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At Rise…
As I walk in the door it seems so cavernous, so still, I
know soon the air will be buzzing with tension, giggles, and
vocal warm-ups. The ceiling lobby rises two stories to the
black ceiling, plaster peels around the base of the lighting
poles; their tenuous grip is quite nerve-wracking if I look
too closely. The air is heavy with the scent of stale
cigarette smoke and last night’s beer; there must have been
a lot of bar-talk after rehearsal last night. That’s usually
when the most work gets done. You rehearse, block, say your
lines, and then go have a beer. While sitting around the bar
you can talk about who you are-as a character, of course-
and motivations, “I loved the way you delivered that line
tonight, keep it!” and emotions “You really made me feel
something inside when you stroked my arm that way.” The
theatre space is dark, I pop on the work lights to check
things out, the mice sneak away and the ghosts wander to
their spaces backstage. Although it’s completely quiet there
are echoes, timid ones from the past when this building was
an orange packing plant, brash ones from its life as a Buick
dealership and appliance store, but the most distinct are
the ones from the last fifteen years. This theatre has seen
much laughter, tears, pain, joy, and applause, it all has an
electric feel, like the air after a lightening crack, you
can feel it, smell it, taste it. In the last six months I
have seen the place as a Mental Ward, Niagara Falls, a New
York penthouse, a dry dirty Texas 5 & Dime, and a dusty
street in Maycomb, Alabama. Now it is the dark London home
of Ebenezer Scrooge, Bob Cratchitt, Tiny Tim and numerous
ghosts. A slight cloud of sawdust wafts in from the shop,
the next show is slowly being born in there. The labor long,
arduous, sometimes painful. I hear the sounds of table-saw
Lamaze. The theater is clean, swept. There are no empty
cups, bottles or cans strewn about the seats, all is ready.
I take the roll of masking tape and the reservations list
and play musical chairs with the patron’s names. The only
music is in my head as I try to fit every last one in the
“best seat in the house.” In this tiny space all seats are
the best, but no one ever believes you. I finish with the
space, now is time to go backstage. The greenroom is still
so quiet, the props sit waiting on their table in perfectly
marked squares, all have their name written neatly below,
lest they forget what they are: Tim’s crutch, Marley’s
chains, and Cratchett’s lump of coal. They patiently sit for
their grand debut on the stage. The walls of the
greenroom/dressing room are a modern archeological dig. Each
panel filled with pictures, drawings, names and jokes of
those who have gone before. “When did this start,” I wonder.
Which cast was the first to say; “we must be remembered in
this place?” Some shows had taken nearly whole walls, did
they think this place would only last so long, that other
shows would not come to pass and need a wall of their own?
Suburbia ’97, Who’s Afraid of Virginia
Woolf? ’96, The Tempest ‘95, A
larger-than-life drawing of Edgar Allen Poe stares down as
though holding court, Poe “93. The memories
have moved up to the ceiling, I find my name mixed in with
so many, Private Eyes,
Come Back to the 5 & Dime,
Jimmy Dean,
Wonder of the World. There, behind a rack full of
bustled skirts and overcoats I see the eye of Chief Bromden,
ah One Flew Over the
Cuckoo’s Nest, just under Steambath,
with self-made caricatures of the cast. I move my way to the
dressing tables, to the space I always choose, I sit on the
lighted side of the room, the one with the actual dressing
room lights and mounted mirror. I sit just under Death
of a Salesman and Bimbo Elves in Bondage,
with autographs from Sideman surrounding it. I see names of
people I know, names of people I’ve heard, names of those
who have passed away. My usual chair has someone else’s
costume on it. It is okay; there will be another time for my
mirror, perhaps the next show, or the next. There is the
dried rose I placed between two light bulbs at the end of
Because He Can;
it’s not going anywhere. I reach the end of the dressing
room, out the stage door to the bar. I need to set up now.
Actors are beginning to wander in; the nervous-energy is
intoxicating, opening night! They flit about and squeal as
last minute touches are made to costumes and hairstyles.
Period pieces are always so much work, but always so much
fun! I set up the bar, fill the cooler with sodas, juices
and the most popular item, bottled water, I fill the tub
with beers and ice, and I open wine bottles. Hopefully this
will be a good drinking crowd, the theater can use all the
help it can get and the bar may cover a costume expense, the
tip jar may buy a prop. I light the candles and wait for the
sign, suddenly the box office opens and any bit of silence
is chased away.
The audience has arrived.
Theatre
Downtown is Tax Deductible 501(c)(3)
Copyright 2011, Theatre Downtown |
