Starring on Bay Street

By Jan Peterson Ewen

Adrian Williams is fighting to keep a local theater from taking its final bow. Formerly a professional stage actress, she has now turned her expertise from promoting herself to promoting the aspirations and dreams of a community of larger-than-life characters. The old, 1914 structure that houses the makeshift theater sits on the shores of the beautiful Puget Sound in a small, blue-collar town in the Pacific Northwest.
Starring on Bay Street follows the lives of Adrian, her amateur theater group, her growing family and an incredible cast of comical characters as they struggle, persevere and ultimately thrive. Framed by a main stage production of The Pirates of Penzance, from opening night accidents to closing night bows, this comically touching story is replete with the joys and mishaps that are ever-present in local community theater. Laced throughout the five weeks of performance, the real life dynamics of the participants unfold - the growth of an adult acting class that embraces a group of courageous women in the process of reinventing their lives through the arts; the life passages of a failing, elderly actor and his rising, young protégé; the needs of Adrian’s own talented family; her challenge of dealing with a short-sighted Board of Directors and the personal decisions that plague her as she weighs her love for these people and the success of the theater, against her own sanity and personal fulfillment.
Full of comedic dialogue, human foibles and moving interactions, Starring on Bay Street will touch your heart, stir your emotions and inspire you to find your inner muse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jan Peterson Ewen
• Release date: Jan 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311600264

Jan Peterson Ewen

Jan Peterson Ewen is the published author of Fractured Fairy Tale Scenes for Student Actors: a Collection of Contemporary Scenes, (Meriwether Publishing, 2013) and Sci-Fi Scenes and Monster Dreams: a Collection of Acting Scenes for Student Actors (working title) which will be released in Fall 2015 (Meriwether Publishing/Pioneer Drama Services). She has also published two books of drama scenes with Lillenas Publishing. Jan serves as the Artistic Director of Western Wa. Center for the Arts where she directs theatrical productions and teaches voice and acting. Jan has also been a professional singer and actress. She is thrilled to offer readers her debut novel, "Starring on Bay Street" and looks forward to offering many more.

Book preview

CHAPTER TWO

There are the remains of a fine woman about Ruth.

— Gilbert & Sullivan, The Pirates of Penzance

THE MORNING WAS overcast as Adrian wrestled her key into the lock of the heavy glass door. On the wet street behind her, she could hear car after car making its way through the soggy town toward the aging business district. There, brightly painted facades signaled a desperate attempt to lure visitors to stop and shop. They stood like peeled and broken crayons in a well-worn box, pleading for citizens to patronize them rather than continue on down Bay Street to the mini-malls and giant discount warehouses.

Remember us? They seemed to shout from the mismatched array of gaudy storefronts. We established this town long ago, when your grandparents had nowhere else to shop. We supplied all their needs: food, hardware, dry goods, tools, clothing, books, sundries, and farm supplies. Don’t forsake us now just to save a few dollars! Where is your loyalty? Where is your hometown pride? But the decaying cries fell on deaf ears. It was just a matter of time before the line of shops would be wearing neon signs for the latest tattoo parlor or twenty-four hour bail bonds office.

It’s damn cold and wet for August, Adrian thought as she pulled her collar tight against her neck. She pressed the lower door panel with her foot, and jiggled the key  just right to release the lock. The heavy door swung open and she stepped into the dark lobby carefully juggling her steaming Americano, shoulder bag, and computer case.

There were few things more depressing to Adrian than an empty theater. Cold, dark and quiet, its dynamic persona from the night before had now become one with the slate gray morning. This past weekend, the lobby had played host to a hundred, bubbling patrons. Warm light reflecting from the ochre walls had made the faces of the audience glow. They brimmed with satisfaction; beautiful melodies resonating in their ears.

Adrian flipped on the lobby lights and noticed a note taped to the office door. She pulled it off and read,

Adrian,

Aside from the massive flooding episode, it was a great opening weekend. We sold out every night - thank God. That will help us catch up again. I’ll be in early on Friday before the show for our meeting.

See you then, Fred

Adrian tucked the note into her pocket and smiled. Once again, The Pirates of Penzance had stood the test of time as a Gilbert and Sullivan masterpiece. The opening weekend performances had been exceptional under the circumstances. Of course, there were always a few problems. The lighting was inadequate for the size of the stage. The music was too loud during several of the numbers, overpowering the weaker singers. Throughout the second show an older couple in the audience, apparently hard of hearing, discussed the plot in detail as if they were in their living room coaching the contestants on Let’s Make a Deal. And then, of course, there was the little problem with the toilet.

