MC

Title:
Living in Color
Author:
Andrew Messer & Jake Nyberg
© 2007 Andrew Messer & Jake Nyberg

Published by
MUSHROOM CLOUD PRESS
a division of
BIG RODENT PRODUCTIONS
Orlando, FL

Permission for performance of this piece is granted for the purpose of performance in
competition by middle school, high school, and undergraduate collegiate performers. Theatrical
performance and all other kinds of public performance, whether broadcast, online, or on stage,
are prohibited without prior written permission from Mushroom Cloud Press.

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“Winning Rounds Since 2000”
Alex: Have you ever seen what an actor looks like onstage, under the bright spotlights, without
any makeup? Every flaw, every imperfection, every splotch of color on their face is
highlighted. When you put makeup on, you cover those up. I mean, you can use the light to
create shadow, and colors to illustrate...you’re telling a story. I like makeup. It’s a new story
each time. Sometimes, though, you’re just writing the final pages of a story someone else has
been writing. But the process is the same, you know. Doing makeup on the dead is just like
doing makeup on actors.

It’s difficult to find someone that’s never been to a funeral. Funerals are constant
reminders of our own mortality, yet we try extremely hard to make the dead seem alive. We put
pressed suits and fresh dresses on our loved ones, and if you’ve ever looked closely, their hair is
combed, and their face is placid, and covered with gentle layer of makeup. Everybody dies, but
not everybody lives.

Living In Color

by Andrew Messer and Jake Nyberg

Doing makeup on the dead is not that different from doing makeup on actors, except the
dead usually complain less. (chuckles, starts applying makeup, and this continues) Of course, I
didn’t start out just doing makeup. I wanted to be an actor, you know? I was going to give it a
shot. But that ship sailed, and sunk. I love makeup, you know? I really do. I just never thought
I’d end up working back in the same little town I grew up in. But, I needed work, and the
mortuary needed help.

It took me about a month to get over the whole dead-body-makeup thing, but once I got
comfortable with that, it was easy. Use colors, shades, create a look. Create a performance.
That’s what I love, the performance.
 My first performance was in “West Side Story.” It was my junior year of high school.
After my audition, the director stopped me, said he really enjoyed my audition, and asked why I
had never been there earlier. I laughed and made some excuse about being a late bloomer or
something. The truth was, I hadn’t had the courage.

Oh, it wasn’t stage fright. See, the theatre season and the football season conflicted.
Performing in a play meant not performing on the field, and that was unacceptable to my father.
Auditioning for a play meant working up the courage to tell my father that I didn’t want to play
football anymore. (quickly) So, I did that, I auditioned, and I won a decent role. I loved
performing. I mean, first it was “West Side,” then there was “Fame” and then I landed a role in
“Our Town.” I loved every minute of stage time, and every performance. And I had always
liked doing my own makeup. (pauses)

The families are asked to provide a photo and, if they desire, some general directions for
me to work from. Most of the photos are from years ago…ages ago—their wedding, the birth of
their children, or a birthday, perhaps, their happiest days. (looks at a tag) Doris Carlson. (shows
her photo) See? Her wedding. A beautiful dress, and a beautiful smile. (reads) “Please
capture the radiance of her smile.” Of course, it’s been sixty years. Her teeth are gone and
her eyes will be closed…but...

After my final two years of high school, I was sold on theatre. I wanted to go to college,
and I was going to be a theatre major. My father wasn’t happy with that. He believed I had
already ruined my chances of a football scholarship, and he never let me forget it. And there was
no way that he was going to let me give up the last remaining slivers of hope on college football
by pursuing theatre.

“You’re not going.”

It was never a question, it was always a statement. If I wasn’t going to play football, I
wasn’t going to go to college. But he couldn’t control that. I applied, and I was accepted.

“I’m not going to pay for it. You’re on your own.”

 I knew that. That assumption had been made. So, I went off to college, declared my
major right from the start, and worked my ass off to pay for the tuition, the books, and fees for
costumes, scripts, auditions, and…makeup. But I was doing it. I kept in touch with the folks.
Usually when I called, it was my mother who picked up,and I never even spoke to my father.
When he picked up the phone, he went and got my mother. (sardonically laughs) Obviously, my
mother and I grew closer during those years. She even made it to a few of the big performances
I had at the college. I always had the glimmer of hope that he might come along. He never did.

In fact, in my last year there, I had the lead role in “All My Sons.” My mother was
ecstatic, and she came to the opening performance. I kept thinking he’d show. I mean, it was
my last college show. I kept thinking he’d surprise me, just once. (sardonic, again) Of course,
he stayed true to form, and stayed home. Of all the years, and all the performances he refused to
come to, that one hurt the most…but that night, there was someone else in the audience. An
talent agent. He was waiting for me outside the stage door after the show. He was a real agent,
and he was from New York. He told me that if I ever ended up in the Big Apple, I should call
him. I could see it. My name in lights. “Starring Alex McMahon!”

(looking down at body) Hmm, something’s not right here. (snaps fingers softly) It’s the
blush. The blush is a little…off. (adjusts blush) I swear, it’s the blush that does it.
Everything else sort of relies on the blush. It’s the last little addition, but at the same time, it’s
the largest component.

Two months after I graduated, I made the big move. I called the agent, and he agreed to
try and find me some auditions. As the months went by, I had a few auditions, but nothing
major. I wasn’t earning much--I was mostly doing clerical grunt work—and I had a hard time
staying ahead of the bills. Then, about a year after I moved out there, I started making
callbacks. I had a few callbacks, and then I had a few callbacks…and then I had a few callbacks.

I never made it. I never could make the cut and land a role. And then, I was broke. I
had no options. I was evicted, and I didn’t have any long-term work possibilities, so, I came
back here. Back home. The first thing I had to do was ask my parents for a loan, and then the
past came rushing back, with all the things that had been left unsaid for years.
 “What happened?”

‘I don’t know, Dad, I guess New York happened.”

“Oh, and you couldn’t take it. I’ve known it for years, but your mother and you were so
content to see you go off and try and find whatever it was you thought that acting had for you.
But I could have told you years ago that you were wasting your time. But no, you wanted to go
off and be one of those theater faggots!”

(Alex is silent)

That was it. The money changed hands and I found a cheap apartment, and we never
spoke after that. Then I found a good job here at the mortuary, and those skills that I had
developed backstage for years came in handy. (smiles slightly) My mother and I still speak
every once in a while. She calls. In fact, just yesterday, and she still doesn’t know I work here,
and after everything…I prefer it that way.

Sometimes, all we have to work with is the photo. Usually, I don’t even meet any of the
family. The mortician himself usually deals with the family and the funeral details. All I get is
the photo, maybe the short request on the back. There’s never any story. (picks up photo, shows
photo) Jack McMahon. It’s a photo of him holding his infant son. (looks at the back of photo)
“Please, make my husband look this proud.”

I can do it, Dad. I can make you look that proud. But you still have one final
performance. (looks down) You look good, Dad. You look damn good.