JOLLY OLE ENGLAND – PART 25

 

JOLLY OLE ENGLAND – PART 25

When we got the rare miracle of three full days off, it was like someone cracked open the prison gates. No one hesitated—we would go anywhere to get away from “the product.” Money meant nothing at that point. Sanity did.

I turned to a fellow cast member and said, “Let’s go to London. Let’s visit one of the dead.” He was in. One call later and it was settled—we’d be staying with a former castmate who had been fired but survived, now rebuilding her life in a quiet corner of England.

We booked the flights immediately, packed whatever we could fit into a bag, and were on Italian Airlines, playing little games and laughing like kids the moment we lifted off. One more cast member joined us last-minute, making us a trio of escape artists.

Our friend—the “dead”—met us at the airport, her tiny car and wide smile ready to receive us. She drove confidently on the wrong side of the road while we updated her on all the madness. She was radiant and warm, but I could feel it beneath the surface—a hint of shame, like she still carried a scarlet letter for being let go.

“I still feel like there’s a stigma about being fired,” she confessed.
“It’s in your head,” I told her.

What I didn’t know then was that soon, I’d feel exactly the same.

Her countryside home was a storybook escape. We were welcomed by two gentle, lovely people who became mom and dad figures almost instantly. They laid out a feast—no, a royal banquet—like we’d just returned from war. We ate until our bodies gave out, then set off to explore.

We strolled through winding paths past ancient churches, their bell towers bonging the hour, vines wrapping around the stones like they were being reclaimed by nature. Her dog darted ahead, tail wagging in joy. I stopped and snapped a picture of a sign that read:

“Please don’t let your dog foul our walk.”

I couldn’t stop laughing. Try putting that sign in the middle of New York City—you’d be mocked into extinction.

“I’m really trying to put my life back together,” she said quietly.
I deflected with a joke. The moment was tender, too real. Too close.

That night, we returned home just as the sun kissed the sky goodbye. I shared a room with my best friend and constant companion, and we talked about his boyfriend, about our lives, about everything and nothing—until sleep finally took us.

The next morning: breakfast, massive and glorious. I don’t remember what was on the table—I just remember we couldn’t stop eating. We napped, bloated and satisfied, before getting ready for a night out in London.

The train into the city rolled past lush hills, industrial ghosts, and into the heart of London. It felt like we’d passed through a dream and woken up somewhere civilized, normal, and free.

We ran all over London trying to get theater tickets. The only show with seats left was ART. I sat through it, baffled. Before it arrived in America, it felt too British, too restrained, like a joke told through fog.

We drifted from store to store, touching the fabric of the city. I bought a t-shirt—just a simple thing, a souvenir of joy. That shirt would, unknowingly, become the catalyst for Power Suit’s unraveling later down the road. One of those tiny, innocent things that takes on bizarre weight when paranoia and control issues are running the show.

That night we ended up in a pub, of course. Pints clinked, laughter filled the room, and for the first time in a long time, we felt human.

It was fleeting—but it was real. And it would have to last us.