From the Booth

On June 29, 2007, BRAT Productions took over The Wilma Theatre in Philadelphia. With a cast of six and a crew of four, the 24 Hour The Bald Soprano ran on the hour every hour for 24 hours.

2 am.
I have to stand up. I pace around the conference table in the booth, keeping my eye and ear to the stage. I pick up my third cup of cold, stale coffee. I put it down without a sip. I light an illegal cigarette, smoke it, put it out in our ash cup. I pace in front of our command station. I sit down. I look to Richards, she’s checking the time, sending a text, waiting for the next cue that will come in ten minutes. Something doesn’t feel right. At a time when, in an alternate universe, I would be swapping out and giving in to sleep, I look to the stage and feel a misstep in our connection. I feel a lag, and I feel the need to change up, energize NOW. I turn, and say to Richards, “We need a dance party.” With a tired smile she stands and hooks up her I-pod. We dance and sing for five minutes, it feels forced, but when we sit down again, I feel a little better. Yet, my energy and the energy onstage is not the same, that misstep has not been fixed. Our sixth consecutive show ends, and I ask the ASM, Delante, over the headset, “How are the actors?” He comes back, exhaustion and strain in his voice where I’ve never heard it before. “Okay. Some of the actors feel others are going too far, pushing too hard.” Dissention in the ranks. Funny, I didn’t see this with my eyes happening onstage, but I feel it in our energy as a whole. There is a strain happening, an uneven give and take occurring in our space. Richards and I, Delante, and the actors are not on the same page. During our next ten minute break between cues, I close our vocal connection with Delante, and lean over to Richards.

“Let’s sing to Delante.”
“What are we going to sing?”

In the terrible, tone deaf way that I am prone to, I sing to her.
She joins in, and in a matter of minutes, we have a round going between us.
I press the button and connect to Delante.

Me: “Hey Delante…”
Richards: “Hi Delante…”
Richards: “We just…”
Me: “We wanted to tell you something…”
And, giggling, together we sing:

“You are my sunshine,
My only sunshine,
You keep me happy,
When skies are grey,
You’ll never know dear,
How much I love you,
Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

Dead air, then Delante comes back.

“Well I guess it would be nice,
If I could touch your body,
I know not everybody
has got a body like yoooooou.”

And then we’re all singing together, TERRIBILY:

“Well, I gotta think twice,
before I give my heart away
And I know all the games you play
‘cause I’ve played them tooooooo.”

We break into laughter, and push on.

The next set of cues comes and goes, ending in an escalation of earsplitting clock chimes, translucent walls, the actors screaming “IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE!”. Then black out, lights up, and we begin again, our 8th consecutive show and counting. Charlotte and Keith sit as the Smiths, with Sarah and Adam on deck as the Martins. Reinforcements arrive, as only Madi can do – an upper, a downer, and a beautiful boy. But even with the reinforcements, exhaustion pulls, tugs at us, pulling attentions in different directions.

Once alone and between cues, Richards and I plot how to steady ourselves, how to let the actors know that we are right there with them, even in this late hour of complete exhaustion.

“We could flick the lights up here.”
(pause)
“Write a note on the window.”
(pause)
“Walk the catwalk.”
(pause)
“Throw paper airplanes.”
“From the catwalk.”
(silence)

“What if at the end of this show, we open the booth window, and scream ‘It’s not that way it’s over here’ with the actors?”
“I could use a good scream.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“Let’s do it.”

And so, eyes to the stage, we watch and wait as we have done 7 shows before, only this time we have a different role to play ourselves and so are reinvested in the action onstage. The anticipation builds, almost eerily in tune with the chiming of the clock, until Richards and I are on our feet hitting cues, sliding the booth window open, joining the actors, and screaming with all our might into the black “IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE! IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE! IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE! IT’S NOT THAT WAY IT’S OVER HERE!”

Lights up and FUCK. Sarah sits as Mrs. Smith, and I can see (feel?) she’s shaken. I whisper, “She’s pissed.” And Richards and I settle into position, set for the first round of cues. I sit on the edge of my chair watching Sarah intently, hoping that I am mistaken, and that she isn’t pissed, she’s fine, all’s right in this world we have spent a month creating, 48 hours perfecting, and 8 hours living. But no, I am not mistaken; Richards and I have overstepped our bounds. The stage is the stage, the booth is the booth, and they do not, DO NOT meet without prior consent. Then why do I suddenly feel alive and connected? Why do I feel the rush of adrenaline that I feel with the opening of a show? I look at Richards, she looks more alert, more awake then I have seen her in hours. I look to the stage, and although Sarah was shaken, she has fallen back into the rote of our show. And here come the others, onstage, who appear more committed, more alive. Or is that just my imagination, the high of my newfound energy? No. There’s a new, refreshed energy to the space, I can feel it, but I can also feel the ripple from the shock wave Richards and I sent through the actors.

Enter the Fire Chief.

Nate is prone to practical jokes, and the director has given him free reign. So far, he has done a show where 1) he handed out candy to the actors and audience., 2) done the Roboto for the duration of his scene, 3) entered without pants or a shirt, in black boxer briefs, with his nipples painted white, 4) brought water with him onstage and done spit takes at every conceivable moment possible and mostly in the other actors faces. I pray to god he doesn’t have something like that up his sleeve.

Richards says, “What’s that in his pocket?” And in slow motion it seems, Nate withdraws a can of FunCheez.

Before I realize it I’m saying, “No, No, No. Don’t do it Nate, don’t do it. Sarah’s going to kill him. She’ll never eat it. She’ll kill him first.” But my heart is beating a million miles a minute and calling, “Yes! Heee.heee.hee.hee. D-do it. D-do it. D-do it.” She addresses him, and Nate turns to Sarah, lifts his hand and slowly brings the FunCheez to her mouth. She can’t say no, and, so, opens her mouth and takes it. I can’t imagine how disgusting it is, but she continues on through her line as he feeds her more and more. Finally after her line ends and she sits, he moves onto Adam, then Keith, and finally Charlotte. They each take their turn, continuing as best they can through the scene with a mouth full of FunCheez. Nate even gives himself a shot, and the audience is going nuts. But in the booth, between laughs, we’re going “Where in the hell did he get that? We’ve got to get them some water. And how old is that FunCheez? How long has it been in the Wilma’s greenroom?” We connect to Delante.

Then-

Enter Jess, The Maid, as she’s done before, only this time with a tray containing glasses of water and napkins. And when Nate comes at her with the FunCheez, she reaches into her pocket, pulls out a cracker, and has a picnic. The show goes on. And together, we are HERE. Together we will run this show for 24 hour straight. For this moment, there is nothing but the stage, the booth, and the in between. We are all. We are together. There is nothing else.