It’s funny how different an opening night is in the “Real World” than it was in college.
Granted, my surroundings couldn’t be more different. The natural beauty of the Boulder campus has been replaced with bustling urban streets. Instead of sitting in a restaurant on the Hill with friends and cast-mates, I’m sitting in my room, in my underwear, thinking I should probably make myself a sandwich to take with me so I don’t starve. I haven’t spent the day daydreaming in class, I’ve spent it at work (still daydreaming, thankfully).
But I know that when I finally do put on some clothes and bike my way downtown, that old familiar friend will be there waiting for me: Backstage. And Backstage and I have always had a very consistent relationship.
With Backstage, there are neither ups nor downs. No rocky patches. Always just the two of us. Standing. Looking out. Waiting.
What happens Onstage tonight, or any night, could make headlines. It could just as easily elicit a chorus of groans. Onstage, I believe, is the hot chick at the end of the bar that Backstage, the ever-optimistic wing man (pun intended), swears has been checking you out all night.
He says, “Go buy Onstage a drink, Joe. But tell her that your name is really Henry and that you’re actually a Stage-Manager/Demon from Hell. She’ll eat that right up.”
Yes, the scenery has certainly changed. But at least there’s is always that good old feeling of…I dunno, omnipotence…waiting for me in the dark.
Now… where are my damn pants?