They were truly dragging the bottom of the barrel. Why else should they be trying to recruit young engineers at the local Westinghouse plant? There was no other answer.

A group of would-be thespians formed a little theater organization in the late 1930’s. They called the organization Amil Tellers, named after their hometown by spelling Lima backwards. They had been given the use of an abandoned carriage house. The building was dubbed Stable Gables, and used as a theater for several years. During WWII the owner reclaimed Stable Gables and converted it into a residence. Amil Tellers was without a home. Despite this and a shortage of male members it survived by producing plays wherever they could find a suitable place for a performance.

One of their members who worked at Westinghouse was charged with recruiting men to try out for roles in a new play.

“Were you ever in a play?” the recruiter asked one day.

“A couple of times in high school,” I said.

“We’re putting on a play in a month or so and we need actors to fill the cast,” he said. “Come on down and try out. You’ll have a lot of fun. It’s a fun group.”

“I’m no actor,” I said, “I hate memorizing stuff.”

“Come down just for the fun of it. You won’t have to take a part. You’ll just read a part of the script if you want to,” he said.

There was an abundant supply of women at the try-out meeting. The men were scarce, barely enough to fill the cast. Everyone appeared to be relaxed and having a good time, except for me, of course. Dick Reeder, the new director, gave everyone a chance to read a part, and then selected people to read particular parts. I nervously read a couple of parts, hoping another man would show up. None did. Before the session was over Dick announced his choice for the cast.

“Don,” he said, “I want you to take the part of Bart Jessop.”

“Uh,” I gulped.

Somebody passed out script books, rehearsal schedules, and other instructions. We were all encouraged to memorize our lines as soon as possible. It was a policy of the Tellers to do plays without a prompter. So knowing one’s lines was important. Sometimes a lapse of memory could cause skipping a few pages of script and confuse not only the cast, but also the audience.

The play is about a murder that happens late at night, in view of the audience. Bart Jessop is a member of the local constabulary, an inept one, which gives the play a bit of humor. Bart muddles through, adding his confusion until a sharp detective comes on the scene to straighten out the matter.

During the next month I discovered that the free time I once enjoyed had vanished like a morning fog. Time away from my job found me reading my playbook. I became a nuisance to my wife by having her coach me, by having her read my cues, listening to me recite lines. I went to the rehearsals where we acted our movements on stage with book in hand. I began to think of myself as Bart Jessop, acting out parts of my role. My wife began to think of me as she would of a bad cold, “It’s not fatal, but I’ll sure be glad when it’s over.”

“Next rehearsal, we’ll do it without books,” Dick said one night. This was the moment I had dreaded, for I wasn’t sure I knew all my lines and cues. I didn’t, but I still had time.

As the cast gathered for the performance my anxiety was tempered by the thought that once it was over, I could forget having to memorize stuff. Even so, stage fright gripped me as soon as the play started, though I didn’t appear until the second act. When my time arrived I sort of vibrated my way on stage. Once I delivered my first line my stage fright stopped being a problem, as with real actors. The play went on as intended. That pleased our audience, our director and the cast.

The most memorable thing about the performance was to me the curtain call. The cast lined up on stage with the murder victim at one end and the perpetrator at the other. Each held a calla lily in his hands over his chest.

About a week after the play ran, the draftsman who was working with me called me to come and check on our project. We looked at his work and found it to be on target. When I looked up, I was surrounded by draftsmen.

“Attention everyone.” a familiar voice said, “In recognition of his sterling performance, and his bravery in facing an audience, I present you this token of our esteem. Display this sterling trophy in a place of honor.”

“Thank you,” I said, while thinking. “What a pile of horse hockey. I’ll bet no one here even saw the play.” Nevertheless, I felt flattered that my peers would even think of me.

The trophy was something else again. It was modeled after a cartoon character, one of the mountain boys. He sat on a stump in the pose of the famous “The Thinker”, feet apart, elbow on one knee, chin on his right hand and his left arm resting on his leg. Except for a fringe, his head was bald, but not so his chin, from which hung a long beard. Of course, he wore bib overalls, too short, thus displaying his bare feet. The piece was sculpted from modeling clay and was finished in a bright coat of aluminum paint. This was truly one of a kind original. I accepted it with pleasure, took it home and found a prominent place to display it. I appreciated it, even as an object of satire.

My career as a thespian was at an end. The stress was more than I wanted to tolerate. However, I remained a fan and supporter of the Tellers, and attended their plays when I could, especially after they got their own theater a few years later.

While I waited to present my ticket for a performance, a voice boomed out, and I turned to see its source.

“Don’t touch that body,” it had said.

“Wib Smale,” I replied, “I see you’re still working here.” Wib had been the stage manager for “my” play. “Don’t touch that body” was Bart Jessop’s most emphatic line, and I had forgotten it. Echoes of voices from the past jog the memory.