Impatient Yearnings By Rhonda Hansome

When we left off last week:  I had only two minutes remaining in my five minute session alone with this noted black casting director.  I ignored the rambunctious voice in my head.  It was only Martha Baily Burnett’s histrionics about the $8.00 per minute I’d paid to see Twinkie, being more than many these days make an hour.  After successfully locking Martha in a rococo armoire, I took a very expensive moment to consider Twinkie’s arresting question.  Where do I see myself?  $4.00 worth of seconds later, I had nothing but rolling tumble weeds and the chirp of crickets to block the sound of Martha Bailey Burnett’s outsized clown shoes kicking the armoire door.  Nothing, zippo, goose egg, nada my recent all-purpose (too frequent) response to a major life question.  How can I answer Twinkie about the present when I’m preoccupied pondering questions from the past?  Like, why did I stop performing stand-up?  

What could be better than filling arenas with laughter while opening for musical stars like Diana Ross, Anita Baker, James Brown and Aretha Franklin; 

                                                                                                    

working out new material on the main stage in Catskills resorts  

and Las Vegas casinos, the bonhomie of hilarious co-workers combined with free drinks?  Well, a lucrative three picture deal, my own hit TV show headed to syndication and never ending residuals or at least a string of financially rewarding failed pilots while I awaited lightning in a bottle.  I dreamed of being so successful that my comedy laurels would allow me to appear on any and every late night national talk show, promoting my latest movie, Broadway appearance or (tax sheltered) not-for –profit foundation, and never even crack a joke.  Perfectly styled and coiffed, I’d sit and reminisce with the host about our recent golf game (I don't golf but I can dream can't I?) , our early days in comedy clubs or my banner behavior of a comedy genius in full mental breakdown: running naked down Sunset Blvd. waving a gun.  

“NEVER GONNA HAPPEN!” screamed Impatient Yearnings, a strident voice (among the seven) in my head.  Impatient Yearnings don't fool around.  She'd soon stride into my long gathering fog of marital angst and with Amazon strength toss a three decade marriage out the door.  Anyway, with uncanny expertise, she took advantage of my (admittedly short sighted) professional frustrations and single handedly cast a seventeen year comedy career adrift.  With my Brooklyn College School of Performing Arts B.A. assisted by additional training (Lincoln Center Directors Lab, Women's Project Directors' Forum, SDC, Frank Silvera Writers Workshop Directors, etc) as a serious director, I jumped from the lion’s den of comedy into the shark tank, NYC theatre.  I cast my net Off- Broadway, umm, Off-Off- Broadway; OK - a community playhouse hidden in the Roy Wilkins recreation center in Jamaica, NY.  Who knew in spite of my extensive theatre experience, I’d spend the coming years competing with new to NY fledgling director wanna-be’s, for non- paying positions! Where do I see myself?  I see me choking Impatient Yearnings.

To be continued...