The Music Man is done.
I finished working on The Music Man with no additional
catastrophes (excluding an overheating projector, a collapsing spot light, and
a misfiring confetti cannon) and have moved onto my next production, The Life
of Galileo.
I am currently assistant stage managing for The Life of
Galileo, and everything has been running smoothly. It’s almost spooky how well things are going, it
seems like we’re due for some sort of accident.
The director obviously shares my feelings as he has given me the same
rule over and over again, “No injuries!”
The director is worried about my safety. Apparently I take, “unnecessary risks,”
whether I’m learning how to do a cartwheel or pretending to be a dance
major. I think I’m being perfectly safe,
but the director does not agree.
Obviously he doesn’t know I haven’t been hurt in a theater in five
years.
Five years ago, I was stage managing Bye Bye Birdie. It was mid-January, and the production had
just moved into the performance space. A
group of us were hanging lights after rehearsal when we got hungry. We ordered Chinese. I ordered orange chicken.
Thirty minutes later, we were all prepared to sit down on
the stage and enjoy our much deserved dinner, when I realized we didn’t have
any utensils. So, in my attempt to be
helpful, I leapt up and ran to the ticket booth to get us all forks out of the
supply cabinet.
The theater we were working in seats 654 people in a raked
house. The ticket booth is located outside
of the top of the house. In case you
haven’t guessed, this difference in elevation is important.
I found the forks easily enough and burst back into the
theater. I walked to the top of the
stairs and called down to the stage, “I got the for-“
And I tripped.
I tripped and rolled down twenty four stairs. I rolled faster and faster down to the bottom
of the theater. Forks flew everywhere. Finally, I slammed my head into a seat in the
front row.
I sat up, shouting, “I’m okay!”
Then I felt something drip down the side of my face.
I was bleeding pretty badly.
The other technicians sprang into
action. Two of them helped me into a chair,
while two others ran off in search of something cold to stop the swelling and
something absorbent to stop the bleeding.
I sat there in a daze. Someone asked for my cell phone to call my
mom. I guess I gave it to them. I don’t really remember. Eventually, the person who had gone searching
for something to soak up the blood came back.
The only thing they could find was a box of napkins.
These weren’t normal napkins. These napkins were left over from an
anniversary party that had been held in the theater a few years earlier. They all said, “With Love…” across the front.
Then the person who had gone looking
for ice returned. They had even less
luck. They had gone in the freezer in
the ticket booth, only to find that we didn’t have any ice, ice packs, or even
frozen vegetables, all we had was pasta.
Frozen pasta.
At some point, someone had cooked
rigatoni, coated it in marinara, and stuck it in the freezer. I don’t know who. I don’t know why. But it was cold, and the knot on my head was
swelling to the size of a softball.
So, they stuck some, “With Love…” on
my head, as well as a Ziploc baggie full of pasta and I sat as still as I
could. I sat there for fifteen minutes
until my mom could show up and take me to the emergency room. As I left the theater, they handed my mom a
dish from the Chinese restaurant. I
remember thinking, “Hey, if I survive, I’ll get to eat orange chicken later.”
We sat in the emergency room for half
an hour. I’m pretty sure I saw someone
with a gunshot wound, but I could have been delirious. I sat in my chair, clinging to my pasta and
napkins as hard as I could.
Everything was fine.
I got six staples and a huge headache that
night.
I went home. After the whole ordeal I was starving. I remembered the orange chicken. I grabbed the dish and stuck it in the
microwave, ready for the most delicious meal of my life. I had cheated death, and I was really going
to enjoy this meal.
The microwave beeped. I pulled out the food, sat down at the table,
and took off the lid, ready for a good meal.
It was Szechwan beef.
They had given me the wrong meal.
I don’t like Szechwan beef.
I ate it anyway, and wiped my mouth
with a “With Love…” napkin afterwards.
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