The actor and the ironing board: An unlikely lesson in improvisation

No one succeeded in persuading my teenage self that I’d come to see things differently. Every generation, I now realize, shakes its head knowingly at the rising one, having been the object of such head-shaking itself. Some early life events – breakups, bad grades, unfortunate wardrobe choices – seem to need time to settle into perspective. “You’ll see,” say clueless adults. We disagree – until we catch ourselves saying exactly that to a skeptical teen.

A female lead in my middle school’s musical can probably relate. Lisa was an eighth grade star. I was a seventh grade stagehand. And I admire her to this day for a moment that had little to do with the play itself. It had to do with an ironing board.

My buddy John and I were asked to be stagehands – the only seventh graders in an eighth grade production. We were stationed in front of the curtain on stairs that led to the floor of the auditorium. We crouched on the steps, racing onstage when the lights dimmed between scenes to position and retrieve props. I have no idea how a middle school production of “Half a Sixpence” struck those with more sophisticated tastes. But as a middle schooler, I was impressed. It was a huge deal.

Lines were learned, songs perfected, stagecraft honed. John and I hit all our marks. Dress rehearsal had gone well, and now it was opening night. The auditorium filled with families, friends, and faculty. Most of the school was there.

“Half a Sixpence” centers on Arthur Kipps, a draper’s assistant who unexpectedly inherits a fortune. Ann is his childhood sweetheart, but upper-class Helen falls for him, too – and her mother has designs on Artie’s wealth. Artie must choose. The climactic scene takes place when Artie encounters Ann, played by Lisa. As the scene opens, she stands at an ironing board, ironing.

The lights dimmed prior to that scene. John and I rushed onstage with the props.

There was a problem.

“Guys!” Lisa hissed. She had the iron in one hand and was supporting the ironing board with the other. “It won’t stay up! Guys!”

We had but seconds. John and I made futile efforts to fix it. No good. The lights were coming up – as were the hairs at the back of my neck. We had to go! We plunged down the steps, abandoning her. “So glad it’s not me up there!” I thought guiltily.

Poor Lisa was up there, though, clutching the ironing board and gamely pushing the iron back and forth. In seconds, she would have to say, “Oh, Artie!” and cross the stage to where he stood. What would she do? What could she do?

Here’s what she didn’t do. She did not:

• Gently lower the ironing board to the floor and step over it to go to Artie. That would have been odd.

• Walk over to Artie carrying the ironing board and iron and continue the scene as though nothing was wrong. That would have been odd and unintentionally comic.

• Stay put and yell her lines to the childhood sweetheart with whom she was reconciling. That would have been disturbingly odd. 

Instead, Lisa showed great poise. She stayed in character and added a brilliant bit of stage business, having had but a handful of heartbeats to decide. What would you have done?

“Oh, Artie!” she exclaimed. Then she simply let go. Ironing board and iron fell with a crash that served to amplify the emotion of the moment. It was comic. It was dramatic. The audience loved it. She’d saved herself, the performance, and two shaken seventh graders. 

Had she made a different choice, anguish might have trailed her memory of that evening. Instead, it was a triumph, a life lesson that I didn’t come to appreciate fully until much later.

What could be more disheartening than a spectacular fail in front of the whole school, with a literal spotlight on you? And what could be more empowering than to turn a potential train wreck into an ingenious bit of improv?  

One of the rules of improv is “Play in the present and use the moment.” Or, in Lisa’s case, “Use what you’re given – even if it’s broken.” 

Thanks, Lisa! I see it now: You showed me how it’s done.