The theater is in a little town in the mountains, on a hill
beside a railroad…one set of tracks.
Maybe it’s a siding through the week, but on weekends it’s one way we
put butts into the theater’s seats – playgoers can ride the scenic trip through
a spectacular gorge and be delivered right to the foot of the short rise to the
theater. I work at the theater, but not
on any of the productions. Presently,
there are two productions: One is a
professional touring company presenting a comedy; the other is a local amateur
theatrical troupe. The comedy played
last night and will be today’s matinee.
The amateur production will take place in the early evening.
It’s well before call.
I like this time in the theater (and, in reality, I do). All the elements are there, waiting for
actors, crew and the audience to create that special magic. Just now, it’s the potential and me. I feel engulfed by something quietly
mystical. I could surrender myself to
this temple.
In the last scene of the comedy, a man is in bed reading
aloud from a book whose cover is flown in on a canvas drop. During the scene, the drop unravels onto the
man. I think it’s odd that the canvas is
still on the bed. Even if they’re doing
the same show again, it’s the usual practice to clean up after the
performance. Besides, if the canvas is
still on the bed, might it not get wrinkled?
I hear a noise. It’s
a young woman from the amateur troupe working on costumes. She’s obviously having a theater fantasy
which I don’t want to interrupt, but wind up doing. She’s embarrassed and I try to apologize by
telling her I do the same thing. That’s
what the place is for, right? Fantasies
and make believe. She gets it and she
says we’ll probably bump into each other through the day. She gathers some costumes, turns, and exits.
I’m back on the stage.
I look around and again wonder why the stage wasn't cleared last
night. I pull up a corner of the
canvas. The actor is still in bed. I put the canvas carefully back in place,
hoping he’s merely passed out.
People are encouraged to bring a picnic basket and some wine
with them to enjoy at a little park not far from the theater and almost hiding
in the foot of the mountain. The train
remains parked in front of the theater because there’s no train traffic on
weekends.
Things are not going well at the theater. It’s after call and not all the cast or crew
have shown up. I ask one of the crew about
readying the stage. He says no one’s
said anything about it and no one knows what to do. The audience train should be here by now. Instead, I see a parade of trains whizzing by…an
engine and a couple of freight cars, like locals, only locals don’t operate on
weekends. And why so many?
I’m stopped on the inside stairs by the young woman from
earlier. She is panicked because she’s
going to need help and no one’s there.
She gives me a number to call. It’s
not my problem, but I tell her I’ll try.
I’m stopped on the porch for my opinion on a debate over whether small
theaters should pay royalties for already published plays or commission
originals. I tell them to consider their
budget, the possibility of landing grants, or maybe going halvsies with a
similar theater in another city. I
excuse myself. I walk by a table with an
AM radio blaring and mobile phone. No
one is there, so I take the phone and punch in the numbers the young woman gave
me. No answer, so I leave a
message. I head for the park. I’m in need of a breather.
I return from it and see an engine stopped on the tracks in
front of the theater. I’m very happy to
see that, and then take a few steps and see there are no passenger cars, just a
couple of box cars. I walk on and note three
automobiles have crashed into the last box car.
One is near the top of the box car, one is smashed into the bottom right
of the car, and another is smashed into the rear of that car. I look down to the street and see lots of
police cars, lights flashing dazzlingly, but no cops anywhere. The young woman stands on the porch, taking
it all in. I give her a “what the fuck?”
look, which she answers with an “I haven’t a clue” eye roll. I want to ask the engineer or the cops when
this train can move to make space for our train, but no one’s around. The flashing lights, however, are impressive.
I go into the lobby and into a small storage room. There’s a table in the center and I crawl up
on it. I get kind of fetal and then
stretch my legs expecting to hit the wall.
I don’t know what my feet touch, but I know it isn't the wall. I look.
I have pissed off a snake and it’s looking for a place to sink its
fangs. I yell. I kick at it.
I wake up. I look to see if I
kicked the cat and she gives me her “Hey!
Sleeping here!” expression.
