My first year of graduate school found me on stage in a musical. While things went fine (I can, in fact, sort of sing and dance), it was a surprise to my wife and I that an (at the time) MFA playwright would have his evenings occupied by performance rather than writing. At any rate, it was an experience. I’m not going to qualify it as either good or bad, so we’ll just leave it at experience. Not that I hadn’t sung or danced or acted before (I’d done a lot of it), but this place did things differently. Let’s just say that our process and styles grated against one another. With the stress of graduate school and the shock of performance for this writer, it was a recipe for disaster. At any rate, I did my best. Part of what made it work well was a stuffed rabbit.
The rabbit was promised to me as a prop during a dance scene where I, imitating a magician at the finale of his trick, pulled a rabbit out of my hat (it’s the small things that count). The promise of this rabbit got me through (along with a healthy dose of support from my wonderful wife). At any rate, I was never given the rabbit. Opening night I arrived to find that the spot slated for my stuffed rabbit prop was empty. They’d lied to me. Luckily, the choreographer came to my rescue. On closing night I happily pulled stuffed rabbit out of my hat.
Fast forward to the present. I find this rabbit as I’m cleaning out my office from a half-decade of graduate studies. I bring it home to our son (who didn’t exist when I graced the stage with it), and he adores it. Sadly, though, he quickly took the rabbit for a swim in the bathtub. For now the rabbit hangs by its ears to dry. The bathtub is a smaller stage for sure… but now its hanging from the rafters.