Notes of an Overworked Techie 

            “We’re off to see the Wizard…” Blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard that song far too many times to be able to stand it now (or ever again). Understand something… if someone is going through an unpleasant experience, that person often associates the environment that he/she is in at the time of said experience. For example, if a kid is eating Corn Flakes during a time when he sees his parents argue, he may grow up hating Corn Flakes, as a means of venting the negative feelings – or seeking to avoid the negativity in the first place.

            So what does this have to do with The Wizard Of Oz? Simple. I now associate that show with a negative experience. Well, let’s start at the beginning: Keep in mind, first of all, that Wizard is a highly technical show. What that means (for those of you who may not be familiar with theatre) is that there is a strong emphasis on lights, sounds, stage design, smoke, pyrotechnics, etc. All the “technical” things (hence the designation “technical show”). Whereas you could probably put on just about an Shakespeare production with little or no backstage crew, Wizard should have had at least seven or eight crewmen – preferably ten – backstage for the purpose of scene shifts and whatnot.

            Unfortunately, from the get-go, we knew that we were going to have a skeleton crew, at best. In charge was a young woman, Kristen, who, despite the fact that she was very intelligent, had never Stage Managed a show before. While she did a pretty good job, it was a struggle. Second-in-command was another guy, Brian, who, also despite the fact that he was very intelligent, had never worked tech before, either. Both of them were primarily actors, and were in a completely new world… and, at the risk of sounding too critical of their work, they were in over their heads.

            In the month-and-a-half leading up to the opening of the show, there was never more than six people working to build sets. Considering that the director had originally planned a huge, mind-blowing design for the show, that’s a bad thing… it means that we didn’t have enough people to build the original designs. So the director had to redesign everything, which meant he couldn’t pay as much attention to other details, such as lights and special stage effects.

            The director, “Putnam” to his friends, was a pretty smart guy, although his people skills leave a lot to be desired, and he’s got an ego the size of Texas… but that’s beside the point. As smart as he was, he had a helluva time pulling this show off. He knew he needed people for crew… but he wasn’t able to get them. In fact, his ego prevented him from accepting the help of a couple of people (experienced techies, mind you) who had volunteered to assist with the production. Putnam had personal issues with these two volunteers, and as such, made the existing tech crew’s job all the more difficult by refusing help.

            Cast-wise, we were pretty well off… while we didn’t have the greatest actors or singers on the planet, everyone was solid in terms of acting and singing, and everyone got along well. Rehearsals went relatively smoothly, although there was the occasional hamper. However, that’s not to say that there weren’t any problems… here’re a few that I can think of:

            Joe. I used to consider it an amusing, any-person name, that can be used in any situation. However, I have revised that view upon meeting this individual. I met him a week before Preview Night (which was the day before Opening Night), on the “dry-tech” (where we set up all the highly technical aspects of the show between the tech run-through, which involves everybody and takes many hours). Joe simply showed up, literally out of nowhere (we had no idea he was coming), and said in his stereotypical Hispanic accent, “Hey, homies, (yes, he really said “homies”… all the time) is there anything I can do?” We pointed him in the direction of Putnam, who was in the middle of looking flabbergasted and stressed. They chatted back and forth, and eventually, I was told that Joe was going to assist me.

            “Well, good,” I think. I’m in the middle of setting up the two fog machines in the production, so there really wasn’t anything I could assign him to do at the moment. So I gave him a quick run-through about the general idea of being a techie, I told him about the show, I told him about the actors and the directors. After ten minutes, I was just about set with the two foggers, and satisfied that I had Joe brought up to speed.

            We go through with the jobs of the day – running the Gondola (the balloon that the Wizard leaves in at the end of the show), the Cargo Net (a big net in which the flying monkeys – hehe, flying monkeys – capture Dorothy), and several lighting and sound cues. During the testing of the elevator – a manual unit that required a good chunk of manpower – we found that Joe had bullet holes in his lungs, and as such, couldn’t be around the smoke.

            “Well, that’s a little odd,” I think, but just brush it off. After all, we’ll have him working on something else during these scenes.

            But it goes downhill from there. The next day, Joe starts treating me like I’m one of his posse, and begins bestowing his worldly “wisdom” on me. For instance, at one point I find myself trying to attach a new plug to an electrical cord. During this, Joe is giving me tips on how to “score pussy” (as he put it). For instance, he told me that when I go to a party, my “homies” and I should all wear the same-colored clothes. That way, when the “honies” (not to be confused with “homies”) would get drunk and start giving someone a blowjob, they wouldn’t be able to tell who they’re giving a BJ to, and as such, everyone can get sucked off in the course of the night.

