"Uh, I need help."

Sometimes you get yourself into some sketchy projects. On a Saturday night at the end of September, a girl called me up frantically, saying The Glenn Rose Theatre (which had been closed for four years) was being revived. She was the stage manager for its first production. I've refused to get involved in these desperate projects before, but she said two words that made me interested: Talk Radio.

"Yeah, but. . . see, that's why I'm calling you, Barry. Jill, uh, she's been sleeping, and uh. . . she's been sleeping, and I can't get her to. . . wake up, you know."

I've always been a fan of the playwright Eric Bogosian. The first monologue I ever worked up was called Stag from his collection Sex, Drugs & Rock n' Roll. I've seen friends perform his one man shows, and I've read a handful of his works. His play Talk Radio is about 1980's shock jock, Barry Champlain, and deals with him berating the idiots who call his show. I would have loved to be Barry, but this nonauditioned production already had their Barry. Well, poop.

"Hey no, you gotta help my girlfriend."

I would have settled on playing multiple roles as part of the bevy of callers, but there was one role I wanted in particular: Kent. He is 18 years old, a rock n' roller, and pretty much an idiot. He calls in to say he's been partying with his girlfriend, and things have gotten out of hand. His girlfriend has overdosed, and he's afraid to call anyone but Barry. After reading the role at the second rehearsal, they gave me the role outright. That's right. A 30 year old goofball gets to play an 18 year old idiot. Acting's pretty fun sometimes.

"No. . .that. . . I can't. . . I can't."

This production was marred with problems throughout. The guy who said he would direct never returned after the first rehearsal. We had a tag team of two teenagers posing as directors whenever they showed up, and the play went through most rehearsals without casting many of the callers. When they gave me Kent, they told me not to do any other callers. It was really a core of six actors who persisted and rehearsed to keep the thing going. We never had a rehearsal with everyone there at the same time. I honestly didn't think the play would make it to performances.

"No, don't play me like them other people. I want you to know I enjoy listening to you show, and I have many friends who are Jewish."

Okay, I lied. I did get a part as another caller: John. John is a black man who loves Jews. The rest of the cast backed away from that caller because no one wanted to act black. It's that Amos n' Andy thing. I may be white trash, but I was the blackest guy in the show. Barry insults my Jew loving ways and cuts me off after ten lines. It wasn't much, but now I can say I've played a black man.

"I don't know. I can't get her to wake up."

Right, back to Kent. After his first call, many other callers and Barry's manager are worried about him. They all have an opinion about his drug overdosed girlfriend. During Kent's call back, it's revealed that it was a hoax, and he made up the whole thing. Why did he do it?

"I listen all the time. I think about what you say. You say such cool stuff, and. . . I wanted to meet you."

Yes, Kent is just another star-struck fan of the shock jock. As a reward (and to spite his manager), Barry tells Kent to come down to the station. Little does the audience know this is when I will wreak havoc on the play for ten minutes. Kent is classic 80s rocker. A mullet (wig), Iron Maiden shirt, jean vest with rock patches, and torn jeans. Kind of like what I wore when I was actually a teenager.

"Well, nobody talks about what the kids are doing. I mean, it's not like I'm not into political stuff. The Live Aid concert was pretty good. Hands Across America. I dunno. . . I like Bruce, and he's political."

Yes, Kent spouts off his youthful wisdom.

"Revolution is pretty important, you know. There's gonna be a lot more revolutions. When the people get together. . . solidarity. It's like that song by Megadeth, 'Peace sells, but who's buying?' Plus. . . plus I saw a show about how people will have two way televisions so they can see each other. Then they won't be able to stop the revolution!"

My crowning personal moment comes while Barry takes other calls. He leaves his glass of Jack Daniel's within arms length. I snatch it and down it. Barry pours another, secretly putting in lighter fluid from a Zippo. I down it. Cough and get more juiced up. I say I'm getting some coffee and find the bottle of Jack. Guzzle. After fondling Barry's assistant, Linda, I sit down, and Barry pours me another glass. Four shots in four minutes. I mock jack off, flip off the audience, laugh and howl, throw Kleenex at characters that I rubbed in my crotch, and stumble around in drunken bliss. Beautiful. Kent has a bit of advice for a caller before getting kicked out of the studio.

"You don't get it, wimp? Here's what you get. You get a dollar fifty-nine. Go down to the drug store, buy a pack of razor blades, and slit your fucking wrists, pinhead!"

Talk Radio is easily the worst production I've been a part of, but Kent is easily the most fun character I've ever played. It's funny how that works. To the cast's credit, the show always got better, half the cast had never been in a play before, and we fulfilled our three weekend, six performance stint. The final performance was last night, and a crowd of forty cracked up and hooted during the play. Kent brought the house down.

I would say I'll miss Kent, but I know he's always been very much a part of me. For all its difficulties, the production always improved, the audience numbers always went up, and we always looked forward to doing the play again. You know what? That's exactly what community theatre should be.

Chris Jungle sips his whiskey on the rocks nowadays.