You Just Might Find What You Need

This has been the tech week from hell. They're all the tech week from hell, which is why tech week is often lovingly referred to as 'hell week'. But this one takes the cake.

The sudden illness of our designer has combined with really crappy management to create a situation where we were a month behind before we even began. Add to that the fact that our boss has a not-so-private drinking problem (he generally begins drinking at noon, and it two sheets to the wind by dinner) and apparently feels that giving information when it's too late to act on it is the way to go. And we're doing two shows simultaneously, which means that tech week is actually twice as long.

My bankbook is happy - 70-hour work weeks add up to a lot of coin - but that's about it. I, quite honestly, have never felt so beaten down in my entire life. And it's not just me. I look around, and notice that all my co-workers bear a startling resemblance to broken soldiers. We have no fight left. It's like we're crawling backwards up a hill in the mud. Apparently we're making some progress, but we've landed on our faces so many times that we can't see it. We make it through the day by venting to eachother and counting down the days to opening night, when all we have to do is maintain. It's horrible. I love my job, I really do, but right now McDonalds is looking mighty appealing.

Last night was more of the same. The company was onstage at noon, so 'Mary' (the other electrician) and I elected to come in late instead of doing a split shift. She slept in, I went to the tall ship festival (more about that when I get my pictures developed), and we both showed up to work feeling almost human. By eleven that night, we were back to status quo. By 2am we we'd had a couple of minor blow-outs. These are, unfortunately, fairly common right now. We don't have fuses anymore, just triggers. The saving grace is that we can both take a cooling-off period and then continue to work together as if nothing has happened. No hard feelings. We're hoping this can last one more week.

During one of these cool-off periods, I wandered downstairs to put some things away. The building is covered with pen and pencil and marker, nail polish and lipstick, and the occasional sticker or poster. Four decades of cast, crew, and orchestra have left their mark on the walls. These marks are slowly being stripped away because of building rot, but the volume of what's left is still impressive. I firmly believe that you could live in the building for a year and not see all of it. This is my sixth summer in a row, and I'm still discovering 'new' things that have been up there since the 80's, or even earlier.

Last night, at three in the morning, I saw a 'new' signature. I can't remember the person's name, and really, it isn't important. What struck me was what was scrawled beneath it; "This is just one theatre." It's exactly what I needed to see last night. Because it's so true. This is not my life - this is just one theatre. This is not my career - this is just one theatre. This is not something that is worth losing my soul over - this is just one theatre.

By 4am, the waters had cooled. Mary and I were buddies again. We raised half a glass of cider (all we could handle at the end of that day) in a toast to one more day overcome. One day less until we opened. And I told her about the writing on the wall. It was exactly what she needed to hear too.