I have to be at the wrong place. I have to be.
Let me give you a little back story at this point and let you know that I’m supposed to be out on a date with Bob, the actor/knight/whatever, and the address he gave me is totally and completely wrong. I mean, I’m not the best at following directions, and there was that one time I ended up in North Dakota (it totally exists!) but I have followed the directions that the GPS gave me really, really well, and I haven’t even argued once, and I’m in front of what looks like a dark office building, and Bob asked me to meet him here for dinner.
Except that Bob shows up, out of nowhere, on a bicycle. No, wait, I’m still confused. I look at him, as he un-straps his neon pink bike helmet, and he gives me a huge grin. I try not to notice that he’s also wearing what looks like a unitard. That matches his helmet.
Bob notices me noticing his outfit and I honestly think he thought I was checking him out, or was impressed, or was even the slightest bit interested in an explanation. He was wrong on all accounts.
“Cuts down on wind resistance,’ he says, and I nod thoughtfully, as if what he has just said completely explains the fact that he looks like a neon pink ballerina that could be targeted from outer space. “Ready to go in and meet everyone?”
And the surprises just keep on coming. Is this a surprise party? Is it someone’s birthday? Wait, is it MY birthday? No, Brooke would have remembered…
So we go into the dark office building, which I’m still kind of cranky isn’t a restaurant, and lo and behold, it’s… a theater.
It’s a dark theater space that is lit up once Bob gets in, and there are several other people there too, just sitting in the dark, although they are dressed somewhat more normal than Bob is, so that’s a relief. I’ve heard about gang initiations before and honestly, if I have to join a gang, I prefer it not be the tight bright pink spandex gang. You wouldn’t want to mess with people like that.
And Bob keeps smiling the whole time, like everything is going exactly according to plan, and at some point I have to ask, I just HAVE to.
“Bob,” I say, in my most patient talking-to-an-idiot voice, “Where’s the dinner and the show?”
And everyone kind of laughs as Bob makes some sort of sweeping gesture and says, “We ARE the dinner and the show!” and my heart drops into my stomach as I realized I have stumbled upon a gang of evil ballerinas who eat people.
Okay, that wasn’t it EXACTLY, but it was close. I’d unwittingly stumbled into an improvisation group.
Bob explains that when he asked if I was interested in doing dinner and a show with him, he literally meant, WITH him. As in, onstage. Because he’s an actor. And he thought I was an actor. Which leads me to the next big Wait What.
“Why did you think I was an actor, Bob? Acting takes ambition. Do I look ambitious to you?”
Bob shrugs, says he just assumes everyone is an actor, and then says it doesn’t make a difference and I need to hurry up and get in character because the house opens in thirty minutes.
Wait, WHOSE house?
So here I am. Backstage. Every Wednesday night Bob and his friends put on dinner and a show for their improv group, Gettin Crazy With the Cheeeze Whiz, and he thought it would be a fun date if he physically forced me to join the improv group for an evening and then let me eat what the rest of the cast gets to eat after the show is over.
Brilliant. I love it. Can I go home now?