Ah, Wednesday. I step off of the treadmill at the university fitness center after having watched the CNN broadcast of Mitt Romney defining the word "awkward" at his speech to the NAACP. The gym is one of those things that I'm trying to remember to take advantage of during my waning days of student-dom. When you're working or studying somewhere, it can be so easy to forget to actually live there. You -- and when I say "you," that's my narrationally distancing way of saying "I" -- are in a place for a year, four years, three years. And then the time is done, and you're moving on... and you look around at the museums you haven't visited, the libraries where you never read, the restaurants in which you never dined, the magnificent architecture at which you never really looked and in which you never attempted to trespass while slightly intoxicated at some late hour in the night. So for me, I'm trying not to waste this magnificent opportunity that I've been given by just being here in the same way that I've done with others in the past.
One of the perks that I'm trying not to waste being gym membership.
In any case, to my immense surprise, I find that I've actually accomplished my weight goal for the summer. Yes, I'm weighing myself right after having sweated out who-knows-how-much water, but I figure that by using the scale that I know reads two pounds heavier than the other scale at the fitness center, I'm playing things pretty evenly. Deal with it. And while the weight thing isn't my biggest priority -- I both know intellectually and have experienced quite well how the amount of gravitational pull on one's mass and the state of one's health aren't directly related -- it admittedly produces something of a glow to have empirical proof that some kind of change has been happening due to my work over the past months. Somehow, having achieved this goal catches me by surprise. In that chaotic, unfair thing known as life, to have put in effort and received results is amazingly pleasing.
This has turned out to be a surprisingly good day.
3:01pm
I show up to work earlier than usual for an evening show. You see I'd signed onto this job in late winter, but the work didn't actually begin until late April, with calendars and scheduling and such starting to appear and demand satisfaction. Which means, of course, that in May, I receive a postcard telling me to save the date for two good friends' wedding.
On the first of the two busiest days of work in the entire summer: when we'll be doing all three of our shows, which we're running in rotating repertory, in one marathon day.
To summarize my reaction: "...fuck me."
Actually, that wasn't so much a summary as a reenactment.
The point being, after some professional angsting and soul-searching, I did what any normal person would do and arranged for my other stage manager (he stage manages two of the shows, while I production stage manage the entire festival and stage manage one of the shows) to substitute for me that day. My absence was provisionally approved, with every desire and belief that it be a possible thing. A few weeks into our run, everything seems to be shaping up well, with the individual shows all running well and the scenic/lighting changeovers between the shows developing into beautiful, quick and simple clockwork. So, I made a copy of my calling script and gave it to my stage manager to peruse; we met to talk through the show; he shadowed me as I pre-set and called the show one night; and he'd been in to practice running through the tech of the show on his own a couple times,
Tonight, he was going to pre-set and call the show while I watched him. In preparation for that, he wanted to just run through the tech with me there so that he could ask a couple of questions that he arisen when he was working on his own.
I wave to him as I head into the building. He's finishing up a game on his phone. It's almost time for me to sit back and let someone else take the reins.
3:16pm
The sound is completely fucked.
Going through the first piece in the show, things were sounding much louder than usual. Then, we reached the second piece, which contains some cues that can be described professionally as "crazy-ass freak-outs." The sound in that piece as a whole is rather tension-inducing, in an artistically appropriate way, with those freak-outs being particularly sonically stressful.
Right now, though, the freak-outs are more along the lines of "heart attack-inducing." The meters are flashing red as they go into overdrive, speakers crying out in pain. I have the sound designer on the phone -- intermittently, at least, as the theatre in a basement and there is apparently very limited cell phone reception in the stage management booth.
We're going through all of the things that the sound designer can think of, and everything seems to be perfectly normal. Except for how the levels are now breaking the speakers.
Finally, we exhaust all of the sound designer's theories, and he says that he'll come in to work on it. It's almost 4:00pm at this point, when we have a staff meeting to discuss laundry procedures -- what, do you think we have an actual wardrobe staff or something? -- and our upcoming marathon day. Clearly, nothing more can be done down here, so we head upstairs to not be responsible for anything for a couple of minutes.
4:44pm
Our sound designer came and fixed our problem, so he calls me briefly out of our staff meeting to explain what went wrong to me. Apparently, he'd been using a limiter for Ableton Live that was regulating the levels for our show. The thing is, it had been a trial version -- and the free evaluation period had expired, so the plug-in just stopped working. Poof! No more limiter! But he put in another thing to perform the same function, so all was well and we wouldn't have to worry about blowing out either speakers or eardrums.
When I return to the room where we were having our meeting, my other stage manager tells me that one of my actors had called saying that he was currently suffering from heat exhaustion. I call the actor back, check in about how he's feeling, make sure that he's treating himself properly.
I glance at the clock. There are over four hours until the performance. While I'm slightly put out by someone getting heat exhaustion on the day that they have a show, everything sounds as though it's following the proper course, though he probably won't be able to perform at 100% tonight. I tell him to keep me updated and that I'll check in with him closer to the show.
6:02pm
Feeling rather awkward and at loose ends, I text a friend. With my sub very competently taking care of all of the pre-show business tonight, I am an entirely useless supervisor right now.
Famous.
Last.
Words.
6:14pm
My phone rings. I glance at it -- it's my heat-exhausted actor. I pick up and greet him, and I'm answered by his girlfriend.
