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under_control
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» the Yvonne R. story In my third year of school at the University of Iowa (AKA The Athens of the Midwest) I ventured to enroll, with my companionable cohort, G, in a basic acting class. This class was lead by a tall grey-haired man in his late 50's, who shocked us all into respectful submission on the first day of class by arriving in an eggplant velour jumpsuit. Gene Gebauer was his name. He was to have a profound impact on me and my fellow students, although many of the lucky ones, no doubt, can chalk up the whole experience to some experimental mind-altering substance. Gene's method of acting was Method Acting. One of our first exercises was to present ourselves to our classmates by striding imperiously down a double-row of onlookers (á la SoulTrain) and declaring ourselves proudly to the accompaniment of various Walt Disney Disco Duck songs playing on a cassette-box. He encouraged us to announce not only our names, but also something about ourselves that we never intended to confess. As an example, he strode majestically through our ranks and with a practiced diaphragm belted out, "I'm GENE GEBAUER, and when I was SEVEN I tried to MAKE LOVE to a GOLDEN RETRIEVER!" A few weeks later, after the meek had been weeded out and discarded, what remained was as grizzled a pack of exhibitionists as ever tried to register for Bowling as a PE credit. We were waiting impatiently to get on with some serious excersizes. To our delight we were introduced to the "Human Sculpture" in which all but three of the twelve classmates assemble on a tumbling mat in order to form a convoluted human "monkey gym". The remaining three seekers-of-thespian-knowlegde are then entreated to remove their shoes and "wiggle and worm" their way through every available nook and crevice in the human sculpture. "Your classmates," advised Gene, "give you permission to make contact with them. You will undoubtedly brush against a penis here or there, and rub against a vagina or two. You HAVE THEIR PERMISSION." Now, Yvonne Rosenberg was (and probably remains) the most petite woman I've ever know. She had very long brown hair and lovely brown eyes and that charming shyness that sometimes is found in extraordinarily slight women. Of course, the nature of the class meant that the students felt a bit of a bond that most other classes, even Philosophy discussion groups, did not foster. So we were already well disposed towards each other. We felt like survivors of some sort of natural disaster, Hurricane Gene if you will, and would congregate wide-eyed before classes as if amazed to see that others were returning for more of the same. We should have known that Gene Gebauer, the admitted seven-year-therapy drop-out and fair-weather Buddhist, would have something rather special tucked up his sleeve for our class final. We should have known. But there was no anticipating what he had in store for us after the last group of us had done our short scenes and packed up the scant props... Gene then paired us up, male/female. Somehow it worked perfectly; the class had dwindled to six men and six women. I was matched up with Yvonne Rosenberg. G was paired with Shawn the "Hair King". Shawn was a big, good-natured, lumbering oaf with glossy black hair down to his hips. I had no qualms about the match. We were then instructed to sit indian-style facing our partners with our knees touching. "Stare into your partner's eyes," intoned Gene, "Move your faces close until you are nearly rubbing noses and see your partner's eyes. See yourself reflected in them." Minutes throbbed. "You may begin to see the face of your partner change." Gene broke the silence. "They may begin to appear monstrous. They may become more lovely than you ever imagined they could be. See them. See them. "You may begin to fall in love with the person facing you. Just allow that to happen." We were simply too mesmerized to fight it. He had started the cassette-box at some point and it now surrounded us with low, soft music. After ten minutes of staring and more time spent seeing and feeling, Gene encouraged us to begin moving, mirroring each other while still nearly touching noses like shy but affectionate Inuit. We swayed. Arms and shoulders were freed to travel towards and away. "Start now," Gene said, "to rise up, slowly, and dance with your partner." The music swelled a bit and soon the dark theater was surrounding six pairs of swaying bodies and one fuzzy-suited man. Abruptly the music stopped and Gene bellowed, "Thank you ladies and gentlemen, it's been a pleasure." We all broke apart and wandered out into the world like half-blinded film-goers exiting the theater after a three hour show, to find it is still daylight and business as usual is going on all around. We scattered. I didn't see many of those people again, although warm greetings and smiles were always exchanged when we did cross paths. A few months later G took a week to return to visit her family in Chicago, while I, uncharacteristically, stayed behind. As I walked across the campus from the photo darkroom to my apartment I came across Yvonne walking in my general direction. We smiled at each other and each looked a bit nervous. I knew that it would be pleasant to discuss that last class of Gene Gebauer's with her. I wanted to explain to her that I HAD felt something when I stared into her eyes. I also wanted to explore just how much Gene had messed with our minds. I asked her to get a drink with me. I had never asked any woman to get a drink with me. Not even G. I didn't drink in college. We wandered into Joe's Place, the "journalism and writing" bar in Iowa City. We slid ourselves into one of the many empty high-backed booths. It was only 3pm and not even college students start that early. "That was a really strange thing that Gene did to us that last day," I began, "I mean, he was really playing with our heads." Yvonne smiled and made some remark to the affirmative with her barely-there voice. We had our drinks and talked about this and that. She admired the contact sheets I had just printed. We talked some more for maybe an hour. Then she said that she should go along home. She offered to drop me off at my place. When we pulled up at my apartment I opened the door and turned back to her. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled. I had a distinct notion that she would park in the lot if I asked her to. G. The thought really didn't even have to develop entirely in my mind. I knew even as her car door finished its opening arc and shuddered on its big spring that I was going to go upstairs alone. I smiled at her a last time and could only manage, "You take care, I'll see you around." I never saw her around. These days, I wonder, just as you'd expect, what ever became of Yvonne Rosenberg.
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diaryland |