The Inca's Chosen Mistake

A tribute to the late William Hollister, MD

As I walked offstage I was sure Bill would be angry or at least disappointed. I had nearly ruined the opening night of the opera that he had spent the previous eight years of his life writing. My only consolation was that I knew how much worse it could have been.

Bill Hollister’s opera, The Inca’s Chosen Bride, told the story of an ancient South American legend about two lovers whose lives were complicated by politics, family loyalties, and warfare. The concept and musical theme for the opera first occurred to Bill when he read about the legend as a young anthropology student in the early 1930s. The concept and musical theme stuck in his mind.

Many years later Dr. Hollister retired from a remarkable career as an innovative community psychiatrist. For a lot people that would have been enough but, Bill quickly focused his attention on creating the opera that was still in his head. He took university courses to fill gaps in his knowledge of advanced music theory and orchestration. He got advice from experienced musicians, actors, and technical experts. Finally, at the age of eighty-two and after nearly a decade of obsessive dedication, Bill had done it. He had written an opera, and it was being debuted in a beautiful theatre in downtown Durham, North Carolina.

As a novice in opera production, Bill did make a few mistakes. One of his most serious mistakes was asking me to be in it. When he asked me, I said, “Bill, I don’t think so. I’ve never seen an opera, and I don’t even like to hear myself sing.” He laughed and said, “I just need you to be one of the guards. The guards don’t have singing parts. You need to just stand around with a spear and look like a guard.” Bill was not an easy guy to refuse.

After several weeks of rehearsal, I still did not completely understand the opera’s plot, but I understood my role. During the first act my job was to stand in a row of four guards behind the King. I was to hold a spear in one hand and a fancy medallion in the other hand. When the King sang, “I have the medallion to prove it!” I was to slap the medallion into his outstretched hand. The King would then dramatically throw the medallion onto the center of the stage. We had rehearsed this many times, and it worked like a charm until the opening night.

On opening night I left home wearing the costume I had been assigned at the dress rehearsal. I was wearing a brown tunic. Under the tunic I wore a pair of my wife’s skin-colored panty hose. The director required the panty hose because he wanted all of the guards to have legs that looked alike. Around my waist I wore a rope as a belt. On my head was a funny looking triangular hat. I carried a spear that was much taller than me. Since no one really knew what ancient Incan Empire guards wore, I assumed that this costume was appropriate. I left the house with my children laughing hysterically and rolling on the floor.

The theatre was nearly sold out. I was told that critics from the newspaper would be in the audience. The principal cast members nervously walked around singing to themselves. The director gave people last minute instructions. Surrounded by all of this tension, I started to get nervous myself. I made the stupid thinking error of asking myself, “Could I mess this up?” My brain was quick to provide an answer. I began to worry about dropping the fancy medallion. The medallion hung on a chain and was intended to eventually be worn around the King’s neck. The whole thing easily fit in my hand but I worried that I might drop it and create a major distraction. To compensate for this irrational worry, I hung the medallion around my rope belt where I thought it would be safe until I needed it.

The opera got off to a good start. During the first act, I stood in line with the other guards, holding my spear and staring straight ahead. I focused my attention on the King and waited for my cue to hand over the medallion. As the cue approached, I discreetly started to pull the medallion off my rope belt. To my horror the medallion’s chain was tangled around my rope belt. The harder I tugged at the chain, the tighter it clung to my belt. The dialogue was moving closer and closer to my cue, and the characters were singing much faster than they did in rehearsal. I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead. I suddenly felt at risk of urinating in my wife’s panty hose. Time was running out. I shifted into automatic pilot. I held the spear in my armpit and used both hands to quickly untie the rope belt. I desperately tugged the tangled chain down the rope until I was able to jerk it off of the end. Just as the King sang, “I have the medallion to prove it!” I slammed it into his outreached hand while simultaneously dropping my rope belt onto the stage. My brown tunic ballooned to become a loosely fitting dress. I felt a rush of embarrassment. Now I was the only guard in a row of four who was wearing a brown muu muu and whose rope belt was lying on the stage.

