sábado, 17 de março de 2012

So, on the first take, when our little pile of shrubbery beached on the rocks, and it was time to make a break for it to shore, did we ever. It wasn't far, but all I could think of, much like when you're climbing a ladder, and your mind keeps saying, "Don't look down!" was "DO NOT look downstream!" When my foot touched bottom without slipping, I breathed a sigh of relief and toppled forward onto the sand.

Of course, we found this sort of thing dreadfully exciting. What really bugged us was the cold. Well, that and the other issue. You see, Melissa and I were standing patiently, hip deep in water, waiting for the director and crew to set the shot and whatnot. Waiting and waiting and waiting... When Melissa said, "God, do I have to pee!"

"Me, too, now that you mention it."

So off we trundled to AD Maury Dexter to tell him it was time for us to use the ladies' room.

"Now, girls, there’s a slight problem here," Maury pointed out. "The bathrooms are all the way up the hill. If you go to the bathroom now, we have to put you in the car, drive you up the hill, take off the costumes, take off the wet suits, and have you go pee. Then you’ll have to put on the wet suits" (the now soggy and hard to put back on wet suits), "put the costumes back on" (ditto; actually, double ditto), "and we'll have to drive you back down the hill. Do you have any idea how long this is all going to take?"

We groaned. We knew this would be a huge hassle, and we remembered what a pain these stupid suits were to put on that morning back when they were all nice and dry and full of talcum powder. We could only imagine what a total pain in the ass it would be to try to repeat the procedure soaking wet. "Look, it's only an hour and a half till lunch. Why don't you girls just hang on, and you'll be done with this shot by then, okay?" We sighed and trudged off back to the river.

Time passed. And passed. Slowly. Water rushed by. Rushing, rushing, rushing. Splashing, trickling, sloshing. And the cold. We were standing waist high in freezing water; I realized I could no longer feel my feet. My lips had begun to go slightly blue, when I turned to look at Melissa. She was smiling. A little too much. Not a nice, natural smile, but an evil, satisfied, smirking smile of, shall we say, discovery. And her eyes were just a little too wide.

"Oh, God no, tell me you didn't!" I said.
"Do it. It'll keep you warm," she replied.
"Oh, yuck, that is sooo gross, Melissa!"

"No, listen, I'm telling you! Do it! Just a little at a time. It warms up the whole suit. Besides, it's still only twelve-thirty. You're not seriously going to hold out for another hour?"

She had a good point. Well, two good points, actually. I was freezing, and I really had to go. So with all the strength it took to overcome fourteen years of toilet training, I peed in my pants. God, she was right. I did feel better. I no longer felt like my kidneys were going to burst, and the wet suit heated up like, well, like someone had just taken a big hot piss in it, frankly, but there you are. It was better than freezing. And who would know? We were more than waist deep in a river, for God's sake. It wasn't like anyone was gonna hear the trickling.

So there the future president of the Screen Actors Guild and I stood for the next hour or so, happily pissing away in our wet suits (just a little at a time, we learned: the trick is to make it last). But it wasn't like no one ever found out. After all, the wardrobe women had to pick up the suits and costumes from our dressing rooms. I don't know exactly who screamed at whom, and I can only imagine what epithets were used, but all I know is, we were never denied bathroom privileges again.


'n Confessions of a Prairie Bitch: How I Survived Nellie Oleson and Learned to Love Being Hated, Alison Arngrim, 2010