Before bed, I’d call Robin. “I don’t know if I can do this,” I told her.
“Sure you can,” she said.
“I need more time.”
I thought: I have to be in a place where my body can support this effort, this stress. I tailored my whole existence around the role. I ate oatmeal and vegetables and fish with a squeeze of lemon. No sugar. Few carbs. I pounded water. Every meal, I sat with the script. Every night, homework. Seven days a week, I worked. I needed every minute.
We’d finished blocking the first act and were on to Act Two. A couple of days into that second week, I was feeling desperate and asked for a meeting with the director and writer. Off-site. I didn’t want to talk in the theater. Too close to home. I took them across the street to a park in Cambridge.
“I’m drowning,” I told them. “I’m dying here.”
They exchanged a curious look. “What are you talking about?” they said. “You’re in great shape.”
“I don’t feel that way. I don’t have enough time to be ready.”
“No, no. You’re on track. Keep going.”
Every day I willed myself out of bed. Sit-ups, push-ups, push-ups. A run every other day. Oatmeal. And then into the play. I’d see how well I remembered what I did the day before and then I’d go further. I’d memorize more. By 10:00 a.m., I was at the theater rehearsing. At dusk, I’d go outside with my script just to get some air. I’d eat dinner, then read more sections of the play. I’d go to sleep with the play on my chest and wake up with pages scattered all over my bed.
Except for bike rides with Bill on Mondays and Breaking Bad on Sunday nights, that’s all I did. The play, the play, the play. I stayed on it. The other actors would shoot the breeze, talking about their days off: dinners, day trips. What about this new movie? Did you try that new restaurant?
I was envious and resentful of their freedom. For a minute. And then I went back to work. As we rehearsed, per equity rules, we took periodic fifteen-minute breaks. I’d get some oxygen and do a stretch and then back into the play, reading, rereading, making notes, memorizing. I was never without it. Even when I was going for a run, I was working out how I’d deliver a line, when I’d punch it up, when I’d hold back. The play was always with me.