PSYCHO BITCH FROM HELL – PART 26

 


PSYCHO BITCH FROM HELL – PART 26

We returned from London on a high. Our mini-exodus from chaos left us rejuvenated and buzzing—sharing stories like war vets comparing battle scars. Laughter echoed through the lobby of the Hotel Lugano, jet lag be damned.

Everyone made it back. Well… almost everyone.

One cast member missed her return flight.

And just like that, we were punished

The next morning, a fresh note scrawled in thick marker on the dry erase board greeted us like a slap in the face:

"DUE TO THE FACT THAT PEOPLE COULD NOT MAKE IT BACK ON TIME, NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO LEAVE ON YOUR DAYS OFF, FROM HERE ON OUT!"

Cue grumbles. Forks clinked harder at breakfast. Coffee was slammed back with righteous bitterness. One mistake and we were all grounded—like kids caught joyriding with Dad’s car.

At rehearsal, we joined hands in the daily energy circle, but the usual warmth had turned cold. The Director, now returned, gave a speech about "dedication" and "not missing a single rehearsal." His words landed like lead. It felt like we were slipping into Stepford—scripted, controlled, and eerily obedient.

I was wearing my new souvenir from London: a black t-shirt with bold white letters that read:

PSYCHO BITCH FROM HELL

It was a hit. Cast members laughed. Even the Director squinted, read it, and chuckled. I thought nothing of it.

That was my mistake.

 

During warmups, my legs were aching—tight from travel, fatigue, and relentless choreography. I approached the stage manager and explained I needed to modify the warm-up. She agreed, as did two of the assistants. I would still be in the room, stretching and moving at my pace, not disrupting anyone.

The next day, I followed that plan.

Until one of the assistants—suddenly emboldened—cornered me.

"You are so rude," she snapped. “You don’t follow along like everyone else. It’s disrespectful.”

I was stunned.

“I got clearance from the stage manager—and from you—yesterday,” I said, calmly.

That didn’t matter now. She yelled. In front of others. “I’ll talk to the producers,” she threatened, turning on her heel.

I found Useless (aka the company manager), and explained. Her response: a nod, a swirl of cigarette smoke, and a vague promise to “look into it.” Classic Useless.

Things escalated quickly.

That same day, an unannounced run-through was called. No warning. The entire cast was caught off guard. The room—already tiny—was now packed with executives, creatives, and God knows who else, all crammed in, sweating, judging.

The show had changed so many times, we didn’t even know what version we were doing. We just did what performers always do: we performed. And somehow, we pulled it off.

Then came the expected ritual: Power Suit stood up to take the credit. She praised the work, the cast, the vision, the journey. Others from departments stood to echo her sentiments. The cast sat quietly, exchanging knowing looks.

Because we already knew the truth.

The next morning at breakfast, cosmetology delivered it:

“I didn’t understand one minute of the show,” she said, eyes rolling.
“The cast is amazing, but the show sucks.”

There it was. Our efforts, our late nights, our bruised knees and broken spirits... in service of a mess.

As we digested that truth, Power Suit walked in and called us to attention. Another speech. This one even more ominous:

“There’s a cast meeting tonight. Carnivale is beginning.
Tomorrow, we move out of the hotel... and onto the Greek Cruise Ship.”

The nightmare wasn’t over. It was just changing locations.

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