Editors' Choice in Creative Nonfiction: How Dead Dogs and A-Level Geometry Helped Me Realize I Could Do Anything

By Jimmy Bowler

Being humble is very difficult when you were gifted at birth with unfathomable will and talent.

That’s an exaggeration, obviously, but that’s the type of attitude you need to have when you’re majoring in a field like theater. It’s a cold world out there. You get cast in one lead for a one-act in high school, and suddenly you believe you can take on the world. Optimistically? Maybe you can. Maybe you were a step above the rest, landing a starring position after being pitted against a class of thirty people who all wanted what you were after. If you’re anything like me, however, you feel that the more logical reason was that you just got lucky.

When I set foot at UCA for the first time, the pressure could have swallowed me whole. I was an underclassman. For the first time, I had to compete for acting positions with people who had years’ worth of college-level theatric ability under their belts. By what can only be described as a miracle, I managed to snag the role of Mushnik in the Spring production of Little Shop of Horrors, and even then, I was just filling a spot that had been dropped.

So come sophomore year, I had one mainstage acting credit under my belt: an old Jewish man from a comedy musical about a man-eating plant. I was proud of it, too. But there was something in the back of my mind saying that it was just a fluke, that I only made it by the skin of my teeth. Impostor syndrome, right? Anyway, the announcement had arrived for our 2022-2023 season. The Spring production would be a stage adaptation of Mark Haddon’s The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. It’s an inspiring story about a teenage boy on the autism spectrum who stumbles upon the murder of his neighbor’s dog. He takes it upon himself to find the culprit, and along the way, uncovers secrets about his family he was never supposed to. If you think that sounds interesting, you’d be correct. Reading the play before auditions had me fighting back tears for a different reason than most people have for doing so in a college library on finals week. The story resonated with me, but I didn’t particularly see myself in any of the characters. Christopher, the protagonist, was relatable in his own right. Despite his neurodivergence, he was very easy to understand and root for. I thought he might be a good role to try for despite the odds. I had done some surface-level research before my audition on the off chance that the director, Professor Fritzges, would want to see me read for the character in a callback.

For the uninitiated, the way casting for a stage play typically works is that you stand alongside dozens of hungry actors in a tense lobby of some sort, waiting until you’re finally called into the director’s room to perform whatever monologue you have prepared, and hope that you don’t forget any of your lines or the name of the play it’s from. I felt pretty good about mine, and sure enough, I was called back the next day. It was listed that he wanted to hear me read to be an ensemble role: in this case, an actor who plays a number of smaller roles instead of a singular, dedicated main character. Christopher is in every scene, so naturally, I was mainly speaking to the people who had been called back to read for him, which were two girls. They probably figured it would be easier for a female actor to embody a 15-year-old than it would be for most of our male theater population, who commonly sported some kind of facial hair and a post-pubescent voice.

By the next hour, the girls were visibly drained from the constant reading of those wordy, math-based monologues, so Fritzges offered, “Hey, why don’t you read as Christopher so they can rest their voices a bit? Just for shiggles.”

Shiggles was a contraction he invented by combining the phrase “shits and giggles.” He’s funny like that.

I got up in front of everybody and gave it my best shot. Remember how I mentioned doing some light research before my audition? A lot of that went toward narrowing down the characteristics of autism. This included things like avoiding eye contact, stammering, fidgeting, pacing–pretty much everything I was doing out of anxiety anyway. I also had to do a British accent, which, luckily, I had nearly perfected by 6th grade after a lengthy, mildly embarrassing Doctor Who phase.

After that one reading, though, I didn’t get a single break for the rest of the three hours we were there. He really liked the way I portrayed this character. The rest of the callbacks essentially consisted of Fritzges going back and forth between combinations of actors for varying roles across different scenes. This lasted until close to 11 pm until, finally, the decision had been made.

In the following days, a cast list was posted on the bulletin of Snow Fine Arts for all to see. I got there as early as possible that morning. I burst through the doors and snaked my way through the hallway so fast I nearly tripped on my laces. Sure enough, at the very top of the list was the role of Christopher… and next to it was my name. It was a bittersweet thrill. On one hand, this was my big break as a collegiate actor. I had landed a leading role with nothing but my own abilities. I was genuinely satisfied with the work I had put into getting this role. It was one of those weirdly mature situations where I felt that even if I hadn’t gotten it, I still would be able to look back proudly on the process.

Funny side note: I was originally called into work the day of callbacks, but just as I was about to make the drive of shame to the now-defunct potential money laundering scheme that was Kawaii Boba, I got a call from my manager telling me the parking lot was being repaved and that I didn’t have to come in that day. Essentially, the fact that I got that far at all is nothing short of an act of God.

As I knew all too well, this would prove to be the hardest role of my life. Playing a character on the autism spectrum is a very important and very sensitive role. I figured most actors in the program knew this. Christopher is a very mathematically oriented character. Several times throughout the play, he calms himself down by counting off prime numbers, upward of 300. The end of the play, in what I called an “after-credits scene,” is a page and a half worth of text where Christopher must “show that a triangle with sides that are equal to (n^2+1), (n^2-1), and 2n, where n is greater than 1 is right angled.” It turns out, that’s actually not too hard of an equation, but still, all of that is to say, the learning curve was steep. That’s not even mentioning the extensive research I would have to do to portray a character with autism accurately and respectfully.

To show the extent of the weight surrounding the significance of this character’s significance, I quote UCA’s teen heartthrob, John, who said, “I wouldn’t touch that role with a ten-foot pole.”

