Acceptance

My imrpov class is composed of a bunch of freaks, including myself. There's one gentleman in particular who really waves his freak flag high. We'll call him R. I've always found it amusing that there are even outcasts amoung outcasts, whose homes lie far beyond the land of the misfit toys. R. is generally regarded as one of these, whose outlandish and often creepy actions remind us of the socially inept kid who sat behind us in 4th grade making a 2nd Batallion out of boogers and attaching aluminum foil left over from his lunch to a pencil with the hope of contacting his home planet.
R. never really made it out of that stage. Sure he's over 40 and graduated from the Berkley School of Music, but he still gallops around the room shoeless mumbling words and phrases that when put together...well let's just say no one would be surprised if he conjured up a creature from past who currently has a face that can only be seen in a pack of MagiCards. R. is the one everone wishes will lose in the 4th round of Hit Man, a game that allows ousted players to distract those who are still "hit men." We stand over him, screaming until his concentration is lost and he breaks a rule, forcing him out of the circle.
It's hard not to openly laugh at R. When he runs to the middle of the stage flailing his limbs about as he sings a garbled rendition of "I'm a little teapot." His version however goes more like, "I'm a little teapot short and fat, here is my handle, here is my mouth." As he sings, now practically jogging in place, his hands flutter in front of his face and I think, "If it were anyone else doing this dance that would make any retarded person proud, it would be funny, but he's not really trying to be funny and so it's just sad."
Last week I wore a polyester tank-top to class. Polyester doesn't allow the skin to breath and therefore shouldn't be worn while doing activities that may cause one to sweat. Over the years, I have ignored my own advice completely and this night was no exception. After several rounds of "Superhero" I just wanted to run out of the room and hide. My "Superhero" action pose required me to launch my arms up over my head, drop to one knee and look to the sky, wrists crossed, chest high. After about 3 rounds my arms did not soar above me ready to attack an evil villan, rather they were clentched to my sides to as not to reveal the evil stench lurking under my arms. No, this superhero needed to change into a new outfit, immediately. After class, a friend and I were going to get a drink. He noted the musty odor that encapuslated the practice room and said he was sure it was R. I revealed myself as the one who needed a shower, but my friend insisted that it could not have been me. No really, I protested, I promise you, it's me. We went for marguritas, my friend still unconvinced.
This week, however, everything changed. We arrived for class at 7 o'clock, our instructor no where to be found. So we decided to play. The class circled up intent on creating a blues song; the suject being our missing teacher. Each of us belted out an improvised line, but something was missing. Music. There was a piano in the room and R. sat down and began to play. Soon everyone was laughing and hollering, clapping at the ingenuity behind eachothers lines. We did a few numbers. One reggae, one opera, one honkey-tonk. R. took on each of the genres with ease, his nimble fingers giving us the pitch and rythyms needed to create such masterpieces as, "Where the Hell Is This Guy" and "I Want a Refund." When we were finished we whooped and clapped, shouting, "R! Yay R! That was Awsome!" He blushed and bowed his head.
Our instructor fially showed up and we began improvising scenes. Suddenly, people weren't avoiding the possibility of having to play son or co-worker or friend to the balding and bumbling R. As R jogged in place, waiting to walk onto the next scene, I detected a curvature of his lips that resembled a smile. Was the smile in recognition of being accepted or did he just receive some good news from his home planet?