LESLIE IRWIN
Director

When the cajoling, pleading, and repeated attempts at blackmail failed, The Spare Parts finally organized an intervention, in an attempt to convince Miss Irwin to come out of seclusion and direct this show. Since she had ignored the phone calls, deleted the emails and refused to answer the door to the Western Union man (and, in fact, had pelted him with cigarette butts from the second-story window), they realized that drastic measures would be necessary.

So, late one night in early July, they organized their ambush. Using items from the costume department, they gathered the necessary tools for their assault. Wearing nothing but red high heels, silver Speedo's and platinum-blonde, finger-wave wigs, the desperate band of miscreants waited in the dark at Miss Irwin's home (contractual obligations prevent us from disclosing the location), and waited for her to emerge from her well-guarded fortress.

Knowing that eventually she'd have to come outside to recycle the Johnny Walker bottles, they huddled together behind the 30-gallon trashcans and settled in for a long wait. While there, they rehearsed their plan over and over again, knowing that even the slightest deviation from the original script would cause the paranoid Miss Irwin to turn on her heels and bolt back inside to the warm, sweet safety of the amber elixir and a pack of Camels.

After hours of readjusting one another's wigs and reapplying their makeup they had almost given up, toying with the idea of abandoning their vigil, when a dim light switched on and the back door locks could be heard relinquishing their formidable task of protection. When the door finally swung open they could barely see their prey in the dull glow of the 25 watt bug light, but the clinking of empty scotch bottles confirmed for them that it was she who they sought. The elusive She-Devil, the mad redhead, the shrieking banshee herself, Miss Irwin.

Suddenly filled with self-doubt the group collectively froze, seized with the fear the maybe their frantic endeavor may result in a horrible blood bath. Would music soothe the savage beast? They could only hope. And so they girded their Speedos, and readjusted their wigs one last time, and emerged from the darkness that had protected them. Trying not to trip in their four-inch stilettos, they lined up in the fashion of a chorus line directly in front of Miss Irwin.

Perhaps the most nervous one of all the volunteers was the one charged with the responsibility of hitting the Play button on the tape player they had brought with them, the integral part of their devious plan. Once lined up, their bead trained on their target, they suffered that one, terrifying moment of stillness. Miss Irwin, stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of this colorful group of entertainers, would only hesitate for a moment before striking. They knew that it was now or never. After what felt like an eternity, the silence was broken by the unmistakable sound of the Play button engaging.

They watched, in heart-stopping anticipation, as the scene played out before their eyes. The familiar chords of "Non, Je Ne Regret Rien" came wafting out of the tiny speakers. Miss Irwin's eyes widened. A measure later, the powerful vocals of Piaf caressed the night air as our brave group of performers mouthed the words with histrionic pathos.

Miss Irwin crumpled. Still holding the recycling, she clutched her breast, then fell to her knees. Soon the tears came, and when she was finally outstretched, nay, prone on her patio floor, they knew that their mission was complete. They had broken her down and would now be able to reasonably speak to her about directing the show. Still, there was a sadness to it all, and there were those in the group who, to this day, feel disturbed at having felled such a beautiful and enigmatic creature.

Their objective accomplished they breathed a collective sigh of relief, turned off the tape player and gathered up the still-weeping Miss Irwin to take her indoors. They established her on her well-worn sofa, secured pillows under her aching head and, once satisfied that she could reach the ashtray from her reclined position, retired to the theatre for a well-deserved appointment with a jar of cold creme and some tasty Jello shots.

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