Saving Time

My brother Douglas has worked in the theater all of his life. I remember a stint he did at the Point Theater near Kerrville, Texas some years ago. The Point is an outdoor theater, perched on the banks of the Guadalupe river and surrounded by oak and Magnolia trees. A barn-like structure holds the stage with all of its technical sub-systems. The seats are fixed—as in a cinema—and an awning-like overhang protects about half of the house from direct overhead skies.

The theater is famous for its summer season, presenting musicals and plays in the hot and relaxing ambiance of a south Texas evening. Shows start at dusk. The stars can be seen clearly overhead. Wind rustles the trees and stirs enough breeze to keep away mosquitoes. The house is gently sloped—starting at street level at the back entrance, and following the natural downward contour of the river bank. When you sit in the house you can see, smell, and hear the river lapping at that bank as its lazy waters move deliberately on their long journey to a distant nowhere.

On this particular evening, I have seen the closing night of Big River. Doug is managing what in the theater is called “changeover.” The idea is to completely strike the old show—successfully closed after its two-week run—and to install the new show in time for opening night. The old show closes on Saturday. The new one opens on Monday. Sunday is tech, dress, and finishing touches. So changeover is an exhausting 24-hour stretch of work that cannot be put off.

The new show—West Side Story—has a very complex and permanent structure that is used as set for the various scenes. Two stories high, it consists of metal pipes and flat metal catwalks that resemble the outdoor fire escape stairs that double as balconies in 50’s New York projects. It is from this structure that audiences will hear “Tonight” and “Stick to Your Own Kind” in less than 48 hours.

The set has been anchored to the asphalt in a nearby parking lot for the last 10 days—for rehearsals leading up to the changeover. Now it has to be disassembled, carried piecewise down the slope to the barn, and then reerected on the stage proper. The whole effort is expected to take five hours.

Unfortunately, I’m a bad influence on Doug. Seeing that everything is in hand, I encourage him to delegate the set change and join me for a late-night coffee. Ever since I left the fine arts in preference for a simpler and less-demanding career in ergonomics, we don’t get to see each other that much. I thought a catch-up chat at the Waffle Spot would be nice. So we spend an hour over coffee, flirting with a southern waitress who calls us both “hon.”

When we return, everything has gone pear-shaped.

The theater crew have invented a shortcut to save time. Instead of disassembling the set and moving it to the stage as planned, there are enough burly workers of carnie and circus heritage to carry it fully-assembled through the house and to heave it directly up to the stage through the fourth wall. In their five-minute “planning” conversation, it seems that they estimated a mere 30-minute carry followed by an hour of installation. At that rate, the stage would be set in less than a third of the time. As fast as you can say, “Hey Rube,” the work will be over and the beer coolers cracked.

By the time Doug and I return from our coffee, we are greeted by an appalling predicament. Rather than the pile of steel, aluminum, and chain link fence that we expected, a still-fully-assembled monstrosity is lodged in the middle of the house—directly downstage center. It is teetering at an oddly impossible angle, and avoids complete collapse only because the metal piping is lodged under the seats—which are securely fixed with bolts to the concrete house floor.

No problem. Back to Plan A, right?

Sadly, Plan A has been overtaken by events on the ground. Now we are faced with the challenge of getting pipe and crescent wrenches positioned between chair mounts on a sloping surface—while concurrently trying to position ladders for safe removal of the top set components. Although this is a community, not a union house, OSHA hates this kind of stuff, and Douglas—having done many Equity gigs as Stage Manager, Director, and performer—is fully aware of the liability and safety issues.

So with the work now complicated by the “shortcut,” disassembly takes no less than six hours. The whole changeover creeps well past dawn. Blaming myself, I have no choice but to offer my help. Chagrined, Doug gladly accepts the offer, and gives me an assignment. My job is to make coffee.