Randy Snorgrass was an odd individual. He had long dark hair, always wore ratty jeans and a button down flanell. Randy Snorgrass was never more than an hour away from being to drunk to walk. Randy got fired from a Safeway for stealing meat. He still owes us an extension cord, he used it in an attempt to pull his four wheeler out of the river after an unsuccessful crossing. Randy Snorgrass would often mistake our living room for his own and would get the boot, quite literally, out the front door. Randy Snorgrass had a very fitting name as he would often pass out in the middle of the yard after a rough night (or after locking himself out of his house.) Randy Snorgrass stole satellite television from us, but had to ask how to do so. It was because of this that we knew we had the same television remote as him.

My brother and I were trouble makers. Trouble makers because we didn’t have anything better to do. As much as we could do was find some fireworks, or meet up with some friends and bounce around town annoying the locals. But, our most favorite and successful pastime was annoying Randy Snorgrass. It was known around town that Randy did very little with his time other than drink, sleep and watch racy television. So, he was an easy target. Also, he had a window in his kitchen that gave us a clear view of his TV and a clear shot with a remote.

On one warm night (warm being relative, I mean we lived in the mountains of Colorado,) my brother and I headed outside behind Randy’s rented cabin, remote in hand. He lived next door, our houses practically touched. The backdoor though my bedroom was only a few feet away from his kitchen window. We peered inside to find Randy happily sitting in front of his television, Bud Light in hand, slumped into a kitchen chair facing away. A perfect set up.

We aimed the remote and, with a quick decision, turned off his TV, then ducked as fast as we could below the window. Realizing he had little cause to spy behind him we brought ourselves back up just in time to see him flick the television back on. So we did it again. This time without ducking. His head cocked to the side as he picked his remote up and turned the television back on. Just then it went off again at our hand. He got up, looked at the TV then moved behind it, presumably to check the power. By this time we were overcome with laughter, but had enough sense to duck down before he turned back to his chair. Once convinced he was back watching, we changed tactics. This time changing channels on him.

Randy had a special place in his heart for Scinemax (late night HBO or Cinemax, you know, basically porn.) Once the channel left his station and, apparently, would not return, Randy fell into a rage. Caught up in his hilarious antics we could do nothing but watch. He shook his television, banged on the remote, dashed around his living room, all the while we were flipping though channels, changing inputs and upping the volume. His world had fallen appart. He whirled around in a hase of the uncontrolled world around him and caught us, deer-in-the-headlights, standing, framed in his window, mouths agape. The world froze in stark contrast to the moment before.

We dashed to the back door of our own home and into my bedroom where we would pretend nothing had happened. Besides, Randy had caught us and we were done for the night anyway, mission accomplished. Just then we heard Randy stumble into the living room. My dad, as always, unhappy to see him. After some chatter about how Randy should go home and get some sleep, that he was making the story up, how he should not sit down, how he shouldn’t have another beer, and that we did not have any to offer him, we were convinced my dad didn’t believe a word.

A few moments later my dad appeared in the doorway. He held out his hand, ‘give me the remote.’ We obliged, he seemed angry, but we knew he secretly thought it was hilarious.

It was a long bus ride. One of the longest I had ever taken. But that wasn’t really saying much, the furthest I had gone on a bus was to and from school in elementary and that was only six miles, the last stop on the way to school, and the first on the way home. It was a quick ride. This bus, however, took me into an entirely new state, one I had never been to. Wyoming. Not far into Wyoming, just past the Colorado border, north of Denver. The part of Wyoming that they don’t show in photographs, cold, desolate. It might be idealized as part of the western plains, but it shouldn’t be.

The wind ripped though my t-shirt and skin, right to the bone, as we stepped off the bus. I pictured my coat laying on the bench seat still on the bus. It was too late to get it. The doors closed behind me. I looked up, in front of me a vast parking lot stretched to what was a very hip looking glass and brick building. We walked toward it. As we got closer, evidence that we were in the right place was starting to present itself.  A huge banner hung above the main entrance. ROCKY MOUNTAIN THEATRE ASSOCIATION. RMTA for short. That initialism was on every piece of paper I had to fill out before attending.  I wondered how big of a deal me being here was. I knew I was selected from a number of theatre students. But I had little clue whether that meant I was actually good at what I did.

