Opening Night

My craft.

"Places in fifteen, curtain in twenty, please!" calls a stage manager, his voice drifting into my dressing room through a slightly-ajar door.  My voice mingles with other actors' as we chorus the customary 'thank you'.  It's a silly little ritual, really, thanking the stage manager after every time check.  Why should we thank the management, who bring the bad news that we only have fifteen-ten-five-zero minutes to get into costume and makeup?  But all actors always do.  We thank the stage manager, and they nod and scurry off to do some sort of managerial work until the next time check.

Nervous and sitting at home needing something to do, I had fixed my hair back at my apartment.  It's supposed to be very casual, worn the way I would any normal day.  But I had carefully washed and blow-dried it anyway, because my character plays with their hair a lot during the show, and the last thing I need on opening night is frizz.  To start off my pre-show ritual like I always do, and avoid jitters that I have forgotten something, I run a comb through the curls and apply a touch of watered-down gel.

I move over to the sink beside the makeup counter and wash my face, removing any sweat from my thirty-block walk to the theatre.  My face shines with cleanliness, and the skin over my forehead and cheeks feels thin as it contracts upon contact with the air, but this is the best way to begin applying makeup.

"Places in ten, curtain in fifteen, please!"

"Thank you."  I spread foundation onto a plastic palate, and dip my foam brush into the puddle.  I dab it back onto the palate once, twice, three times, and then start to spread it onto my skin.  Creamy makeup covers the bruise-blue crescents under my eyes, the uneven surface of my forehead, and the shine of the overhead lights on my nose.

I close my eyes, then blink back into focus to study the face staring back at me in the mirror.  It isn't me, any more.  There stands a nondescript blank-slate of a face that could be anybody.  A little dark foundation under the eyes and through the cheeks, and there would be a hollow-eyed, shifty stranger.  Quick swipes of highlighting makeup in just the right places, maybe with rosy eye-shadow, and an innocent child would be staring back at me.

But tonight, I need only enough to make my features visible to the audience.  A little highlighting, a little shadowing, and a little blush; once blended and powdered, I am just another face.  Perfect.

"Places in five, curtain in ten, please!"

I thank the SM and close my dressing room door.  I step out of my jeans and button-down, and take a moment to stare at my Act One costume hanging there on the rack.  It is opening night for this painstakingly-constructed costume, too.  Tonight is its first and maybe only chance to show the world its true form; for if reviews are unfavorable and the show's funding is pulled, it will all be over for this costume and for me.

My character and my costume are inextricably mixed.  With every zipper I pull and every button I fasten, the person I am disappears, and the one I am becoming grips me tighter and tighter until there they are.  The person I had read about, memorized lines for, and practiced being, in the flesh for the very first time.

"Places now, curtain in five!"

"Thank you," I say, and leave my dressing room.  I cross the hallway and grasp the handle of the stage-left entrance door.  I take a moment to just breathe -- for these final few seconds, I am just a person, just another resident of a city of millions trying to make a living and pay their bills and not screw up too badly.  Then I open the door to an eyeful of blacklight, the scent of fresh-cut cedar, and an unmistakable adrenaline rush.  Thirty thousand watts of stage light beckons me from beyond two rows of curtains.  I part them with confident hands so unlike those that unlocked my dressing room just an hour ago, and stride to center stage.  The lights caress my skin, my makeup, my costume, my character.

"Curtain!" someone hisses backstage, and after an initial jerk, the front curtains part smoothly.

They said backstage that tonight's was a good audience.  But right now, as the curtain stills in the wings and the audience exhales the breath they had held during the pre-curtain darkness, they're just as vulnerable as I am.  Their emotions are shoved aside and their minds are open to whatever I want to throw at them.

It doesn't matter what the stagehands say about them.  It doesn't matter that some of them walked into the theatre angry or frustrated, or hating their date, or harboring poor expectations for the show.  It doesn't matter that fifteen minutes ago I was a struggling actor with a mailbox full of overdue bills and a shoddy relationship.  Right now there's only me, the audience, and three hours with which to leave life behind.  Everyone needs an escape, and I'm here to give it to them.

As I deliver my first line, and bask in my first laugh, and watch tears shine in the audience's eyes, well, I could not be more proud of my profession.