If Only ...

(Traviata, Hammies, and the Cookie Monster)

Jim Diederich

You could say that I had my chances for the big win, a real Hammy, in the fall 2004 Traviata, but sometimes circumstances conspire to rob you of that fifteen nanoseconds of fame and misfortune.

The first factor working against me was �supernumerary instinct.� All had gone well in rehearsals moving from stage right to stage left as Violetta's party came to its grand conclusion. But in the heat of the final dress, with hoops all about me, I made a spirited dash to get into position across the stage. It was only instinct gained from years of supering that was my undoing, a sense of irresistible forces colliding. I hit my brakes, an ABS super-ultra-smooth stop.* Steve Clarke, right behind me, with a nimble avoidance maneuver, observed Flora's expression of horror at the impending collision. If only � I could've been somebody.

The next factor was the damnable conjunction of a klutz (me) and an absolutely wonderful human being, Katherine �Kat� Rohrer [below, among Supers]. If only she had been a little older, a little more experienced, she would have had me thrown out of the show, and the Hammy would have been mine. But no, she had to send the Supers bags full of sweets on opening night. When, at the final dress, in my angst to exit quickly, being the last person to leave the stage before Violetta's �Sempre Libera,� I stepped on Kat's train, jerking her back into view just as she hit the doorway, did she scream at me? No, Kat didn't say a word, not even a Super note at the next performance. And when I repeated the stunt on opening night, the same thing, not a word. The Merola Program needs a serious course in diva behavior training. If only �

But nothing matches the last one, having a prop sleuth on your tail. It all started with Kat and her �Come on boys, let's give 'em some cook-kies� as we dutifully tried to serve our canapés � in reality, trans-fat laden chocolate-dolloped dough � to the dining choristers. Those unwieldy prongs just didn't work well in getting cookies off the serving plate. But there was an elegant solution: lay the cookies one against the other, in shiplap-siding fashion, and voila, problem solved. That is, until the prop sleuth, after a lengthy two-minute investigation, got her man. �Do you realize that you broke all of the cookies on the tray below yours?� she snapped at me. My life flashed before my eyes. Would I be charged with felony inappropriate handling of my prop or would it be a mere misdemeanor touching charge? Reeling from the encounter and only much later, in a true esprit de l'escalier moment did I realize that the best solution would have been to flick the cookies, in sixth-grade fashion, off the tray, across the table and into the laps of the choristers, and that Hammy would have been all mine. Instead, I could only mope in obscurity, hoping for that lifetime-achievement Hammy. If only �

* ABS = Anti-lock Braking System