I stared straight ahead until the scene mercifully concluded. The lights dimmed, and I miserably walked off stage for the intermission. I scanned the backstage confusion until I saw Bill sitting in a chair. I approached him to apologize for creating such a mess. I said, “Bill, I am really sorry about that.” Bill looked at me and said, “You are sorry about what?” I tried to explain what had just happened but Bill interrupted me saying, “I am sorry, Michael, but I was watching the lead characters. I wasn’t watching you. I’m sure you did fine.” He smiled. I was both stunned and relieved. Was it possible that the entire audience was watching the lead characters? The moment was a powerful metaphor for one of life’s important lessons. It was not about me.

I sat down and took a deep breath. I could relax now because I did not have to return to the stage until the final scene. My screw up had come and gone, and the opera did not collapse. What more could happen I thought? Before my brain could provide an answer to that foreboding question, the stage manager approached carrying my rope belt. He asked, “Do you know which one of you lost a belt?” He had not noticed my belt drop either.

I took the rope belt and tied it back around my waist. I looked down at my peculiar costume and wondered, “Why am I doing this? Why did I put myself through weeks of rehearsal for the opportunity to look like this in public?” The answer was simple. I was doing this because I liked to be around Bill Hollister.

Bill was a good man to be around because he was a mentally healthy human being. His mental health set him apart from many of his professional peers and contributed to his remarkable reputation. Throughout his medical career, Bill’s personal version of mental health enabled him to bridge the often divergent fields of psychiatry and public health. He eagerly shared his practical concepts for mental health treatment and the prevention of mental illness with anyone who would listen. He was particularly proud of leading a major rural mental health initiative in North Carolina that created hundreds of useful strategies for ordinary people who were motivated to help their friends or neighbors.

After his retirement, Dr. Hollister continued to contribute to the mental health of every community in which he was a member. One of those communities was a men’s group that Bill founded at the Unitarian Fellowship in Durham. It was in this men’s group that my relationship with Bill deepened. At every meeting of this group, Bill quietly demonstrated how to listen, encourage, and support a group of friends. Sometimes he provided a model for confronting someone in a constructive, helpful manner. He earned my respect by showing respect for me. All of this made Bill a good guy to be around and a difficult guy to disappoint.

As the final scene of Bill’s opera approached I had one more chance to make a contribution. Like many operas, The Inca’s Chosen Bride had a fat lady. The fat lady in this opera was a very attractive, talented soprano with long black hair. She played the role of a princess who had been entombed during a war that started in the second act and continued into the third. In the final scene, she was to be released from her tomb and reunited with her lover for the dramatic big finish.

In the final scene, my job was to walk onstage with another guard and pick up the Princess who was lying on a stretcher inside a translucent tomb. We were to carry her out of the tomb on the stretcher, gently place her on a table next to her lover, and walk offstage. In rehearsals four guards carried the Princess. At the last minute the director decided that using two guards would look better. This was his biggest thinking error.

During the intermission my fellow guard and I planned our strategy. He appeared to be the stronger of the two of us, so we agreed that he would lift the rear end and that I would lift the front end of the stretcher. We knew we would need to use the power of our legs to get the Princess off the floor, so we quickly practiced squatting at each end of an imaginary stretcher. I nodded my head three times and on the third nod we both stood up quickly. We practiced two or three times to maximize the powerful thrust necessary for lift off. Then we waited for our cue.

The director motioned for us to go onstage. We walked somberly into the translucent tomb and took our positions. I squatted at the head end of the stretcher, grabbed both handles, nodded three times and then used all of my strength to quickly stand up. The Princess emitted a high pitched squeal that could have only come from a soprano. I was standing on her hair. I thought, “Damn, I did it again.”

Thankfully, the Princess was a true professional. She remained in character. She allowed us to stagger out of the tomb and reunite her with the Prince. The two of them sang the emotional big finish to the opera, and they received a well deserved standing ovation. Afterwards, I was not surprised when the Princess sought me out to “express her feelings” about the little bald spot on the top of her head.

Since that night, The Inca’s Chosen Bride has been performed on several other occasions. A few years ago the opera was performed and recorded in Bulgaria. Although Bill never again asked me to be a guard, he always smiled when I told the story of my performance to our friends in the men’s group.

A few months ago after Bill’s death, his family held a memorial service for him. It was a beautiful touching service. One of the original cast members from Bill’s opera flew to Durham for the occasion. I was hoping it would be the Princess but it was the Prince. He sang the final song from The Inca’s Chosen Bride and created for Bill Hollister another very well deserved big finish.