Apparently, rather than heat exhaustion, he has been attacked by a nasty stomach virus, he's been getting worse, he's extremely weak, and they're just now leaving urgent care and have been told by the doctor that he'll likely be in rough condition for a couple days. I tell her that we hope that he feels better soon, and that we'll be taking care of things on our end and that he should rest well.
I hang up.
Well.
Time to see if it's possible to perform a five-person ensemble dance show that uses all of the performers in every single piece with four people.
6:17pm
I walk into the office and tell the producer that we have a man down. I can go through the show and determine what it might be like when modified to be performed with four people, and then I can present that to him. Then, he can decide if that is something that the festival wants to present to an audience -- but, I say, I will present that plan to the company and we will go forward with it if, and only if, they feel comfortable performing such a show.
I walk out of the office.
Five minutes later, I return and present my plan.
And the producer says: go for it.
6:26pm
I start gathering the other actors, calling and texting. One of the actors is already there, rehearsing for the fireside storytelling post-show gathering, so that's easy enough. Two of the others reply that they're on their way as fast as they can.
The fourth goes to voicemail. There's no reply to a text message. I dispatch my stage manager to continue trying to get in contact with her. As we wait for the others, I start talking through the show with the actor who is already here.
6:42pm
With three out of our four actors and our crew member gathered, I present to them the overall general plan for how the show might be modified to accommodate missing one of our performers, highlighting the instances that would be most drastically affected (such as a couple of partnering sections). The actors, the light of determination (and just a little bit of fear) shining in their eyes, declare that the show must go on.
I give the nod to the producer, who heads downstairs to open the house to the audience, letting the in after the 15-minute delay in which we were determining whether there would even be a performance for them to see tonight.
Meanwhile, we go back to the beginning and start working our way systematically through the show, discussing every single thing that will be modified and earmarking a few moments that the actors would like to actually walk through on their feet before performing it.
Still no word from our fourth actor.
7:34pm
Our fourth actor joins us at the normal half-hour call time, and having just reached the end of the show in our talk-through, we loop back around to the beginning of the show, hitting the moments that will specifically affect her.
Lesson learned, she says, is to make sure that you take your phone off silent after getting out of seeing a show when you yourself have a performance later that night.
7:45pm
Half-hour until places for top of show -- half-hour, please.
I grab my salad and shovel my face full of Asian mixed greens, avocado and kimchi. Clearly, I'll be calling the show tonight, and the last thing I need is to have a blood sugar crash in the middle of it.
8:16pm
Everyone is in places. I watch from the booth as the producer does his usual pre-show speech, telling people about the festival's other performances and informing them how to leave the space in case of an emergency. And, he adds, one of our actors unfortunately fell ill, so tonight we are presenting a modified version of the show that will nevertheless delight you.
Let's get this thing started.
9:06pm
And the curtain comes down. Or it would come down, if we had a curtain. In reality, I take the last light and sound cues, cutting out the sound with a blackout. Then, as per usual, I bring up the curtain call lights and sound and start the applause from the booth, as the audience tends to not be sure if the show is actually finished. To be fair, the show consists of sections, at the end of which it has a tendency to go darker and quieter, and there isn't any narrative of which to reach the end, so it's understandable that one might be unsure.
But we did it.
10:04pm
Our Technical Director is out of town, so I was on firewatch for the fireside storytelling tonight and shut down the sound and light systems and closed up the space after that. Dragging myself upstairs to the dressing room/green room, I collapse into a chair.
Time to start writing the performance report. So hey, everyone, here's what happened tonight...
11:23pm
I send the performance report. It's taken a lot of melodramatic lolling about in the chair, but it's written and sent.
I've had a headache for two days now. Having been on a wellness kick, I'd been massaging some stiffness out of my shoulders and found myself working upwards, into my neck and head. Now, this was supremely dumb of me, as the muscles in my neck and the back of my head have been in a constant state of pain since I was in middle school, at least. It honestly took me a while to cotton on to the fact that it wasn't normal for applying light pressure to the back of my head to induce nauseating pain. But for some idiotic reason, in my healthful zeal, I'd a couple days ago decided that maybe I should try to do something about this ongoing problem. And so, I'd starting carefully working those sore muscles.
What I'd succeeded in doing was making every muscle in my head and neck hurt.
So here I am, sprawled in a chair, feeling lightheaded with pain, my sandals long since kicked off and my hair hanging loose. I curse my body for its reaction to stress, which is much less useful than my brain's reaction. My brain takes stress in stride, not letting crises ruffle it. My body, on the other hand, is extremely sensitive to stress, and unsurprisingly, right now, it is in a major state of protest. In a state of riot, even.
I stand. The hardwood floor feels good under my feet, and the open space, cleared out of its usual tables and chairs by the actors, who wanted an open warm-up space in their green room, looks so inviting.
Nobody else is in the building at this point. I do what I want.
I grab my iPod and hook it up to the room's sound system. I let it rip.
And I dance.
12:46am
I wake up on the floor of my apartment. It's confusing, because my brain discerns that it's not in bed but at the same time believes that where it is right now is just fine and can't we just stay here?
After coming home, I'd put on my pajamas, sprawled out on the floor of my unlit living room and done some extensive stretching for my back. Taking deep breaths, I'd lowered myself into savasana. And there I'd stayed. It probably won't end well if I stay here, though. Curling onto my side, I slowly heave myself off the floor and shuffle to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea. Some Tension Tamer, please.
And dear god, but this is the shit that I live for.
A. Maz. Ing.
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