Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

Monica nudged me in the ribs. “Likely story. Guy probably can’t tell time.”

“Be nice,” Rita whispered.

“Places, everyone,” Lance barked. “Get ready to run through act three, scene one.”

This was the part where all the action took place-the part where Claudia’s character, Roxanne, confronts the villain who brags he just killed her lover and tells her she’ll be his next victim unless she goes along with his blackmail scheme. She does what any red-blooded woman would do-she shoots him. At least that’s what happens in Lance’s version of what a red-blooded woman caught up in those circumstances would do.

“Let’s go through the scene first without props, then a second time with them.”

Claudia, Bernie, and I took our places.

As I mentioned, I played the part of Myrna, the housekeeper. Putting on what I imagined to be my best housekeeper countenance, I entered the pretend living room and announced that the lady of the house had a visitor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill give me the thumbs-up as I exited stage right.

Claudia ran through her lines, but her heart clearly wasn’t in her performance. Bernie Mason was even worse. He kept flubbing his dialogue. When Lance berated him, Bernie admitted he’d been spending most of his time on the golf course instead of memorizing lines.

Lance, obviously frustrated, ran his fingers through his hair. No amount of spray could help a hairstyle withstand that amount of torture. If Lance happened to glance in a mirror, he’d scare himself. His usually smooth blow-dried style stood up in spikes. “How hard can it be, people, to inject a little emotion? Didn’t anyone believe me when I said we’re going to stay until we get this right-even if it takes all night?”

Rita and Monica exchanged looks. Neither looked happy at Lance’s decree. Bill and Gus kept their heads bent over a set of blueprints. There was no telling what they were thinking-probably calling Lance a big fat jerk like the rest of us.

“Let’s take five, everyone. Then we’ll run through the scene again. Bernie, you stand aside and watch while I show a bunch of amateurs how it’s supposed to be done. Maybe using the props will inject some life into this scene.”

“Take five” always sounds so… so… theatrical. But I quickly learned that in reality the five invariably turns into ten-and occasionally fifteen. We milled about, chitchat-ted, took bathroom breaks, and complained about Lance. No one seemed to like the guy.

“The man’s an idiot,” Bill said in a low voice. “A complete and total idiot.”

“Let’s hope Claudia comes to her senses before it’s too late,” I said, remembering the argument I’d overheard.

Bill’s look sharpened. “What do you mean?”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Lance look at his probably fake Rolex. The take-five break was over. I needed to confide in someone, but this was not the time or place. “Later,” I told Bill. “Why don’t you stop over for coffee and lemon bars?” Do I know how to play the seductress, or not?

He thought about it for a second, then nodded. “OK.”

We resumed our places onstage.

“Claudia”-Lance pointed a finger at her-“I want to see you put some fire into your lines.”

Tightlipped, Claudia gestured at the table holding the props. “Is the gun real?”

“Of course,” Lance snarled. “What did you think we were going to use-a cap pistol?”

“I didn’t know…” Her voice trailed off.

“Don’t be such a wuss. Just remember what I told you earlier, and you’ll be fine.”

Monica jumped to perform her duty as prop princess. Oops! I meant prop mistress. She gingerly placed the gun on a small table temporarily substituting as a desk, then retreated to the sidelines.

Claudia assumed her place center stage. “One more time, Lance. Then I’m calling it quits.”

“That’s for the director to decide, and, in case you’ve forgotten, that happens to be me.”

“Will you two stop bickering?” Rita folded her arms across her impressive bosom, a disgusted look on her face. “Can we please get on with rehearsal?”

Lance huffed out a breath. “Remember, people, this is the scene where Roxanne, Claudia’s character, confronts the man who brags he murdered her soul mate. I don’t want puppets. I want action. I want drama. I want emotion!”

I cleared my throat, then nodded to Monica, who pressed a buzzer serving as a doorbell. Our esteemed producer-director-writer-star wanted drama? Wanted emotion? Would my character, Myrna, be more interesting as a bipolar housekeeper-one who forgot to take her meds? Would Lance applaud my portrayal and nominate me for best actress in a supporting role? Or should I play it straight? Knowing the limitations of my acting ability, I played it straight. I entered, recited my lines, and exited, leaving Lance, subbing for Bernie, and Claudia-Roxanne to their big scene.

Claudia looked decidedly more animated this run-through. Lance read Bernie’s lines, in which he brags to Roxanne that he killed her lover and now intends to blackmail her.

I watched from the wings along with the others while she opened a pretend desk drawer and pulled out a gun.

She took aim at the villain’s chest. “Take that! And that and that!” she cried as she fired three rounds.

Lance fell to the floor. A single red blossom stained the front of his yellow oxford cloth shirt.

“He’s not moving.”

Claudia dismissed Rita’s concern with a wave of her hand. “Of course not, silly. He’s a pro, bent on showing us mere amateurs a thing or two about acting.”

And then it dawned on me.

Suddenly my brain cells fired on all cylinders. “Was Lance ever on CSI?” I asked.

Claudia shrugged. “Yeah, he had a bit part a couple years ago.”

A distant image floated across my memory bank and crystallized. “I think I remember the episode. Did he once play a corpse?”

Memory is a strange thing. At times I can recall the smallest, most insignificant details. Other times I suffer senior moments-those irritating lapses when you remember a face but not the name; times you hope your children never know about. They’d send you packing to Assisted Living ’R Us in a New York minute.

“Yes, he did.” Claudia let loose a harsh bark of laughter. “Let me tell you, I’m sick and tired of hearing about sexy Marg Helgenberger, who plays Catherine Willows on the show. Marg’s the reason I dyed my hair this color.”

Respect for Lance inched up a notch. I might not like the guy personally, but he had talent. Real talent. Anyone who can lie on a stainless steel table, a Y incision plainly visible on his torso, while a camera hovers overhead wins my sincere admiration. Not a single twitch. Not a blink. No slight rise and fall of the chest. Yes, sirree, someone who could play a corpse on CSI was truly gifted.

Rita edged closer. “You mean Lance is just pretending he’s dead?”

Monica’s dark brows drew together in a frown. “If he’s faking, why’s there blood on his shirt?”

Hmm. Monica posed a good question-a very good question.

Claudia’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Because it’s not blood. It’s dye.”

“Dye?” Monica repeated, obviously in need of convincing. “Why would Lance ruin a perfectly good shirt?”

“He wouldn’t.” Claudia huffed out a breath. “Especially if it’s Ralph Lauren. Lance claimed the dye is biodegradable. Guaranteed not to stain.”

I studied Lance’s supine figure, sprawled across the floorboards. He still hadn’t moved a muscle or fluttered an eyelid. Let me be the first to say this: Lance Ledeaux could have won an Emmy for his portrayal of a dead guy.