I could have been a great actor, an absolutely great actor. I would have been the most convincing actor in perhaps all of history. I would have been modest and humble when not on stage, but it would have been the most stunning humility and the greatest modesty the world would ever have known.

Mrs. Kramer said I had the talent. She said I had the skill and ability. She said I had more prowess and persuasiveness than she had seen in fifteen years teaching at Schroeder. I played Cleante in Moliere's The Miser. I portrayed Julius Caesar in Shakespeare's play by the same name.

I was the Pope in an extremely shortened version of Hochhuth's The Deputy.

I became Doolittle in Pygmalion. I had the timing. I had the control.

I had the drive. What I did not have was the memory.

It was terrible. I could not memorize lines. I would repeat the words to myself repeatedly. I would speak to myself in the mirror more often than I would speak with others. I would write my part over and over on notebook paper. Nothing worked. Nevertheless, I wanted to be an actor, and where there is desire there is accomplishment of one type or another.

What worked turned out to be more toil for my fellow actors. Yet we were a helpful, understanding lot. My cues would be rehearsed with nods or blinks, flips of the hair and tugs on the ears, and other prearranged motions from my thespian companions. Any of my fellow actors had ample opportunity to misguide me, make me appear the fool by saying the wrong line, but never did. They were a good bunch.

For my part, I wrote my lines in signals and abbreviations on various parts of my body. Throughout rehearsal, I was attuned to look at my wrist or forearm or ankle by the cues passed to me by the contortions of my fellow actions. In this manner, I held the lead in seven plays during my stay at Schroeder. Furthermore, I won praise for my animate, dramatic gestures. I elegantly, one might even say emotionally, twisted to read my lines written on my knuckles or elbow or palms. I did this with a flair.

What did it matter if I was flunking English, borderline in Mathematics, and sub-standard in Civics? All I ever wanted to do with my life was act.

Or dance.

I became a dancer as a consequence of the performance during the second half of my final year at Schroeder. I had embarrassed myself right out of theater life. We were going to do The Wizard of Oz. I knew I would not play the lead, but was hoping to be the Tin Man or at least the Wizard. Mrs. Kramer cornered me after the first cast meeting and said, "I hope you're not disappointed."

"Oh, not at all. I did not expect to play Dorothy."

"Yes, quite," she said. Then she said she wanted to give someone else a chance to play important roles. She reminded me that I had been brilliant over the few years we had known each other, but I think she said this as a result of my whining. When I heard her announce the part she wanted me to play, I was flabbergasted. I was dumbfounded. I was angry.

I was a munchkin! She wanted me to be a damn munchkin! I bit my lip and swallowed my pride and digested my thwarted self-respect.

There were many weeks of rehearsal and through them all, three, four times a week for twelve weeks, I hid behind the stupid bush and listened to the stupid leads, and jumped from behind the stupid shrub on my stupid cue and sang the stupid song with the other stupid munchkins. Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the, follow the stupid yellow brick stupid road.

Stupid. We played to two packed houses, one after school on Friday, and one Saturday evening. The first performance was dull, unglittering.

I did not feel the pulse of the audience or the thrill of creation. I was not enthused by my own modest ability to disturb, awaken, thrill, astound those who viewed the script which came to life before their very amazed eyes. I was bored. The parents and junior high schoolers were bored. I looked in the wings and saw that Mrs. Kramer was bored.

During the second lackluster performance, I squatted behind the mulberry plaster of paris, trying to keep my eyes open. Martha Gibson played Dorothy. Her acting perfectly matched her appearance. She was too tall and too thin, and her hair was too tight and awkward. At the very point of madness, Dorothy asked, "But how to I find the yellow brick road?"

There was a momentary pause, a hesitation, a slight tremble of the little, little hand gliding beneath the small hand of the clock. Insanity overtook me. How do I find the yellow brick road?

I jumped to center stage and yelled, "Look in the Yellow Brick pages."

I was sure Mrs. Kramer was going to kill me. I was sure life as I knew it was finished. Depending on which body part Mrs. Kramer decided to eviscerate, life as I wanted to know it was over. Timidly, I turned to the wings. There, Mrs. Kramer was, like the rest of the surprised audience, doubled over in laughter. Now, I dance to her memory.