Adrian accepted the inevitable difficulties with a heavy sigh. That’s just the way things go in local theater, she thought to herself. You do what you can with what you’ve got. Those who do the best with the least amount of resources will receive a nice jewel in their heavenly crown. There is no earthly prize except a healthy dose of self-satisfaction. And that, others had suggested to her on several occasions, should suffice.

Adrian regretted her cynicism and tried to improve her attitude. Why do I always feel the need to point out the obvious shortcomings? The performances were wonderful under any circumstance. The actors did well and the audience had a great time. Nothing else matters. I should be proud of how well everything came together and not obsess about the things I can't change. Opening weekend was a success, case closed.

Though there were many trials and tribulations that came along with running a small community theater, Adrian knew that bigger was not always better. Having a larger theater could also bring diminishing returns. Sitting in the back row of a twenty-five hundred seat house did not necessarily deliver a better experience than being up close and personal in the heart of an intimate local theater. It didn’t matter how many awards an actor had received if, after a thirty week run, his heart was no longer in the part. Paying the equivalent of a week’s worth of groceries for a ticket in the orchestra section did not guarantee an awe-inspiring performance.

Adrian knew these things. She had performed in theaters with twenty-five hundred seats and knew it was a faceless experience. But there were still times she longed for more than a makeshift theater in a creaky old building with a measly budget and a collection of inexperienced, albeit willing, participants.

Adrian unzipped her fleece jacket and threw it on a nearby chair. Standing in the small lobby, hands on hips, she assessed the aftermath. A few orphaned props and costume pieces littered the area. She could see several small, abandoned wine bottles and a couple of soda cans in need of recycling. All things considered this was not a terrible mess. She started to gather the odds and ends as she moved down the hallway.

Adrian began to sing the pirate’s theme song to herself,

"With cat-like tred, upon our prey we steal.

In silence dread, our cautious way we feel."

One of the advantages of being alone in the theater was having a cavernous place to let loose and sing with complete abandon. Adrian became accustomed to the sound of her singular voice in the void and, as was her habit, she began to sing her heart out.

"No sound at all! We never speak a word;

A fly’s foot-fall would be distinctly heard."

Her voice resonated through every nook and cranny of the old building as she went about her cleaning ritual with gusto. She sang molto fortissimo and relished the rich, echoing tones. Only a cavernous cathedral could have improved the resonance.

Singing with a full voice was physically and spiritually therapeutic for Adrian. The physical process felt like an internal massage. Her strong diaphragm pressed on her inner organs as her lungs took in a smooth column of air. Her ribs expanded with each new breath, then slowly released as she sustained and controlled a lengthy phrase. As she used the last particle of air, her strong diaphragm returned to a resting position, eager and ready to expand again. It was all so natural - so easy and fluid. For years she had taken this process of singing for granted.

She remembered her first foray into formalized singing as a nine-year-old in the church children’s choir. She wore a one-size-fits-all, cardinal red smock with a large, droopy, white bow around her neck. She and her fellow pint-sized musicians looked like young French painters without the benefit of berets.

Adrian remembered her mother coming up to her at the end of a service one Sunday after the choir had sung a particularly sweet song that only had meaning when sung by children. She spoke to her daughter with a straight face, which was her custom when it came to the subject of talent. You could be a professional singer when you grow up: if you want to be.

Adrian was confused by this. What’s a professional singer? she asked her mother.

Someone who makes a living by singing. Someone who gets paid to sing. Adrian’s mother should know. She was a professional singer, though Adrian didn’t fully understand that at the time. Adrian’s mother sang with the local opera company and performed the soprano solos in lush oratorios with area symphonies. She certainly knew what she was talking about.

Still, Adrian didn’t quite understand. But… everybody sings, she replied. Her mother just smiled and said, "Not everyone sings like you, dear. You have a gift." From that moment on, Adrian began to think of herself as a singer. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but it was part of who she was: a singer.

As she grew, she would sit next to her mother in church on Sundays when the children’s choir was on hiatus. The organ would play a short rousing introduction and then Adrian’s mother would sing out clear and loud. It would embarrass Adrian. People would turn and stare, but her mother didn’t care. She just kept on singing because she loved it. She had a beautifully clear soprano voice. It was the most perfect voice Adrian had ever heard. As a child, she thought it must be what angels sounded like. At the end of each hymn, her mother would always go for an extra high note, even though it was not written in the music.

