My sister has to share a key card with some of the others in the theater where she works. As an experiment she began referring to the key card as Dylan McKay. “I’m taking Dylan McKay with me to lunch.” “Has anyone seen Dylan McKay?” “I accidentally took Dylan McKay home with me last night!” People would shake their heads and tell her she was crazy but now the whole theater — even the people who don’t share key cards — refer to the key cards as Dylan McKay.
*****
There are very few people in the world whose creativity improves in a limitless and boundary-free environment. Most people need a few restraints to tease out their brilliance. When you’re working with one of those few who have infinite powers of invention it’s safe to give them a bottomless budget; the product will be as great as the investment, whatever the size. Eventually, however, you have to stop coming up with fantastic new ideas for how to improve the scene and just do the fucking show. If we make it better every time we do it we’re never going to know what “it” is. Presenting creative genius with endless funds can yield endlessly stunning results. But a show has to start on time and end on time. It cannot be endless.
*****
To “go on,” in the land of the stage, is to perform. Conversely, to be “swung out” means someone else goes on in your place. On Saturday I was swung out for both shows. I watched the first show from the booth at the very top of the theater. When the chandelier falls the booth shakes like a tame amusement park ride.
I spent the second show in the orchestra pit savoring a band’s-eye-view of our nightly endeavor. I sat between the two keyboards. I could hear but not see my friends up on the stage. The pit fills with a dense fog during the journey to the lair and the subsequent opening verse of “Music of the Night.” I could hear but not see the fingers of the pianists playing the keyboards. I could hear but not see the audience quieting as the scene changed from violence to tenderness. I could hear but not see my own body, head to toe dressed in the blackness of backstage and pit, not going on, not singing or dancing, living out the moments during which my ears could hear golden horns somewhere over there, in the fog, unamplified.
