, ace."
Eli falls asleep reading his West Side Story script. It's the first
thing he sees when he awakens on Friday morning. And with it comes the
heart-pounding and frightening and magnificent realization:
This is opening night.
