Read Online Attack of the Theater People by Marc Acito - Free Book Online

for
Les Miz
or anything else. Everything about me is wrong, wrong, wrong. My spirit doesn’t run free; it runs into brick walls. I have the emotional depth of a Very Special Episode of
Growing Pains
. If I were a river, I’d be shallow enough to cross without rolling up your pants.
    I need help.
    That’s why I accept Willow’s invitation to join her at a free, introductory consciousness-raising session with EGG, the Enlightened Growth Group. Following the lone algebraic equation I remember—if a = b and b = c, then a = c—I figure that since Willow is both a gifted actor and an EGG practitioner, maybe it’ll help my acting, too.
    The session takes place in a meeting room at the Sheraton, a rather bland environment for a psychological breakthrough, but I’m determined to keep an open mind. After all, I don’t want to manifest an aneurysm or a brain tumor.
    There are hundreds of us assembled on those chairs that connect so you’re sitting closer to a stranger than you’d like. A lot of the people seem to know one another, judging from the overlong hugs and soulful stares. As a group of Growth Facilitators motions us to our seats, Willow turns to me with the panicked look of someone who just remembered she left the water running. With a child in the tub.
    “Did you pee?” she says.
    “You mean just now? No, I’m continent, thank you.”
    “I mean—”
    She’s interrupted by an explosion of applause as a team of radiantly happy people takes the stage, led by a middle-aged man with a gleaming cue-ball head and a glassy-eyed expression. He wears a collarless Indian shirt, which marks him as a Spiritual Person. He joins in the applause and soon we’re all clapping rhythmically. For five minutes.
    It’s a funny thing about five minutes. If you’re running five minutes late, it speeds right by; but try clapping rhythmically for longer than thirty seconds and the novelty wears off fast.
    The leader motions us to sit down, then stares at us so long I find myself nostalgic for the clapping. Finally he says, “I see you.”
    “I see you,” responds the crowd, or at least those who know what the hell’s going on.
    This exchange warrants more applause. “Happy birthday!” the leader shouts.
    “Happy birthday!” shouts the crowd, followed by an even bigger ovation. I swear, I haven’t seen this much unwarranted appreciation since the high school musical.
    The leader quiets us again.
    “Today is your birthday, the day you begin a new life. The day you become who you are truly meant to be.” He closes his eyes. “Let us begin.”
    He leads us through a guided meditation in which we are to envision laying an egg. That’s right, an egg. Large enough to accommodate a human baby. He’s a little hazy on the anatomical details, telling us only that “it emanates from your kundalini,” wherever that is. All around me people grunt and puff, Lamaze-style, but I can’t get past the idea that I’m supposed to be shitting an oversize egg. I can see why Willow asked me if I needed to go to the bathroom. With all the pushing, now I really need to pee.
    Still, I manage to pass my egg, which apparently contains my inner child, who must peck, peck, peck his way out until he finally gets fed up and punches a hole in his shell with a tiny, inner-child-sized fist.
    “That is why you’re here,” the leader says, “to break out of your shells. Most of us go through life protected, held captive in prisons of our own making. Not us. Not here. Not now.” He pauses, as if he’s about to say something profound, or perhaps shit another egg. “Not. Ever.”
    More rhythmic applause. My palms look like smoked salmon.
    We’re then instructed to wander the room, letting everyone else see us for who we truly are, our “unshelled selves.” (Try saying that ten times fast.) “And when you see someone, truly see them,” the leader says. “Stop and tell them.” He demonstrates with an assistant, bearing down on her with a