A BAG FULL OF BALL DUST – PART 15

 

A BAG FULL OF BALL DUST – PART 15

It’s time for another meeting. This one is meant to prepare us for Italy. We gather at one of the condos, and the meeting is being run by the casting director and the "power suit," a woman whose name I still don’t know but whose presence commands a certain level of unease.

“Remember to bring a raincoat and rain booties,” says the power suit, as if her words are gospel. “It got awful wet when we were there.” She continues with an absolutely fascinating story about Venice, explaining how the streets flood all the time. “A city built on water flooding?” I think to myself, “How astounding!” I feel like I’m in an episode of National Geographic.

The meeting goes on, with more details about what to bring and what not to bring. The packing list runs the gamut from sensible to absurd. “Bring Advil, but don’t bring drugs,” the power suit advises, as though we were all planning on smuggling illegal substances across borders. And, of course, “We’ll be staying in a four-star hotel,” says the casting director, like that’s supposed to make us feel better. They warn us about the lack of mail service in Italy, so they’ll be receiving all of our mail and forwarding it to us. Oh, how reassuring.

The whole meeting feels more like an exercise in packing tips than actual useful information. “We’ll wire your money electronically into your accounts,” says casting. “Until we take possession of the product.” Naturally, someone asks, “When will that be?” There’s an uncomfortable silence, and the casting director looks at the power suit, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. “I’m not really sure,” he stammers. “But let’s get down to business,” he quickly changes the subject, pulling out another contract for us to sign.

We all form a line, like cattle heading for slaughter. “I need to read my contract,” someone says, but casting cuts them off. “No time,” he says, and we’re forced to sign without a second thought.

I leave the meeting feeling drained. I crawl into bed and stare at the shadows on my ceiling, drifting in and out of sleep all night.

The next day, we’re back in rehearsal, which has now turned into an endless cycle of changes. We re-add parts of the show we’d cut during the second week. We try to remember every combination we’ve learned, but it’s like trying to fill a sieve with water—nothing sticks. "Lots to do," says the assistant director, but at this point, we’re all just pushing through the motions.

Later, a sign appears on the call board: The heads of the company will be throwing us a Christmas party. They’ll pay for the first two drinks, and after that, we’re on our own. At this point, it’s a welcome distraction, a hint of something positive in the air.

The night of the party arrives, and the company has arranged for a special bus to take us to the restaurant. We dress up in our finest clothes, walking through the condo parking lot like excited kids. The bus pulls up, and we pile in, ready to escape the madness, even if just for one night. The mood is light. We joke, we laugh, and we almost feel like we’ve found a piece of normalcy again.

The bus climbs up a long hill, and when we reach the restaurant, the setting is magical. Trees are covered in lights, and the moon hangs in the sky, casting everything in a soft glow. We enter the venue, and the warm lighting, soft music, and elegant ambiance set the stage for what feels like a dream. For a moment, I think, “This has to be a trap.”

Raffle tickets are handed out as we take our seats. We look around the room, mouths agape. This is what it was all for—this fleeting moment of glamour. For all the chaos, the exhaustion, and the drama, we’ve made it. We’ve survived. I look around, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I see a glimmer of something real—happiness.

The heads of the company take the stage, patting themselves on the back for the "hard struggle" they’ve overcome. They’re laughing, telling stories about each other’s wives, and shoveling food into their mouths. I imagine them in their dance clothes, sweating next to me in rehearsal, but now they’re relaxed, enjoying the spoils of their hard work. The whole thing feels more like a roast than a celebration, but at least it’s something.

Then comes the raffle, and numbers are drawn from a hat. One by one, we start winning prizes. Company gifts are passed around like it’s Christmas morning. And then... the bombshell. They announce, “We have gift bags for everyone.” We all eagerly grab our bags, hoping for something meaningful—something to make up for all the stress we’ve endured. But when I open mine, I pull out... a watch and a glass Christmas ornament. And then I hear it from across the room: “Hey, I got a bag of dust!” One of the cast members exclaims, holding up their bag as if it were some kind of bizarre joke.

We laugh, we drink, we dance, and for the first time in ages, we feel treated well. Maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe we’ve finally reached the end of this crazy ride, and smooth sailing is just ahead.

But, of course, we were wrong.