“God, I hate cucumber sandwiches,” I said to d**k during a rehearsal. “Why the hell do you have to be so exact? Can’t we have bologna? The audience would never know.”
Dick just looked at me with those, damn, I am a professional, eyes of his, and I knew it was a lost cause. I’d have to eat my way through those wretched finger sandwiches so the plate would be empty on cue. The audience would roar with laughter when Algernon accuses his butler of not providing them for his very particular aunt, the Lady Bracknell. Well, I could handle a half-dozen of them without gagging.
Other than the issue of the cucumber sandwiches, the rehearsals seemed to be going well. However, my fear had been confirmed: since the beginning of production, Andy and I had become like proverbial ships passing in the ni