            At this point, I’m thanking whatever deities I can think of that I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

            Other Joe-isms: Apparently, he didn’t “trust any damned bitches”, and he thought that they “were only good for gettin’ it on, y’know what I’m sayin’?” (Cue the canned laughter). Further, he didn’t trust women… “they always stab you in the back, homie, they always do,” and he was smart enough to go after the “rich white girls, because they’re always horny and looking for some.” He also didn’t like the Hispanic ladies, because “they’re always just fighting, homie, they always want an argument and shit.”

            These are his exact words. It’s about this time – during all this, I’m just pursing my lips and nodding – that I realize, “Hey, this guy might be trouble.” But, as long as he simply talked the talk, and didn’t walk the walk, he shouldn’t cause too much of a ruckus.

            Unfortunately, he didn’t just talk. As soon as the real rehearsals began, he started hitting on all the “white girls” – most of whom were 14, 15, or 16. He got the cold shoulder a few times, and then began telling everyone how such-and-such girl was a “bitch”.

            Oh, and did I mention he kept saying how he wanted to get some “san’iges”? That’s “sandwiches” for those of you who don’t speak Moron.

            If it were just a matter of Joe being a tactless, chauvinistic He-man wannabe, I wouldn’t have had any concern. After all, I talked with the girls who were supposedly “bitches”, and they didn’t mind having to work with Joe as long as “the bastard stays fifty feet away”. (Note: After I discussed this with the young ladies in question, I saw Joe “hitting” on another young woman in the cast… unfortunately, circumstances prevented me from giving her ample warning, and she had to find out on her own. Ah, well…)

            But it got worse. “How,” you ask? I’ll tell you.

            See, in order for a rehearsal to be effective, everyone needs to be in their proper place at the proper time. “Well-oiled machine” is a phrase that amply sums it up, and in this play in particular, there wasn’t much room for error. We kept Joe’s assignments pretty simple… by this time, we’ve figured that he was, by no means, a rocket scientist. However, even that wasn’t enough. He was missing so often that the phrase, “Where’s Joe?” was uttered so many times, it makes me twitch now (even as I’m writing it). Oftentimes, he’d be outside, getting a snack at the vending machines. Sometimes he’d be in a nearby classroom, just standing around and looking stupid (not hard for him to do). Sometimes he’d be playing with the props (which is a big no-no). Sometimes, however, he’d just be sitting… out in the audience, listening to music on his headphones.

            Yup. Listening on his headphones. Which just about ensured that he never got his cues right, even after the second run-thru.

            It finally reached a head when, after he was discovered to be missing for the umpteenth-and-a-half time, one of our cast members, Mark (also know as “The Cowboy”), ran out into the hallways and bellowed, “JOE!! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?!?” I started applauding after hearing this.

            Anyway, Joe took this as a “dis”, and began trying to pick a fight with Mark. If it weren’t for the intervention of another cast member, Pat, there probably would have been fisticuffs… and I guarantee, Joe would have been down in a pool of blood. You don’t mess with The Cowboy, you see. Luckily, however, it didn’t come to that.

            Remember, we didn’t hate him on a personal level… merely a professional one. While Brian, our assistant stage manager, insisted that “We need Joe!”, I disagreed. I think my disagreement – and that of every other person on the cast and crew – started to become so freaking obvious that even Joe started to become aware of it. So one day, he showed up late (later than usual, anyway). He started saying that he didn’t think it was a good idea for him to be doing the show. I said, “Well… if you think you can’t do it, drop out now, so we can adjust. Don’t wait ‘til the last minute.” (I tried to sound polite, but that was the gist of my message). Joe wandered around a bit more, expressing his desire to leave to several more people, probably hoping someone would tell him to stay.

            Of course, nobody wanted him to stay. So he went to talk to the director. His story regarded how he wanted to work and get money, because “I’m gonna need it”, since he was “probably gonna be in court.” You see, he “beat up [his] baby’s momma”, and that’s why he had “scratches all over [his] back and shit.” Putnam, of course, was looking at Joe as if he had just said that he was the solar Emperor from Mars (but, then again, Putnam does that a lot). But, in the end, Putnam bid farewell to our friend Joe, and he walked off into the sunset, never looking back (thank Spam). Now he just lives on in our memories, and in our hearts.

            I’m sorry, did I say “hearts”? I meant bowels. Anyway, that was one problem we had… here’s another.

