hybrid prose by amy eaton
Peter and Victor
An earlier version of this story was performed at Based On A True Story in Chicago.
I arrived in Chicago when I was 24. I had escaped New York state with a degree in acting, a minor in writing, a fair amount of waitressing and bartending under my belt and a year of what has been my only “real” job: touring most of the US in a belted turquoise corduroy jumpsuit with a company called Sunshine Too.
The company had three Deaf and three hearing actors. Our job was to go to residential Deaf schools—where kids were often sent when there were no other Deaf members in the family and parents didn’t know what to do with a Deaf child. We also spread Deaf awareness to elementary schools, community groups, VFWs, community colleges, and church groups.
The show we did was not good. Not at all. There was a children’s show that had something to do with a girl wishing on stars. That was okay. For adults and older kids, we had a whole variety show made up of short pieces which we would plug in according to audiences, time limits and, frankly, whatever we felt like performing that day. The only required piece we had to do was the introductory number. And this, my friends, was the absolute fucking worst.
When I joined Sunshine Too in 1988, I was excited, despite the shitty name. Marlee Matlin had just won an Oscar and the students at Gallaudet University (the only Deaf university in the world) had just protested and won, getting the University’s board of trustees to appoint I. King Jordan as their first Deaf president. Deaf Power was in the air. But the very tall, very clueless and very white director of Sunshine Too said while we developed the show, “That rap thing seems to be timely. Let’s make a rap the standard intro!”
I cringed, looking around at my cast mates, knowing an all white, super-peppy group of twenty-somethings doing rap was misguided at best and likely culturally offensive. Jonas, a former musical theater major and our keyboard player programmed his synth to create the lamest, slowest, whitest beat for our rap song ever. I have burned the memory of how I introduced myself individually in the rap, just remembering that I made a joke of my unskilled ASL and dipped quick after getting my name out there. But the group intro is forever seared into my brain.
Well hello there, we’re Sunshine Too!
And we’re going to do a little show for you!
Sit back, relax, enjoy the show. . . .
And, okay, I don’t remember the last line of this monstrosity, but you get the idea.
I did not know any ASL when I joined Sunshine Too. This was purposeful. I was hired because I played guitar and could sing. Signed songs were a thing for the company. It was convenient to point out during workshops with hearing people: Look at Amy! She didn’t know any sign language when she started and look at her now! ASL is easy! Which is true and also so untrue.
Before rehearsals started, I spent a month with CaseyLynn who taught me ASL before we began rehearsals with the whole group. She was hard of hearing and her speech was easy to understand. She loved to talk and, because she rarely turned off her voice, my ASL was awful when I got into rehearsal with my Deaf cast mates.
During rehearsals for the show, people would come in to give us feedback. Often these were people that had been in the company before us and had better feedback than the director who thought an offbeat rap song done by a bunch of white kids was a stellar idea. One of these people was Peter.
Peter was a Deaf Poet. He took ASL and played with it, taking the language from mere conversational use and playing with the grammar of it, using hand shapes as a rhyming device, perspective as if you were watching a film zoom in and out, creating images and characters with the building blocks of his hands, face and gestures. I fell in love with him.
When I was on the road, I sent postcards and long letters to him. Once a week we would receive a large envelope full of mail for the six of us. There would always be at least one fat letter from Peter that I’d devour. We chatted through TTY, a device where you put the phone receiver on a cradle, typed on the attached keyboard and read a digital crawl over the keyboard. We racked up steep long distance phone charges.
When my contract with Sunshine Too was over, he asked me to give him a year, and he’d figure out a way to move wherever I wanted. He knew Rochester wasn’t a landing place for me, but I think he hoped I’d change my mind and stay.
At the end of the year, after continually saying I wanted to move to Minneapolis, I changed my mind and landed on Chicago. True to his word, we packed up a UHaul, the cat, towed my VW bug, and headed west.
We moved in with an old college friend of mine in Uptown. I picked up a bar gig and finally saved up enough cash for an acting class at Center Theater on Devon. I took dance classes at MoMing and Links Hall. I did some shows, I met some people.
I somehow got involved with a group that was performing in the Abbie Hoffman Died For Our Sins Festival. Our characters were absurd, making fun of actors and the theatrical process and the assumed genius of writers and directors. Peter was in the show as well, playing the ensemble’s sound designer where he would talk loudly backstage and drop piles of cassette tapes as he tried to sneak across the stage in the middle of a scene. It was stupid and hilarious and so much fun.