I kept pace with the rest of the students as we crowded into the huge lobby. Across the open space there was a climbing wall, some exercise equipment and some outdoor equipment hanging on the wall. There was a beautiful girl working a desk in front of it all. A sign above her read OUTDOOR CENTER. I thought to myself how awesome college was going to be.

Our professor signed us all in and handed out lanyards for us to wear. They were all the same, and didn’t include our names. I was starting to think it was nothing special to be here.

The first workshops started the next morning. We had spent the night crammed into small hotel rooms, six to a room with two beds. I had always been the odd man out when it came to close friends, so I opted to sleep on the floor. Throughout the night I vowed to procure a cot first thing in the morning, the carpet was rough and as hard as concrete. I wondered if it could even be considered carpet. The second the sun crept through the blinds I jumped up and into the shower. Once out I headed down to the front desk and ordered a cot to be delivered to our room. Back at the room my fellow classmates where slowly getting out of bed, some of them denying the coming of the day.

We headed downstairs as a group. Apparently the workshops were not going to be held at the very hip university, just the registration table was there. The workshops where in the conference center downstairs. I found this odd, but was happy for it, it meant that there was no need to go outside into the horribly cold wind. We split up into groups and started to peruse the conference schedule. Some of the students had brought one along, or found one the day before, and already had their day mapped out. I was not one of these students so I stood in front of the schedule, self conscious. There was that interested me durring the first morning. Playwriting wasn’t until the afternoon, I had little interest in “Seven Secrets of the Working Actor” or  ”The Fundamentals of Stage Lighting.” “Design for the Stage” sounded interesting, but it had already started. I wondered if it would be OK to sit this session out when, from behind, I head a voice speek up.

“Looking for something to do?” It was a girl. Probably not talking to me. But I casually glanced behind me to make sure. “Yes, I mean you. Looking for something to do?”
“Yes. Sorta.”
“What about ‘Musical Theatre Workshop’?” She was older, possibly in college. Probably from the college we visited the day before.
“I dont sing.”
“Thats ok. You have to learn somehow.” I knew this was the case, but I didnt want to make a fool of myself in front of her.
“Thats alright, I’ll find something.” I started to turn back to the schedule, hoping to kill enough time for her to leave.
“We need another Boy. Come with me.” She said this in a way that made it impossible to argue with. I wanted to learn how to sing, but I was not interesting in learning to sing in front of a girl, a college girl.

I followed her down the hall and into a recital hall. “She needed another guy?” I thought to myself as I saw four girls standing around a piano singing four individual songs. There was not another guy in sight. I was sorely out of place. There was no turning back now. I turned up as much swagger as I could muster and walked up to the four singing girls. My voice squeaked out, “Hello.” They stopped singing and looked at me. Before I could gather a clue as to what their response meant, the instructor, or ‘beautiful college girl’, called us to gather ’round the paino. We were all pretty close anyway, but the girls crowded closer and, breathing a sigh of relief that no girl was facing my direction, I hung back.

The girls discussed what song they all wanted to sing and settled on Adelaide’s Lament, from Guys and Dolls. This. Was. Awesome. It meant that I didn’t need to do any singing as Adelaide’s Lament was for a girl to sing. Surely they wouldn’t ask me to sing a girls song. The instructor started to play and one of the girls voices broke thought the beautiful piano playing. It was loud, very loud. She was obviously showing her talent… her very loud talent. As far as I could tell all the words were right. There was no hesitation. She had sung the song before.

The second girl, a much smaller prettier girl, pulled herself upright and waited for the music to start. When it came time for her to come in the words that left her mouth felt perfect. Not loud, not to soft, no hesitation and very funny. After hearing the first girl sing the song I didn’t think it was a funny song, but now I had no doubt. When she finished, she explained that she played the part at her high school and had won an award or something.

The third girl did as best she could. Obviously intimidated by the second one. She finished and the instructor ended the song with a compassionate, “Good. Well done.” I looked to the fourth, judging how I though she would do. She was larger than the rest, not quite as tall as the others. I thought she would have a good voice, but it wouldn’t be funny coming from her. But, the piano didn’t start.

“What song would you like to sing?” I thought they were all singing the same one. I waited for an answer. But heard the same sentence again, “What song would you like to sing?” Thats when I released that I had made my way in-between the third and fourth girl and that I was next.