The lights dimmed and I closed my eyes taking in the theater. It smelled like… chalk? Yes, chalk and hairspray. And the circus theme was unlike anything I’d ever seen. There were bright greens, vibrant yellows, reds that pop. It was amazing, really. It was all so… Pippin.

I opened my eyes as the music started. The sound left me dumbfounded for a moment because it seemed too good to be live. The drum kept the beat, and the piano kept the melody. The orchestra followed along. And then, out of nowhere, she started singing. The Leading Player. She got through the first number, and I was almost tearing up because it was so incredible. And that’s when he emerged from backstage. Pippin and all of his glory.

It’s funny because I’ve never listened to this soundtrack in my entire life, but by the end of each song, I was singing along with the characters. I was so ecstatic that not anyone in that theater, or even in all of New York City, could’ve have slapped the smile off of my face.

I was “tiny dancing” in my seat and I don’t think I’d blinked for at least ten minutes. My eyes never strayed far from the stage. They were glued to Pippin in his ratty blue shirt as well as the acrobats with glimmering leotards of all colors. The dancing was spectacular; twirling twenty feet in the air from a single rope, climbing poles with just their hands. I mean, how could I not stare? It was so magical.

I was on the edge of my seat for the entire show. And by the end, I was emotionally exhausted. I stood up, flattened out my brand new blue, polka-dotted dress and trudged down the stairs behind my parents to buy any “Pippin” CD I could get my hands on. But, while I waited in line, I overheard someone say that you could visit the cast door and take pictures with them. My joy was immediately replenished. I quickly paid for my merchandise and ran to the side of the theater only to find several more people already lined up.

For the week that I’d been in New York, I’d learned that you had to be a little pushy to get what you wanted. So I was pushy, literally. I shoved my way to the gate and waited to meet the cast. The whole time, I was thinking, “Oh my god, you’re about to meet famous Broadway stars. If you talk to them they’re going to be your best friends. They’re going to invite you to all of their shows and you’re going to live a happy life with all of your new famous friends. Happy, happy days!” I was a little in over my head. I’d never talked to someone famous that I admire so much.

Did I mention that I’m painfully shy and embarrassingly awkward, too? So for the first few cast members that sauntered down the line of blithe fans, I managed to stutter out that it was an amazing show. They didn’t look too impressed with me. Really, they looked exhausted and like they just wanted to go home and fall into deep slumber. They smelled like sweat and I was just another pathetic fan to them. But, I got pictures and got my Playbill signed. By the fourth or so person though, I’d watched the people in front of me. The key was to suck up to them! So yes, I gained a little confidence and was a complete suck up to the rest of the cast. This got me a few minutes of conversation out of each one of them, so I wasn’t too ashamed.

In fact, talking to one Terrence Mann (who played Charles), I found out that I, a girl from the deep south, did not sound like a southern person. “And where are you from?” he asked. At this point, I don’t think I was even conscious, but I will never forget this conversation.
“Um, Tennessee,” I sputtered out, looking at my mother to confirm that that was the correct answer because I couldn’t remember.
“Really?” he sounded like he was genuinely surprised. “Were you born there? You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee.”

I’ve always been mildly self-conscious about my accent. So when he made that comment, in my book he instantly became the coolest person on the planet. I over-enthusiastically responded, “Thank you! I was actually born in Georgia.” He gave me a funny look, his right eyebrow raised higher than the other.
“No kidding!” I just smiled brightly back and timidly asked for a picture with him.

When I got back to our apartment, all I could say was,
“I met Tony award winning Patina Miller,” and, “Terrence Mann is my best friend. He’s 62 years old. My best friend is 62 years old.” I was on cloud nine. I listened to my CD three times that night. It was well worth the buy.

And now, let’s just say that I’m not best friends with the cast nor did they invite me to any more shows. In fact, I doubt they remember me at all. But I definitely won’t ever forget them. Our photos together are hung proudly on my bedroom wall, adorned with Broadway themed stickers and playbills, and that is where they’ll stay until I make my triumphant return to the city that never sleeps.