“Check one-two, check one-two.” I’m sitting in on rehearsal for Chairlift Revue, and until the run-through for the first play begins, those are the only words spoken in the nearly empty Rainbow Theatre. They’re repeated endlessly.

Finally, the play starts. Like all the plays, it conforms to the only rule of the Revue: It has to take place entirely on a chairlift.

This one has three characters, two late-middle-age guys and a mid-twenties woman… who immediately starts hitting on the guy sitting next to her. Then, the hit takes an unexpected turn that throws the guy into a total tailspin. The play is alternately funny and moving, fast-paced and pretty much brilliant.

When it’s over, I applaud. “Wow, that was terrific. What’s it called? And who wrote it?”

Someone in the darkened theatre answers, “It’s called Do I Know You? And it was written by G.D. Maxwell.”
Oh, Jesus. G.D. Maxwell. I should have guessed. Max is the guy who wrote the funniest play last year. He’s the guy who always outwrites and outskis me. He’s a really annoying friend.
He’s also the guy who revived Chairlift Revue, without a doubt, the best-kept secret and biggest bargain at WSSF. It’s an evening of theatre, of hilarity, revelation and self-recognition for 10 bucks. No wonder the crowd’s so wildly enthusiastic.

Six months before the Festival, Max puts out a call for submissions from all over North America. To his amazement, many writers demur: “No, I’ve never written a play.” “No, I don’t know how.” No, I’m not sure I’m up for it.”

When he tells me this over a single-malt, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Dude, don’t they know how many real playwrights can’t get a reading, much less a full-fledged production?”

“I know, I know.”

“And don’t they know the freelancer’s first rule?”

“Which is?”

“Don’t you ever let a chance go by.”

Some of us do know the rule and jump at the chance. Johnny Larochelle, Michel Beaudry, Feet Banks, Michele Bush, Max and I all write one-act plays for the event. Most are comedies; all have comic elements. One of Max’s (an over-achiever, he’s done two) has a talking dog; mine has a couple of short musical numbers.

The actors are all talented locals: Johnny Larochelle, Stephane Delage, J.T. Townsend, Katie Svenson, Bronwen Thorburn, Leslie Anthony, Cheryl Massey, Chris Quinlan, Raphael Sabatini, Michele Bush, Darcy McKay, Magdelena Regdos, Cole Manson, Angie Nolan and Fish Boulton. Remember those last two names.

The evening ends when, at the end of his play, playwright Feet Banks leaps to his, well, feet, jumps onto the stage, and shouts at Max, “You turned my play into a fookin’ comedy! A comedy! See if you think this is funny!”

Then he pulls out a pistol and shoots G.D. Maxwell in the chest at close range.

The evening’s unflappable producer, Michele Bush, steps from the wings and calls for a couple of stagehands to haul poor Max away. She then announces, “Rather than end on such a gory note, we’re adding one more short play. Here it is.”

Angie and Fish return to the chair, now playing a couple of friends. She’s cheerful and optimistic; he’s somewhat sour and world-weary. She tells him he needs an attitude adjustment, and that his main problem is fear of intimacy.

After rejecting this analysis as standard chick blather, just as they reach the top, he suddenly realizes that she’s right about him, that he’s been missing the joy and love that’s been right in front of him all this time. She skis off.

But he calls to her. “Angie, please come back.”

Angie, not her stage name — “Angie, please come back.”

She does, not knowing where this is going, preparing to adlib, wondering if she’s about to be the next one to get shot.

But no, Fish is now on one knee. And he’s, well, fishing in his pocket for a small rectangular box, from which he produces a ring. His next line is…

“Angie, will you marry me?”

Angie bursts into tears, they embrace, the other actors scream, and folks, there ain’t a dry eye in the house, mine included.

Now why can’t I write an ending like that?

— by Jules Older