Silent Moment In A Theater

Opening night- I walk into the theater, hair kept out of my eyes with excessive product. I’m wearing dramatic stage makeup- rosy cheeks and thick eyebrows- is it too much? I carry a black backpack with jazz shoes, snacks, undergarments, costume pieces from home, and a script. The script has meticulous notes- enter stage right, cross stage left, say this line just like how the broadway actor said it, or maybe a fresh new delivery to surprise those familiar with the show.

I grab my mic, number three, and a roll of mic tape. Mic check is in thirty, I have plenty of time- I walk down the aisle past the empty seats. I stand at the stairs that lead up to the stage, and suddenly it’s like I am in a trance.

I look up the stairs to the center of the stage, the neon yellow markers seem to guide my eye to the very middle. The set is arranged in its beginning formation: the two elevated half-circles are pushed up against each other, forming a circle shaped platform. On it sits a smaller set piece of the same shape and color- simplistic but effective. The whole stage is illuminated from above with blue and purple lights.

Soon the audience will bustle in, a herd of children waiting to see me and my castmates. Actors will be dancing around the stage, not so much expertly as earnestly, forgetting a move or two. There will be frantic reading of lines backstage, and certainly some muddling of lines onstage. There will be drama and heartbreak, retold one hundred times over by gossip-loving theater kids.

But right now, there is nothing to break the refreshing silence that fills the theater. I walk up the stairs, and look out at the empty audience. It feels like something out of a movie musical, like everyone else is frozen in time and I’m about to break into song.

I indulge this odd notion. I walk backstage, slowly and contemplatively, my hand skimming across the prop table. It’s lined with a motley assortment of props, anything the show might need- ribbons and magic wands, baskets of plastic fish, bread rolls made of foam, brochures for imaginary places, beach balls, bags of styrofoam ice. Some of these props are brand new, some have been in so many shows with me they may as well be old friends.

My eye darts to the corner of the table. A glass paperweight. I pick it up, it’s heavy considering its small size. Inside is a piece of coral, almost perfectly preserved. Definitely the same prop from a few shows back. A relic from the past.

I remember forgetting to bring the paperweight onstage during a vital scene, and feeling very silly up on the stage talking about a non-existent object that I pretended to hold in my hand. I remember apologizing profusely to the other actors in a whisper backstage, but laughing despite my embarrassment because it was closing night and there was nothing to be done.

Then I remember someone tossing the paperweight up in the air and catching it and throwing it back up again. She grins with dumb confidence as she throws the fragile object into the air over and over again and catches it every time. She wears a red sash to differentiate her from the ensemble members, it seems to glow faintly in the dim lights.

I slam the paperweight forcefully on the table, and the visions subside. Small cracks begin to form in the glass, and I run downstairs before anyone notices.

Down the stairs is the dressing room area, I step around the piles of clothing set aside for quick changes. Each pile suggests a hurried frenzy as friends help the quick changer, usually a very young ensemble member, switch shoes and hats and dresses in only a couple minutes. As they panic, the actors who put those same costume pieces under their clothes will step around them with quiet disdain. The kinder ones will suggest this option to the quick changers after the show.

There’s a mirror in the dressing room hallway for actors to look over the costume they’ve been given. Often they complain about the uncomfortable tights, or the ugly hat that won’t stop falling off. But when they get to see photos of themselves after the show or watch the recording of the performance, they often realize what an amazing job the costume crew really did.

It’s almost astonishing no friendly castmate has come to break me out of the trance. I start to half believe that maybe they actually are frozen or conveniently disappeared for my cinematic contemplations. I run my hand over the mirror. It’s so hot downstairs I’m almost tempted to press my face against the cold glass.

I look myself over in the mirror. My light brown, almost blonde hair is gelled back- pushing back my hairline by a mile. My hair’s a little bit too long, almost mullet-like, it’s probably about time to cut it. Too much blush, my eyebrows exaggerated, but it should look okay from the stage. Black t-shirt with some sort of ironic phrase on it, gray sweatpants, red and white shoes. I’m dressed informally, in traditional tech week fashion, but I don’t look half bad. It’s one of those rare moments where I feel as if I really look like a guy. I smile. The mirror smiles back at me.

“Justin? Mic check’s in like ten minutes! What the hell are you doing?”

It’s my friend Ava, her blonde hair tied back neatly in a ponytail. She is fully dressed in her townsperson costume, the skirt of her next outfit barely visible underneath- she’s one of the smart ones.

I keep staring at my reflection, not ready to let go of this moment just yet.

“Ava,” I say, “Be honest, do I look like a guy right now?” I point at the mirror, a nonsensical gesture- clearly she can see me without it.

Ava looks at my reflection in the mirror, “Yeah, I think so,” she says, “But to be honest, Justin, you always look like a guy.”

“Thank you,” I smile, and we walk towards the dressing room. The fact that I’m still using the girl’s one may suggest that Ava’s compliment may be dishonest.

“Hey, Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“You remember that girl I liked, a few shows back?”

“Oh yeah, your ‘good friend’ Riya?”

“You know I looked up what her name meant in that baby names book I have for naming characters?”

“Creep behavior.”

“Shut up. Anyway, turns out it means ‘singer.’ Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s fitting. She had a decent voice, I’ll give you that.”

“Hey, Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel like you’re in one of those movie musical scenes, you know where you’re walking around and singing dramatically and everyone’s in slow motion? And the lighting’s all dark like it is on the stage right now?”

“No. Not really.”