Chapter 2: Rehearsal – Part 4

 Chapter 2: Rehearsal – Part 4

This hotel reception room will serve as our temporary home until we can move into the theater down the block. We’re told the process will take about three weeks.

I glance around the room. The floor is covered with wall-to-wall carpeting, and in the center, a portable wooden floor has been set up. It’s a basic hotel ballroom with little to distinguish it, except for the view.

One entire wall consists of a row of glass doors leading out to a veranda. I step outside, and as I look down, I can see the hotel pool. Several guests lounge poolside in a variety of basic swimwear, soaking up the sun. Beyond them stretches a breathtaking view of the ocean. The hotel has even gone so far as to import sand to create a vast sandy beach, lined with palm trees, an artificial paradise.

I step back into the room and notice the mirrors set up for us. At first, I think they’re regular mirrors, but on closer inspection, I realize they’re a makeshift wall, with mylar stretched over wooden boards. It works well enough, but at times, the reflection distorts, creating that “funhouse” effect—where you have a giant head and a tiny body.

Looking around the room, I notice a few other details. A producer’s table has been set up, cluttered with several computers and phones. The stage manager’s desk sits nearby, piled with a giant clock, bottles of aspirin, a first aid kit, a cast sign-in sheet, and a large box of candy.

The day is beautiful—the sunlight is reflected off the ocean, pouring through the windows and filling the room with warmth. I feel a sense of safety, warmth, and excitement as I take it all in. I walk over and stand in a sunlit patch on the carpet, soaking up the heat.

“Good morning, everyone!” A cheerful voice interrupts my thoughts, making me turn around. Standing there with a big smile and a stopwatch around his neck is our new stage manager. To me, he looks a little like Uncle Fester from The Addams Family. Later in the process, he will become a close friend and confidant.

“If I can have your attention,” he calls, raising his hands to signal the cast to quiet down. The chatter dies out. “We have a couple of things we need to go over.”

He begins reading off a list of do’s and don’ts for the rehearsal process.

“Our director and choreographer will be delayed for the next couple of days,” he announces. “But I’d like to introduce their assistants, who will be working very closely with you during your stay here.”

The sounds of “happy camp” still echo in my ears.

Three people step forward and introduce themselves. I recognize two of them from my previous experience with The Company. These assistants would later become the backbone of our existence. They would also be the only part of the creative team to save these shows.

We’re then introduced to the assistant director, who, like the others, I remember from before. He begins to explain his theory on cast bonding.

Next, the theater games of trust begin: Run, jump, drop, roll, crawl, fall down, stand up, look into each other’s eyes, and tell each other how glad you are to be here.

The minutes blur into hours. The sun sinks lower in the sky as we continue, running around the room. At first, we look to each other with camaraderie, but slowly, a shift occurs. Fear and loathing start to creep into our gazes. The theater mantras, once said with joy, become mechanisms to hold onto our minds and sense of self.

We become puppets to the assistant director’s whims: Jump, we jump. Roll, we roll. Dance, we dance. Run, we run.

Faster and faster we run.

We wander the room, touching, hugging, and laughing. This continues for days, without pause. And eventually, under our breath, we begin to murmur, “This sucks.”