It was a simple request.
The woman wanted “warm water.” Or
“room temperature water.” I don’t really
recall.
I had been tasked to work the concession stand at the
Historic Everett Theatre on a lovely Sunday afternoon in June.
My play that I co-wrote with my son, Nick, and produced
(which just means I helped with casting and got to be the sounding board to the
director and made the program) was being performed for the 8th time
EVER. The first two times had been at
the High School and I knew this was a BIG DEAL (with capital letters) but the
opening night of that show I was stuck at work late. Sure, I got there on time and sold tickets
but I didn’t truly anticipate, or didn’t truly understand what was really
happening – other than the fact that I got in free.
Then when we decided to fill the vacancy of “Sound of Music”
with “Senior Prom – the Play,” the anticipation once again ramped up. This was (and is) a BIG DEAL. Something that I helped write. Something that I helped create. Something that I helped bring to life was
about to be performed by adults, people who spent hours and hours of their free
time to learn/memorize/rehearse, etc. in front of people who actually paid
money (good, hard-earned, greenbacks) to come out on a beautiful Sunday afternoon
in Everett to watch the play.
I looked around for options for the woman. I could give her tap water, but that didn’t
seem to be a good option. What else
could I do?
Opening night, performance number 3, went really well and I
thoroughly enjoyed the play. I had seen
preview night, and we had one glowing review and a big article about Nick and
the play, and the cast was game to just dive in and explore the characters – so
everything was running smoothly but, still, I felt like something was happening
around me that I wasn’t fully grasping.
Like this should be a BIG DEAL (with capital letters) but it still
wasn’t.
I spied the pot of water I put on for tea and said to the woman: “I’ve got some hot water, do you want that? Will that work? I can cool it down if need be.” “Oh,” the old woman said, “that would be great but you don’t need to cool it down.” “Do you want a cup-cozy?” I asked? Those little cardboard circles that go around the cup so the heat doesn’t burn you.
This Sunday, though, had been different. The previous Sunday we had a massive crowd of
18 people and I had assumed that we would top out about the same. Maybe 22 or 25 if we were lucky. Little did I know we had 40 people and the
crowd was good. They were into it. The laughter floating out from between the
balcony curtains was hitting me like little waves on a shore and something
starting filtering into my synapses. The
BIG DEAL-ness started to sink in.
“Oh, no, she doesn’t need those. She’s got gloves on. I’m with a woman who has cancer and she just
needs something warm.” I began to pour
the cup of water – “Just half, please.
Do I owe you anything?” Does she
OWE me anything? It’s a half-cup of hot
water. “No, you don’t owe
anything.” I handed off the non-cozy
half cup of hot water and she went on her way back downstairs to take in the 2nd
Act.
After the intermission, I slid in the back and watched for a
moment. The woman with cancer had taken
a seat against the back wall. Probably
too weak to really go much farther than that and she was enjoying the show
along with the others.
I slipped back out into the lobby and back upstairs to
clean-up and that’s when the BIG DEAL of all this finally came to me. When I’m watching the show I’m watching the
show. I’m into the moments of the show
or I’m thinking about the choices being made or the mistakes that are slipping
in. Oh, they missed that line. Oh, that’s new. I like the way she improvised that line. But when you’re NOT watching, all you’re
experiencing is the emotional impact the play is providing to the viewers. Young and old, male and female, healthy and
sick – the only barometer I’ve got going for me are the sounds from the
audience. Laughter, applause, shock,
Oooohs and Aaaaahs and more laughter followed by more applause. AND I HELPED CREATE THAT (in capital
letters). I helped do that. I helped write that and cast that and and and
and and…that woman with cancer is forgetting about her cancer for awhile – with
her hands wrapped around a free half cup of hot water.
On Friday I lamented to Kathee, the house manager, that when
I hear bad reviews (and someone had posted a couple negative things to us on
the Merchant side of Living Social) I seem to believe them. But when people praise what I do, I seem to
disregard the praise. Why is it that
it’s so easy to believe the negative and so hard to accept the positive?
After cleaning up the concession area and returning the keys
to the office and the curtain call and the laughter and the applause – I
realized that for an hour and forty-five minutes I transported some 40 people
to a world of laughter and enjoyment.
As with every show I open the doors and thank people for
coming and they were, to a person, lavish in their praise. Many wanted to stay and chat with the cast (and
many were there for T.J.’s birthday) but as they left, some even said they
would return the following weekend.
It’s hard, sometimes, to distance oneself from the words one
has written. I still open scripts that
I’ve poured over with a fine-tooth comb
and find typos and weird sentence structure.
And it’s especially hard to distance oneself from watching something
that you’ve written – again caught up in nuances, things that could have been
done differently, etc. But I didn’t see
or feel that Sunday afternoon. I saw,
and heard, happy people.
That Sunday night I came home and we recorded the Tony
awards. I don’t watch the Tony awards as
they’re not my “thing” like the Academy Awards.
I’m not into plays or musicals – like I am with film. But I realized as I watched all these
performers sing and dance and act and emote and thank and praise and applaud
and laugh – that even though we’re only 8 performances in…in a small way…I’m a
part of that. And that’s COOL (with
capital letters).
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