            Phil: Not nearly as “negative” as Joe was – he never bothered giving instructions on how to “get pussy”, that I know of. Instead, Phil was just… he was just… well… insane. Not ranting, raving, foaming-at-the-mouth kind of insane, and not Hannibal Lechter kind of insane. He was more of a Arnie (from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape) kind of insane (yes, I know Arnie was simply “retarded”, but that’s beside the point). Now, keep in mind that most of these stories are being received second-hand…

            It started (if I recall correctly) during one of the early rehearsals. There’s a scene in which Dorothy is supposed to bang on the Tin Man’s chest, and a resounding “Clang clang clang!” is supposed to fill the theatre. Well, the Tin Man’s suit is made of cloth (and it wasn’t ready at this point, anyway), so Putnam said that they’ll add the sound in later, and to just pantomime it. So, they ran the scene… they got to the chest-banging scene… and…

            CLANG CLANG CLANG!!!

            Following that, a collective “Huh?” went up from everyone. It took a few moments to realize that someone had climbed up into the catwalks, and had stomped on the walkway to make the noise.

            “Is someone up there?” Putnam said in his aggravated tone of voice.

            Well, apparently there was… Phil. Brian went up to the ladder (he didn’t want to climb all the way up there… it’s a good fifty, sixty feet, at least), and called, “Phil? Are you up there?” No response. The way Brian describes it, Phil was huddling in silence, smirking to himself, trying to make himself invisible. Apparently, he thought that if he remained quiet, everyone would forget that he was up there. But Brian persisted, and eventually, a meek Phil descended, and the rehearsal went on.

            Things continued on like this for a while… Phil traipsing around in the rafters, or he’d start playing really loudly on a piano in the middle of the rehearsal, or he’d intrude on cues that he wasn’t supposed to be part of. Once, he joined the flying monkeys (hehe… flying monkeys) when they rehearsed a part where they come onto the stage. Putnam: “Why are there four monkeys?” Brian: “It’s Phil.” Putnam: “Sigh….”

            But the absolute kicker was when he would play his Invisible Man acts. No, he wouldn’t huddle in the center of the hallway and expect people to not see him… he would disappear. Where? We don’t know. Between me, Brian, Chris, Kia, and a few others, I think we knew every hiding place in that theatre (especially Chris and Kia). But we would scour the place, and find nothing. No clue as to where Phil went. We’d be shouting for hours, “Phil! Phi-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-l!” Nothing. We’re pretty sure he was able to hear us… in fact, I’m positive of it. I’m sure that, during these periods, he would be wedged in some far-away cranny (maybe he got into the air ducts, a la Aliens?), smirking to himself and having a jolly ol’ time.

            One time, he was gone for hours. Finally, Brian (and a few others, including me) went off to look for him. I gave up after a while (I knew it was futile), but Brian was the assistant stage manager, and couldn’t just stop. Finally, however, he did find something… Phil’s hat. Sitting in a nearby planter. And he was sure it wasn’t there just a few minutes ago.

            Brian picks up the hat, and it dawns on him… Phil was playing mind games. With a sigh, Brian went back to the theatre, stating quite loudly, “Well, I guess Phil’s too smart for us!” He continued on that variation, making sure anybody who was nearby would be capable of hearing. Brian placed the hat on stage… and, sure enough, a short time later, Phil reappeared, walked straight to the stage, and picked up the hat. Nobody even bothered questioning his absence.

            It all came to a head when, in the middle of the run (for you non-theatre types, that meant that we were putting on performances of the show for audiences), Phil simply vanished. He didn’t come to the performances at all. Phone calls would yield nothing. The guy had simply vanished. We speculated that the aliens had returned him to the mothership, and such. This was on Sunday, the last day of the first weekend… after that, we had threes days of break, then a pick-up rehearsal, and then the final weekend.

            Anyway, Phil finally did show up again… after we had assigned someone to fill in all his parts. His explanation for ditching us? “I thought the past few months had been a dream, that I imagined being part of the show.” He also commented that he questioned his own existence.

            Ah, well… at least he didn’t murder anyone. Although, if the show had gone on another week, who knows what he would have done?

            Now we come to our last Oddity… “The Crazy Lady”. I have no idea what her name is, nor do I want to know. We all just called her The Crazy Lady (not to her face, of course… we tried to avoid talking to her).

            It started when she, too, randomly appear on dry-tech (much like Joe). She had a small cooler, a bag, some books, and a cushion. Her explanation? “I know these things go on for a long time with nothing to do.” She wanted to do make-up. Putnam had to explain to her that, on dry-tech, there wasn’t any makeup to do. But she insisted on staying. In fact, she insisted on a lot of things, starting with her own, personal locker. Brian, our always-present assistance stage manager (boy, this guy took a lot of flak), tried to explain to her that, A. she didn’t need a locker, B. only actors got a locker, and C. all the lockers were taken.

            But she persisted. Finally, Brian just sent her in the director’s direction. After a big of misinformation (and many a “Jeez!” and a sigh on Putnam’s part), the decision was finally reached to allow the Crazy Lady to put her luggage in the adjacent office, so it would be safe. So it was arranged… she brought her stuff to the office doorway, and asked Jim (he’s sort of the “Official Guy Who Hangs Around And Does Stuff”) where the locker was.

