They say it's good but I didn't know what I was doing until I got

Host: The theatre dressing room was drenched in warm gold light, bouncing off the mirrors framed with little round bulbs that buzzed faintly with age. The smell of makeup powder, old velvet, and anticipation hung in the air. Costumes, wigs, and sequins lay scattered across tables like the aftermath of transformation.

It was late — after curtain call. The applause had long faded into the night, but the ghosts of laughter still lingered between the walls.

Jack sat slouched in a chair, a loosened bowtie hanging crooked around his neck, his reflection weary but alive. Jeeny stood behind him, one hand resting lightly on the back of his chair, her eyes soft with that quiet knowing — the look of someone who understands that performance is both confession and disguise.

Jeeny: “Harvey Korman once said, ‘They say it’s good but I didn’t know what I was doing until I got into the suit and they put the moustache on me, and somehow, when I got all the drag on, it came out. It was the most amazing thing. I’m truly extraordinary.’”

Host: Jack chuckled, low and raspy, the sound roughened by exhaustion and memory.
Jack: “That’s theatre for you — you spend half your life pretending, and then one day, pretending becomes the only place you ever tell the truth.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Korman meant. The costume didn’t hide him — it revealed him.”

Jack: “You think he really believed that? That the moustache and the drag made him extraordinary?”

Jeeny: “I think he realized that the mask wasn’t a lie. It was permission.”

Jack: “Permission?”

Jeeny: “Yes. To become the part of himself that the world wouldn’t let him be in daylight.”

Host: The light bulbs flickered, humming faintly. The mirrors around them reflected infinite versions of Jack and Jeeny — each one a slightly different expression, a slightly altered truth.

Jack: “It’s funny, isn’t it? We think performance is about deception — but maybe it’s just another way to access honesty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The stage is confession in costume.”

Jack: “And the drag — that’s transformation in its purest form. Not just gender, but identity itself. The freedom to become who you already are, turned inside out.”

Jeeny: “That’s the magic of theatre — or comedy, or any art. It’s not invention, it’s excavation.”

Host: Jeeny picked up one of the discarded wigs from the table — silver curls shining under the lights. She turned it over in her hands like a relic.
Jeeny: “You know what amazes me about that quote? The tone of wonder. He isn’t boasting when he says ‘I’m truly extraordinary.’ He’s surprised. He’s almost childlike about it.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because he didn’t plan it. He discovered it — the extraordinary hiding inside the ridiculous.”

Jeeny: “And that’s comedy, isn’t it? The art of turning absurdity into revelation.”

Jack: “Exactly. The funniest people are always the most aware. They feel the fracture between who they are and who they pretend to be, and they make us laugh just by standing in the crack.”

Jeeny: “So when he says the suit and the moustache made it come out, he’s not just talking about acting — he’s talking about liberation.”

Jack: “Freedom through artifice. That’s the paradox.”

Host: The room seemed to breathe with them — the mirrors fogged slightly with the warmth of their voices, the smell of old theatre clinging to everything like nostalgia that refused to leave.

Jeeny: “You know, every performer has that moment — the one where the costume fits too perfectly. Where they realize the role isn’t make-believe. It’s memory.”

Jack: “Yeah. And that’s when you stop playing the character — and the character starts playing you.”

Jeeny: “And you walk offstage, still half-possessed.”

Jack: “Half, if you’re lucky.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the faint hum of laughter echoing in the distance — the phantom sound of an audience that had already gone home.

Jack: “I’ve always thought drag — in any sense — is the truest metaphor for being human. We all wear layers. We all put something on before the world sees us.”

Jeeny: “But the beautiful irony is — it’s often when we’re hiding that we’re most visible.”

Jack: “Right. The moment you commit to the act, you stop acting. The lie turns honest.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Korman felt. That’s why it amazed him. He wasn’t pretending anymore — he was channeling something real through something unreal.”

Host: The rain began to tap faintly against the dressing-room window, the soft percussion of reflection. The sound filled the silence between them.

Jeeny: “You ever have that moment, Jack? Where you put something on — a suit, a role, a face — and suddenly, you feel… larger than yourself?”

Jack: after a long pause “Every time I step out into the world.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when you take it off?”

Jack: “I shrink. But maybe that’s the price of being extraordinary for a while.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Harvey was admitting. The miracle wasn’t in being extraordinary — it was in realizing he could be.”

Jack: “Even if it took a costume to remind him.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, setting the wig down, her reflection shimmering beside his in the mirror.
Jeeny: “It’s amazing, really. The way transformation becomes revelation. The way pretending can lead you home.”

Jack: “And the way laughter — especially laughter — can strip you bare.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Comedy’s the most honest art because it demands you to be both fool and philosopher.”

Jack: “And Harvey Korman — he was both. You could see it in every role. Beneath the exaggeration, there was always understanding.”

Jeeny: “That’s why people still love him. Because he didn’t mock the human condition — he joined it.”

Jack: “And in doing so, made it feel beautiful.”

Host: The lights dimmed, one by one, until only the faint golden glow around the mirror remained. Jack stared at his own reflection — the tiredness, the faint smile, the echo of something unspoken.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Maybe the most extraordinary thing isn’t the performance at all. Maybe it’s the courage to put on the suit.”

Jack: “Yeah. To risk becoming something unexpected — even to yourself.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s where amazement lives — not in control, but in surrender.”

Jack: “Exactly. You don’t plan to be extraordinary. You stumble into it, moustache first.”

Jeeny: laughs softly “Beautifully said.”

Host: The rain eased, the silence swelling like a held breath. Outside, the world waited — grey, endless, ordinary. Inside, the air glowed with the quiet holiness of transformation.

Jack stood, shrugging on his coat, glancing once more at the mirror — the man and the performance merging into something unnamed.

Jack: “Maybe we all need a little drag to discover who we really are.”

Jeeny: “And a little laughter to survive finding it.”

Host: They turned off the lights. The mirror went dark, but the faint outline of their reflections lingered — two souls caught mid-transformation.

And as they stepped out into the soft rain, Harvey Korman’s words echoed in the empty theatre like the last, perfect laugh of the night:

that the most amazing moments in life
aren’t when we finally understand ourselves,
but when, through disguise or accident,
we become ourselves;

that sometimes the mask is the mirror,
and through the act of pretending,
we stumble into truth;

and that to be “truly extraordinary”
isn’t arrogance —
it’s the sacred astonishment
of realizing, at last,
that the performance
was never fake at all.