I had two major problems. The first was dancing. The company had a very elaborate number called Peron’s Latest Flame, which musicalizes the opposition to Eva as she begins her climb to the top. Two groups were on stage, the aristocrats and the military. I was an aristocrat, and although I looked the part, I had never known aristocrats to move so quickly. We were in a tight little group of six—with me discreetly placed in the middle where it was hard to see my feet—and we had to prance around the stage in quick little steps, turning our heads in unison, walking backwards and sideways, while the military guys marched in and out in an elaborate pattern. And we were supposed to be singing the whole time. Or, in my case, lip syncing.

I tried. I really did. I promised myself I’d practice at home, but when I got home and tried, I discovered that the choreography patterns had totally vanished from my head. I begged my fellow aristocrats, Seva and Dustin, to help me, which they were glad to do, but it’s not like they had time for the hours of drill that were necessary. Then, just when it was starting to make sense, Charlene, the choreographer, changed it. That was the last straw. All I could do was place myself in God’s hands.

The other problem was the costumes. This was a surprise. Who would worry about the costumes? I certainly didn’t.

Until I saw them.

There sure were an awful lot of them—a whole rack full and just for me. And each one had a problem. The tuxedo shirt had little tiny buttons that were impossible to manipulate into the little tiny holes. The Pope cassock was clearly meant for a skinnier Pope. My poor person’s pants ripped in the seat as I bent over to tie my shoes. And the tweed jacket I had to wear under those hot lights while Rachel sang Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina—it could easily provide enough heat for a family of four.

I kept waiting for the person who would show you how to organize all your costume changes, but apparently there wasn’t such a person. So I watched the other actors to pick up their tricks. Most of them “under dressed,” which means to wear one costume under another; but this was out of the question for me because of the heat factor. Another trick was to change in the wings. This was out of the question because of the darkness factor. At my age I need really good light and a full-length mirror.

So I opted for using the dressing room, which was up a flight of stairs. This worked if I really moved, but it meant that during each performance I climbed the equivalent of a 14-story building.

***

The night of the first preview arrived with astonishing speed. We had performed the entire show with costumes and lights exactly once. I listened to the crowd as they contentedly sipped their after-dinner coffee. How could we take money from these people for what they were about to see?

The Turoffs had no problem with this. They seemed perfectly content, even anticipatory. I asked Roberta if we were woefully behind compared to most of their shows. She gave me a funny look. “Oh, no. You’re a little ahead.”

“Places for the speech!” Alyssa, the stage manager, called out. Bob Turoff went out on stage and greeted the audience and announced the various birthdays and anniversaries being celebrated—a Golden Apple tradition—and then everybody sang Happy Birthday. Then, with a flourish, he presented his theater’s 292nd production—Evita.

The first scene was not a problem for me. In fact I rather liked it. I got to stand center stage in a spotlight behind Evita’s coffin and look sad. By this time I could lip sync to the Latin pretty well (in fact, later in the run I would get compliments on my singing), but to be on the stage for the first time with real people out there was a little unnerving. I tried to concentrate on everything that was ahead of me—the costume changes, the dance steps—but my mind was a blank. I was supposed to be praying, which was exactly what I was doing. Then I realized that everybody was looking at me in a funny way, probably because I had missed my cue to bless the coffin so they could get the hell off the stage. I hurriedly made the sign of the cross—backwards—and ran.

The first act was a blur. There were so many things to do, and it was a constant struggle to remember what each one was and it one order they had to be done. I changed costumes in a state bordering on hysteria. I had new Pope pants and I couldn’t get them over my thighs. My clip-on tie refused to unclip. I ran offstage and put on my stage manager outfit when I should have put on my aristocrat outfit. I sweated through two T-shirts.

Then came the part I was dreading. That damned dance. I had yet to do it right all the way through. I stood there in the wings, trying to remember which foot to start on. Then suddenly I was out on stage.

Actually, it didn’t go too badly. I was far from perfect, but the hard work had paid off. True, I did dance right into Roy, and then Dustin, and then a metal pillar, but at least I didn’t fall over, and best of all, the audience seemed to get it. They were enjoying themselves.

It wasn’t until well into the second act that I had a moment to think. I had just done my Pope bit and it had gone perfectly. Now I was dressed as the priest and waiting to go on for the very last time. The pressure was finally off.

The whole thing was starting to make sense now. It had something to do with the audience. True, you were taking their money. But they were getting their $40 worth—and then some. They were caught up in the story and the music. I could see it in their faces. What to you was all sweaty costumes and a missed pivot or two in Peron’s Latest Flame was to them both great fun and an escape into emotional magic.

True, events in the days to come weren’t always so magical, particularly the time I forgot to move in a blackout and poor Joey Panek had to kick my ankles to get me out of his spotlight. But that was yet to come. For the moment, at least, I understood what the theater is all about.

I was sitting backstage on a bench, listening to Che and Evita’s waltz. Jorge came up to me, ready to go for Evita’s big death scene.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

I tried to find the right word.

“It’s exhilarating,” I finally said.

“Isn’t it?” Jorge said. He looked around at the darkened backstage. In one corner Sarah and Andre were whispering, in another Charles was going over a dance routine with Kari and Sabrina. From the kitchen came a distant clatter as a pan was dropped. But the audience didn’t hear a thing. They were mesmerized as Rachel began her death scene.

Jorge stood up straight and took a deep breath. “It’s an amazing way to live,” he said. Then he patted my shoulder and moved stage left to make his final entrance as Juan Peron.

Senior editor Robert Plunket is the author of two novels, My Search for Warren Harding and Love Junkie, and a contributor to the New York Times, Barron’s and other national magazines.

Click here to see Mr. Chatterbox in rehearsals for Evita.