Good Riddance(70)

Any volunteers? Of course the handsomest guy—I guessed Italian mother, Irish father, or vice versa—stood up, but then had to sit down because he announced proudly that his knocker was a census taker.

“The point is to have your fellow classmates guess who is knocking,” said the instructor.

The next volunteer, a short, pretty blonde woman with straight hair to her chin, walked out the door, closed it, and delivered a pounding that sounded frantic.

I volunteered, “Someone who hears her neighbor calling for help, and even though they’re not on friendly terms, her Good Samaritan instincts kick in—”

Incorrect.

“An angry wife who’s showing up at her husband’s secret love nest!” someone else yelled.

That wasn’t it, but at least I was enjoying the audience-participation part of acting.

A woman with very long, very black hair yelled out, “There’s a fire in the building!”

The instructor said, “So who’s knocking? Remember, it’s the person’s identity we need.”

“A fireman!” she called.

The door opened and the blonde woman returned, smiling and waving the unfolded piece of paper. “Firefighter arriving at a burning building,” she read.

Which would’ve been fine, but the handsome guy announced he was a real-life firefighter. “Who knocks? Maybe if you’re going house to house raising money for the families of the fallen.”

My slip of paper said, “Doctor approaching an examining room.” With such a booby-prize situation, I didn’t volunteer. Neither did anyone else. Probably because I had my head down in an effort to disappear, the instructor said, “You. At the end of the row in the yellow T-shirt. You’re up.”

I said, “I have a real stinker. I’ll pass.”

“You can’t,” he said.

Once outside, I knocked tentatively, earning no guesses. I tried a louder knock, which must’ve sounded more authoritative than I intended because I heard someone say, “A parent who thinks his kid is smoking dope in his room?”

I tried to act from the inside out, making myself the patient, sitting on the examining table, under paper, naked from the waist down, waiting for the gynecologist. This time I went for the quick rap from the impatient doctor who’d already kept me waiting an hour.

“A twelve-year-old kid,” yelled our twelve-year-old classmate, whose mother had been taking notes from her own row. “Maybe he hit a home run that broke a window and his father made him come over and apologize.”

Oh, brother. This could go on all night. I knocked again, willy-nilly. Who cared? What a stupid exercise.

“A teacher on her first day of school,” someone tried.

Really? Why would a teacher be knocking on her own classroom door?

“A casualty-notification officer?” said a sad male voice.

No and no. Was I getting everyone’s life story? Was this the point? Against the rules, I called out, “How about one more guess?”

“No words,” warned the instructor.

One final, uninspired knock by me.

I heard “UPS guy” followed by “Bill collector?”

Bill collector? What century was this? I opened the door. “Give up?”

The various classmates said yes, no, get back out there.

I didn’t. I held up my piece of paper. “Didn’t my knock sound exactly like . . . wait for it . . . a doctor approaching the examination room?”

Our instructor asked my name. I told him.

“This isn’t improv, Daphne. Please take your seat.”

There was no mistaking from his tone that he considered improv a lesser form of the dramatic arts. This was serious scholarship, he was trained in the Stanislavski method, and I’d effectively flunked the first exam.





36


What’s So Secret?



I took over as soon as we crossed into New England, mainly to show off one of my few proficiencies: driving a manual transmission. Our plan was to check into the inn, unpack, walk around the Exeter campus, slip into the five o’clock wedding, eat, drink, dance if there was a band—all the while keeping my ear out for insensitive remarks directed at my father on topics such as his wasting no time finding an attractive, younger girlfriend.

The hometown-scouting part of the trip would be on Sunday morning. From the passenger seat, Jeremy asked whether I could introduce him to Pickering natives who might have tips on what to see and where to go.

“I’m your Pickering native,” I said.

“But what about places off the beaten path? Maybe hangouts for the class of ’68. I’m going to need a lot of slides for the PowerPoint presentation.”

Ha, ha, good one: PowerPoint presentation! That snooze—except that Jeremy was saying, “No. I’m serious. I’m planning slides in the background, big ones.”

“Background of what?”

“The thing I’m working on.”

“The ‘thing’! The Manhattan Project of top-secret theatrical works in progress!”

“How is it a secret? You know it’s a piece for the stage. And you know, for starters, that I need to see Pickering—”

“That doesn’t help! It makes me think you’re pulling a Geneva.”