It didn’t really matter much that her mother sang so loud in church. Everybody in their church sang loud. It was one of the requirements for being a Methodist. You had to love to sing and you had to sing loud. Adrian remembered standing in the middle of the church, hearing the congregation singing all around her. The vibrations would bring goosebumps to her arms.

When they were singing a hymn that had four or five verses, which most of them did, Adrian’s mother would encourage her squirming daughter to sightread the harmonies. On the first verse, they always sang the melody. That was a good solid way to start any song. On verse two she would sight-read the alto part. On verse three she would tackle the tenor part. If a hymn was really long, she would even try to read the bass part. This is how Adrian got through church services and learned to be a proficient sight reader at the same time.

Adrian’s father was a minister with the United Methodist church. He served in seven different churches before Adrian graduated high school. Singing was second nature to him, too. He would stand at the pulpit and lead the congregation with his strong sure voice. Judging from his rapt expression and tremendous vigor, there was no doubt he believed in the subject matter. But Adrian’s mother picked all the hymns. Regardless of church recommendations for the liturgical season, she would only approve hymns that were singable and so many were not.

Adrian’s father had a rich, baritone speaking voice that delivered ‘one helluva sermon’; at least that’s what people told her. Most of the time Adrian wasn’t listening. But she loved her father and the sound of his voice. Everybody loved her father. It seemed like he walked with a glow around his head. Not because he was perfect, but because he loved others so much.

At holidays, their house was filled with loners and those less fortunate. Widows without children, divorcees, young sailors stationed far from home, and youth who preferred to celebrate anywhere but their own houses. Anyone who needed a family was welcomed. Her parents were always available. Adrian’s mother and father could recognize a person in need from a mile off.  They would swoop in, and before the stranger knew what had hit, they had become an adopted son or daughter.

When Adrian was a young woman, she received extensive vocal training. She studied opera, classical music, and her first love – musical theater. Her prominent teachers and vocal coaches considered her ability exceptional. She performed professionally for years and won many prestigious competitions and awards. But her career had not fallen into place as easily as she imagined it would. Adrian faced  a major road block that robbed her of her dream and altered her course. Now, though her mature voice was still rich and agile, her hope of a lifelong singing career had passed her by.

As she entered the green room, a catch-all for leftover props and costumes, Adrian caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her tendency in recent years had been to avoid looking at her reflection for any length of time. But today, for some reason, she steadied herself and stared back at the woman facing her with grim determination.

A line from the current show sprang to mind, as often happened during the day. Adrian substituted her own name for the character’s and commented out loud to her reflection. There are the remains of a fine woman about Adrian. That sentiment seemed particularly apropos as she studied the soft, maturing face that stared back at her.

At age 54, Adrian could still pass for good-looking. Most women would give their right arm to have her genes. Her skin was smooth and her complexion was creamy, with few noticeable wrinkles. She had large, blue eyes that she considered her best feature. Her thick, blond hair worked diligently to camouflage the encroaching gray. It fell naturally, in loose soft curls that rested on her shoulders. And though ample in figure, she still managed to maintain some semblance of a waistline.

Though time had been kind to her appearance, she missed those days when looking her best took little or no effort. She remembered when a flip of the hair and a splash of water would suffice. Now that seemed like a different life. She vaguely recalled a time when joints never ached and skin never drooped; a time when there were no hideous scars to conceal or decisions to regret. When creative energy flowed with ease, like toilet water through a smoke detector. When inspiration didn't spring from the bottom of her evening glass of wine or morning cup of coffee.

Adrian was at an age when she and her contemporaries were stunned by the slow continual decline of their once vibrant bodies. They were riddled with disbelief at the massive changes that had occurred to them over the years. It was as if they were unwilling subjects in some bizarre ongoing experiment. With little effort, they had developed into beautiful young women, and then slowly and steadily time was taking back that gift of youth. Outwardly they smiled with polite acceptance. Inwardly they mourned as they felt their former vitality slip through their fingers.

At the same time, they were valiantly looking for every possible bright side and silver lining they could find. Like their mothers before them, they struggled to keep up and reinvent themselves with each passing decade. They tried to proceed with dignity despite what they perceived as their escalating flaws. They knew they must look outside themselves to find new significance. They were distracted with one obsession after another. Anything was better than facing their declining selves: this person they hardly recognized and to whom they could not fully relate.