The director snagged us rehearsal space one night at the Neo Futurists’ space in Andersonville. You know—that big building on Foster and Ashland, with the funeral parlor on the first floor. Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind was running even then. We sat in a loose circle and as we brainstormed, I took on the responsibility of letting Peter know what was going on. This is how our life was together. If someone was talking, I signed to him what they were saying; if he signed, I’d voice it for others.
I was a little tired that night, but as the director talked about what he wanted for the show, I signed so Peter was on board, too. And the director talked for a looong time. I went on autopilot. And then I kinda zoned out. Apparently, I signed the following:
“Hey, buddy. You understand me?”
Peter signed back, “Of course.”
I signed, “Oh good! I wasn’t sure that I could get through. So, listen—do you think you could get me a part in this show?”
“What? You’re already in the show.”
“Nah, I mean me! I know she’s already in the show. I’m just borrowing her for a little so I can talk to you.”
“Borrowing? Not funny, Amy. This is not what they’re saying in rehearsal. C’mon! I don’t want to be confused in rehearsal.”
“Buddy, this is Victor. I’m just borrowing your girl here for a little bit. Oh, don’t look so worried. I’ll give her back. I’ll get to it. All these actors—they come in and do these plays and they’re not very good. You know, I never appreciated the arts when I had a chance, but after seeing all these plays? I think I got the bug! I used to be a plumber, just a nine to five regular Joe. Go to work, stop at the bar and have a couple Old Styles, maybe play some pool. Hit the hay, do it all over again. But now, after hanging out here, I think I could probably get a small part—I mean, some of these bozos they cast. . . . yeesh, I could do that. So, I’m thinking your little group here, they have you as the Sound Designer. What about me as the Props Guy? I can move stuff, knock it off shelves, bang some doors. Hell, I can even do the lights! And if that goes well, maybe just a small part, just a couple lines. I tried auditioning with that other group of kids, you know the ones that do all those plays in an hour? Yeah, I tried slamming some doors and flicking the lights with them, but I’m still waiting to see if they call me back. Figured I could get some practice with youse guys. And I heard someone say the play was at Mary-Archie. Yeah, I got a buddy over in that building, a couple of us play penuchle on Monday mornings. Anyway, I heard the big guy with glasses over there say Justin Hayford is coming to see you. He hates everything is the word on the street. I can talk to my buddy, see if he can persuade Justin’s pen to take some nice notes. Get ya a nice review. You guys think reviews are important, huh? I’ll tell you what. In the long run, they don’t mean diddly.”
“Okay, uh. . . Victor, I’ll try. Uhh. . . could I get Amy back?”
“Yeah, sure. It would just be nice to be part of something with you all. I mean, your play’s dumb, but it’s nice to do something different, y’know? Hey! I’m gonna open a window just to impress everyone. Thanks, buddy, for putting in the good word for me!”
The next thing I knew Peter was tapping my knee looking worried and saying my name.
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. I shook my head, like trying to shake off a dream. “I’m sorry,” I signed, “I lost track somewhere.”
Everyone in the cast had stopped talking and was looking at me, worried. Then Peter explained that I’d been channeling Victor for the last five minutes. There was a sudden breeze and Peter signed to the director, “There’s a guy named Victor that lives here. He wants to be the prop guy. A ghost prop guy.”
The director said, “Sure, I’ll consider it.”
“He says he’s got pull with Justin Hayford.”
“Really? That guy hates everything. Tell him he’s in.” The door began banging open and shut and the lights flickered on and off. “That’s great,” the director said, “Tell him to take it down a notch, though.”
*
In the end, Justin Hayford gave us an incredible review. The show was a blast and highly unpredictable thanks to Victor’s efforts.
A long time after that, I asked Peter, “Why would someone who’d been such a regular Joe all his life—why wouldn’t he just want some peace and quiet at the end? I mean, why not just haunt a pool hall? What was it about us? About that show?
Peter thought for a while, then he shrugged and signed, “Sometimes people just really want to be heard.”
Peter and Amy bottom row, left and center. Photo by Victor.
Amy Eaton is a Ragdale alum whose work has been published in Hippocampus Magazine, The Coachella Review, and Napalm Health Spa, among others. She is a frequent Live Lit writer-performer in Chicago at events like Write Club Chicago, MissSpoken, Is This A Thing?, Louder Than A Mom, and Filet of Solo. She is the 2023 2nd runner-up in the Daisy Pettles Women’s Writing Contest. Amy would like to thank Peter, Victor, and the other members of Fathomless Theatre for this story, as well as Kevin for being its midwife.
P.S. Justin Hayford doesn’t really hate everything.