Tiger, Tiger

My first role on stage was the result of pure coercion. It was my first term of Grade Nine, having shed none of the shyness, fear and fat of my middle school trauma, and the head of drama, Ms. Adams, told me I had to audition for that year's musical, West Side Story.

It was a directive: I was auditioning. It didn't matter that the words "singing and dancing" lit a forest fire of horror in my head. Nor did my repeated pleas of incompetence. She said I had to, so I had to.

It was awful.

My self-worth was an aphid. I could barely stand being seen to walk, let alone dance. And the only play I'd ever been in was one I wrote in Grade Eight about Santa interviewing elves to do Christmas Eve with him. But I did what I was told and went out for it.

I don't remember what happened in that audition room. It must've been a real master class in awkwardness. But I did it. It happened. And whatever happened, got me into the show.

For a boy, there are lots of fantastic roles in that show. Tony, Bernardo, Riff, A-Rab, Gee-tar, Snowboy, Big Deal, Diesel, Baby John, Mouthpiece, Chino - awesome names, great parts, of varying sizes, but all great parts.

I did not get one of those parts. I was given the role of Tiger.

Now, if you know the show and you're trying to remember Tiger, you can stop. There is no Tiger in West Side Story. "Tiger" was created for and died with the 1991 Eastwood Collegiate version. Simply, I think they needed lots of boys to fill in the gaps and were kind enough to give my non-speaking role a name to spare my feelings.

Two days ago, 26 years later, almost to the month, I was walking to rehearsal in a snow storm. It was brutally cold. The walk to the theatre usually takes about 12 minutes, so I thought I could fit in listening to one or two movements of something, which, with my huge headphones, would also serve to keep my ears warm. I hit play on Beethoven's String Quartet in D major, Opus 18, No. 3.

I heard the first two notes and couldn't walk forward. The movement kept passing by, but my insides stopped at the first two notes - an interval as powerful as a scent, bringing me back, body and brain, to that exact time: being 14 in emotional paralysis. The red K-way coats with white tape down the sleeves to make them look like leather jackets. The drag queen heavy show makeup and how it smelled heated up on our skin. The crazy rush of want for all the girls in the show. The inability to do anything about it. The blueness of the lights when Tony was shot. All that crying we did. The coolness of the boy playing Riff. Looking up to and feeling nervous around the boy playing Tony. The jeans. The finger snapping. The scary new feeling of belonging. Yelling "Mambo!" The sound of our teenage orchestra lurching along and my own voice making a noise. The score and story that fucking slayed me then and, clearly, still slays me now, as I learned two days ago, hearing the first interval of the string quartet that also happens to be the first two notes of "Somewhere" from West Side Story.

An interval that, for me, represents the entire haphazard way fates are decided.

Wikipedia says the interval in question is "rarely featured in melodies (especially in their openings)", but here are Beethoven and, (maybe copying him) 150 years later, Bernstein, putting the minor 7th - reaching, hopeful, and begging for resolution - front and centre.

Te adoro, folks.