So I picked up my script and suffered through finals, knowing my work was cut out for me. Fritzges has this system for Spring plays, in that he holds the auditions mid-November so that he can get scripts in the hands of his actors faster, and in turn, get them memorized (off-book) by the time rehearsals start in February. Knowing my tendency to procrastinate, I set goals to have certain pages memorized by specific dates to ensure I would have the entire script dedicated to memory before rehearsal with weeks to spare.

This would have been a flawless strategy if John hadn’t gifted me Xenoblade Chronicles 3 the week after I got my script.

So rehearsal started with the new semester, and you can breathe easy, I eventually got it memorized. The process starts with what we call “table work,” a process in which the director shares their vision for the play, and we get a glimpse of what the different designers have in store for the set and characters. They showed some costume sketches and a view of the stage: an arena-style performance space in the new arts building where the audience surrounded all four sides of a gridlike stage that used lights and projections to give the viewers a glimpse into my character’s active, yet methodical mind.

Next came the table read, which, by far, was one of the most fun rehearsals of the process. The cast Fritzges had chosen was perfect: a good mix of personalities, energies, backgrounds, etc. Each and every one of them brought something unique to how they played their character. I had already met most of the cast throughout my time at UCA, but I managed to become close with the newer students just as quickly. Your castmates tend to become like a second family over the course of a show, and Curious was no different. Nothing brings a group together like spending four nights a week working on the same script for the better part of a semester. Still, I don’t think I’ve ever had more fun than I did laughing and talking between breaks for that show. I still think a lot about the hilarious quips and inside jokes we made to this day.

The process of staging the show and character work proceeded relatively smoothly for about two months, until, finally, the new performance space made its public debut on opening night. I had been doing theater for quite some time by this point, but even then, pre-show jitters were as real as ever. Fritzges always said never to release your tensed breath before a show and to use it to fuel your passion, and believe it or not, it actually works.

The Friday night performance was the one my closest friends and family were coming to. I was so excited to show them this performance I had worked so hard on. I tried something a little new that night. Instead of wearing my heart on my sleeve and admitting I was nervous, I decided to show a little confidence.

“Did you see how many people are in the audience right now,” I asked my castmates, shaking with excitement. “This is gonna be great. Let’s make this our best one yet!” The actors high-fived. I got them pumped, that’s for sure, but my side of things wasn’t quite the same. We took our places for the start of the show. In the minimal lighting, I could see the face of my older sister.

This run is going to be perfect, I thought. I’m making this one flawless.

I started out just fine. The lights came up. I took my place for scene one and recited my lines. Business as usual. It was running like clockwork, just as we practiced, but by the third or fourth scene, my mind started to wander. Something felt wrong. My face was burning hot. My hands were shaking and covered with sweat. I couldn’t stop glancing at the rows of occupied seats to check the faces of the people I so desperately wanted to make proud.

Now, to the audience, all of this was in character. Christopher had been going through some pretty traumatic stuff at the beginning of this play. For all they knew, I was just really good at acting, but the cast, the people who had seen me do these takes a million times, knew something was different. I fumbled lines, something I had rarely done, and was clearly walking more slowly, trying, with varying success, to keep my trembling legs from buckling under my own weight.

The first act ended with applause from the audience. I went offstage to the green room for our 15-minute break and was met immediately with every cast and crew member circling around me, eyes glued to me with concern.

My castmate, who played the show-stopping role of “Voice Three,” put his hands on my shoulders and said, “Look at me… breathe.”

He sat me down, and another member handed me a bottle of water. Admittedly, it was a bit embarrassing. I, the one who was supposed to be a leader, had inadvertently turned overconfidence into an overwhelming, self-imposed pressure to succeed. I told them everything. I told them that I was scared and that I knew I had to make this show special for everyone who came. I even apologized for flubbing their cue lines, which, yeah, they definitely noticed.

In spite of that, though, their kindness in the face of my vulnerability was outstanding. They took the time to help calm my nerves and assure me that I didn’t have to worry about what anyone else thought of me or the show. They said that I was doing good, and that they were proud. I had just come back from the brink of tears but was nearly pushed right back to it when I realized just how much these people cared for me. I thanked them, telling them how much their words meant, and before I knew it, it was time to return to the stage for act two.

The rest of the play was smooth as butter. Just as I’d hoped, the play’s ending brought the audience to their knees. My sister and everyone who had been there to support me applauded with tears in their eyes before filing out to the lobby. Another show for the books.

After I got out of costume, I hurried outside to greet everyone who came, which included the myth, the legend himself: Houston Davis, president of UCA. He and his wife were astonished by my performance and the accuracy of my character. If that wasn’t enough to brighten my day, I had a line of professors, OT students, friends, and complete strangers who all had such kind things to say. I think most about what my friend since 6th grade had said to me at dinner after the show. I’ll never forget this:

“That show was genuinely the best piece of theater I’ve ever seen,” he said. “I think that if anyone big saw what you did here today, you really could make it to Broadway.”

Making art is hard. Choosing to make art for the rest of your life is even harder. You’ll get beaten down and rejected more times than you could ever count. Sometimes, in those cold, late nights behind closed doors, you’ll wonder why you ever thought it was worth it in the first place. I’ll look back on those nights, the look on those people’s faces, the tears in their eyes from something I had done to move their hearts and remember: this is my reason why. The feeling of completing a show is unparalleled. Whenever I feel hopeless or worried about whether or not I have a future, I think about that day, about my greatest accomplishment. I hope in my wildest dreams that everyone I love will get to know this feeling someday.