We’re not getting older, we’re getting better! It was the rally cry of the desperate, middle-aged woman. The truth is, Adrian considered, women hate getting older. They find it hard to believe they will ever get any better than they are right now or have been in the past.

Adrian shook off her thoughts and turned her attention to the task at hand. She waltzed down the hallway to the back of the theater; her arms now brimming with rescued props and costume pieces. She whistled while she worked, serenading herself and anyone else within earshot.

"Come friends who plow the sea!

Truce to navigation. Take another station!"

She gathered up two rubber knives, one mop cap, a single dirty sock, someone’s old tube of lipstick, and a few crumpled programs.

Let’s vary piracy with a little burglary!

Circling the stage and passing through the green room, she dropped off each wayward object in its proper place. Then she returned to the main office to get down to business.

For the past twelve years, Adrian Williams had been artistic director at the West Side Center for the Arts in Port Claire, Washington. Port Claire was a growing blue-collar town, snuggly situated on the shores of Puget Sound. The town was established in 1880. It had thrived through the years thanks to the Federal Government and its need to maintain giant aircraft carriers and submarines for rapid deployment. The Naval shipyard had long employed the majority of people in town and had even hosted President Roosevelt himself, who on a visit in 1944 said he wanted a first-hand view of certain bases that are of vital importance to the ending of the war and to the prevention in the future of any similar attack.

But times were changing and so were the residents. Situated just a hop, skip, and a ferry-ride from Seattle, Port Claire was budding into a crisp clean white-collar destination. Neatly designed housing developments sprang up overnight. They sat in stark contrast to the worn-down homes of the worn-out working class that stood out like unsightly bruises on an otherwise pristine piece of fruit.

Port Claire was blessed with good bones. Her locale was picturesque and could have supported a major tourist industry as a quaint little harbor getaway. But, as the town grew, the city planners had been eager to construct quick efficient structures and had not kept even one eye on aesthetics. So the town lost much of its potential charm to big business needs, strip malls, and imposing billboards.

Towering firs, lacy cedars, and giant deciduous trees grew wherever a portion of loamy soil remained. Wild dogwoods, impressive rhododendrons, azaleas, huckleberries, cascading blackberry vines, fruit trees, and lush ferns skirted the town. Any undeveloped land stood as a witness to the concept of abundance.

The town sat on the edge of the most precious jewel of the Northwest, the vast Puget Sound. Was there ever an inland body of water that was more intricately designed or richly bountiful? Countless coves and intriguing islands dotted the seascape, luring curious natives to explore her endless secrets. On rocky shores and in the vast liquid darkness, her briny body nourished life itself; from the simplest one cell organism to the giant mammals of the sea.

The main street of Port Claire wound along the picturesque bay hugging its bank like a child clinging to its mother. Nestled in a cozy bend, an old historic building stood with its slightly faded façade. This timeworn establishment was currently home to the West Side Center for the Arts. Though it was a small local theater it sported a grandiose name. The structure was large and boxy with a line of heavy posts in front that held up the sloping roof of the first floor.

Ten years earlier, the theater had been conceived out of this declining relic on the waterfront. Slated for destruction, the building had begun tilting toward starboard as it stood on rotted pilings in what was once the shoreline. It was first built in 1914 - old by northwest standards - as the Knights of Pythias Lodge. What a proud history it had to date! Through its long illustrious career the building had served as Joe’s Sports Bar, the Little Critter Daycare, Kitsap Tae Kwon Do Studio, and as the backdrop for Mildred’s Academy of Gymnastics and Ballet.

With the wrecking ball imminent, the old structure miraculously received a reprieve. A small committee of five, of which Adrian was one, talked the owner into leasing the distraught building to them. They had the crazy idea of reviving the ailing structure to serve as a local community theater. The committee soon grew to include an impressive number of volunteers. Together they gutted and hauled away years of history, making their way through the debris to a solid wood floor. After weeks of mopping and scraping these carefully laid boards became the foundation for their future theatrical creations.

The committee was able to fit seventy-eight old red velvet seats onto five raised platforms that looked down on the stage. The Bay Street Movie Theater donated the seats. They were upgrading to a wider model that would better accommodate their current clientele. It was difficult to sell concessions to patrons who had to squeeze into tight seats.

The raised steps and classic seats looked down onto a wide triangular stage area. The group had designed the layout out of necessity and to maximize the small seating space. But the resulting configuration worked surprisingly well for staging. It placed the audience up close and