Once Upon A Stage

pricelesscinemas:

(via patina-millers-biceps)

vampireapologist:

vampireapologist:

wait I have another “scary” story that’s actually just something else inexplicable that was tbh pretty sweet

I grew up a theatre kid (shocking no one) and was involved pretty much year-round in any show our old community theatre put on from ages 7-18. The spring musical was always the Big Show, and I only acted in them. The rest of the year I played techie for the various kids’ show, Christmas pageants, etc. Usually I ran a spotlight.

The theatre was (and still is) very old and very big. Every room seemed endless, always with a door in the back leading to a closet with another, smaller door leading into some crawl space or shelf nook. Some rooms were extremely cold. Some felt hostile. There was an offshoot from the main costume room full of dresses that felt somehow so “off” that my friends and I wouldn’t even go into in groups. Mostly though, it was just a big, old building with too many doors.

And too much stuff. Anyone who’s tried to declutter their local theatre knows a pile of miscellaneous props may as well be quicksand. That theatre swallowed more than one pairs of shoes, some toys, homework assignments, hair scrunchies, mascaras, etc. I’d just put something down for a minute, and it’d vanish.

In 2010, I was 16 and somehow convinced my dad to buy me an extremely overpriced Owl City hoodie from Hot Topic lmao. Eventually, as clothes tend to do when you’re a teenager, it cycled out of my main wardrobe. I forgot about it for a few years, until I saw a photo of me on facebook wearing it and hanging out backstage. I realized the last time I could remember wearing it was during a spring musical, which meant the the damn theatre ate it up like so many other things. My dad had died since, so I wanted the hoodie back. I decided to search a bit during the next show where I ran one of the spotlights, but I didn’t really expect to see it again.

The theatre has a single balcony. Modern fire escape laws means nobody can sit up there anymore, so it’s crew-only. There are 15 rows of old, red-cushioned foldable seats. The back rows are always dark, even with the main house lights up, and they come right up to the edge of the balcony where the spotlights are anchored. Each of the two spotlights has a tall stool for the operator to sit on, but the red seats are close enough behind that I always put my stuff on one to keep it within reach while I worked. Kids’ shows were boring for the crew. I only had one scene to spot. The rest of the show I spent reading, eating snacks, and drawing. Three or four times an act, I turned on my stool to the red seat behind me to switch out entertainments.

One night, I arrived a little early and decided to search for my hoodie. I showed the photo of me in it to the stage manager and told her to keep any eye out, as if that’d help at all. I knew it was buried somewhere, but I was really fixated on finding it, and I told her so. I had no luck, and I took my spot in the balcony. I was the only light tech for the show, so it was lonely. In front of me was the bright stage and the audience below. Behind me, it was too dark to see.

Throughout the first act, I turned and dug through my purse more than once, trading out my book for a chocolate bar, looking for a pencil sharpener, etc. I was in and out of that bag plenty, and I was absolutely alone on the balcony.

Eventually the lights came up for intermission, and I hopped off my stool to use the bathroom and grab some popcorn in the lobby. But when I looked down at the seat where I put my purse, there was something sitting on top of my things, neatly folded. I didn’t hesitate to pick it up, and when I unfolded it I realized I was holding my missing hoodie.

I was immediately grateful and extremely freaked out. Somehow, in the ten minutes since I’d last been turned around to go through my purse, someone had come within a foot of me to politely put it there for me to find. What’s more, that same someone must have seen me show the photo to the stage manager before the show started. It didn’t make sense for it to have been the stage manager. She couldn’t come to the balcony between wrangling 30 eight-year-olds in the wings between every scene. But it didn’t make sense for it to have been ANYONE coming that close to me without me hearing or noticing them.

I had no idea what to do. I said “thank you” to the empty balcony and then literally ran through the door and down the stairs. I convinced one of my friends seeing the show to come back up and sit with me for the second act. My hoodie hero never made an appearance, and that’s perfectly fine by me.  The next show, I was over it and worked the spotlight alone as usual. I DO hope my thank you sounded more grateful than scared, because I did mean it.

Never figured that one out.

(via gallusrostromegalus)