            “What locker?” Jim asks.

            She tells him that Putnam had sent her to the offices to store her stuff in a locker (note: Putnam never said there was a locker… just to place her stuff in his office). Much hemming and hawing went on… Crazy Lady insisting that there was a locker in there, Jim insisting that there wasn’t. Back and forth, back and forth… finally, Jim went to Putnam (who once again exclaimed his frustration and buried his forehead in his hand), and found out that, rightly so, there was not locker in the office. He instructed Crazy Lady to just place her stuff on the floor. Problem numero uno solved.

            Then along came dos, and that was a plain, simple fact: Crazy Lady was, true to her name, crazy. The next day, when the real tech rehearsal started, she instantly began getting on everyone’s nerves. First off, she always parked in the staff parking lot, a small enclosure meant to hold four or five cars, reserved for – surprise! – the staff. She had a high opinion of herself. Second, her car itself… it smelled. And I’m not just talking, “Whew, she needs to wash and vacuum that thing,” I mean, “Holy flying fuckin hell, does she store her ass-wiped, shit-covered, used toilet paper in there? Did she leave a dead body to rot in the back of her car?!?” The entire back seat has piled high with blankets and articles of clothing, so we have no idea what was in there… just that it smelled downright unholy. If I was a religious man, I would have crossed myself every time I walked by that vehicle.

            And if that wasn’t enough, her insanity carried over to her interactions with the rest of the cast and crew. For instance, our Aunt Em, Crystal, was a Federal Agent (with Immigration). She told a story about how she once had to shoot someone in self-defense. Crazy Lady began criticizing her for the action – “There was something else you could’ve done! You should have found another way!” – and the like. What made matters worse was that Crazy Lady was assigned to be Crystal’s personal make-up person… the only job she had (nobody else wanted to deal with Crazy Lady, and I suppose Putnam figured Crystal could handle her if she started foaming at the mouth).

            Crazy Lady’s dealings with other cast members and crewmen were similar. She had a case of JDGI… Just Didn’t Get It. She would ramble on and on about unrelated conversation topics, until her chosen victim would finally say, “I’m sorry, I have to get on stage.” Kia, our Dorothy (and a wonderful Dorothy she was, too), escaped Crazy Lady several times in this manner.

            After a few days, Crystal figured out why Crazy Lady was on the cast… food. Free food. During the tech rehearsal, there was a potluck dinner… everyone brought food for everyone else. Almost everybody participated, bringing cookies or chips or soda or the like… except the Crazy Lady. And she must have had a half-dozen servings. Her freeloading carried over to the parties: On the opening weekend party at Kia’s house, Crazy Lady showed up, uninvited (we tried to keep her from finding out about it), and proceeded to eat as much as any two other people in presence.

            We finally had enough of it… her sanctimonious, deluded self-righteousness had gotten on everybody’s nerves. So Crystal – bless her delightfully wicked heart – made herself in charge of the traditional post-show gifts to the director, assistant director, and such. She went around and collected five dollars from everybody… except the Crazy Lady wouldn’t pay. Crystal eventually filled in the last forty dollars of the gift costs herself, and pursued people indebted to her later. The Crazy Lady, however, still refused to fork over the cash. So, finally, Crystal told her, “If you plan to participate in the closing night ceremonies, I’m going to need that five dollars.” Crazy Lady, desperate to avoid losing money, declined.

            Little did she know that the closing night ceremonies also included the big, traditional closing night party. And so, with her fiendish, ballsy brilliance, Crystal ensured that we could enjoy the absence of Crazy Lady at the biggest bash of our summer. Crystal, if you’re reading this… a hundred-quadrillion thank-yous in your direction.

            Those three individuals were primary sources of frustration and annoyance, but not the only ones. As I’ve already mentioned, this show was plagued with problems… crew shortages, lack of materials, technical problems. This led to a lot of stress on the part of our director. Now, Putnam has an interesting way of dealing with stress… he filters it down to his subordinates. He picks out a few select people – usually those that he knows well – and dumps loads of shit on them. As Kia put it (in her infinite wisdom), “He dumps on people that he knows can handle it.”

            That’s why, during rehearsals, if he saw one of the “new people” doing something les-than-exemplary in his/her performance, Putnam would let it slide, as he didn’t want to bawl someone out who would then run off screaming and crying. Instead, he would pounce on one of his “veterans”, those who he knows wouldn’t take it personally, whenever they make the slightest of mistakes (sometimes, they wouldn’t even make a mistake).

            This explains why Putnam and I would often get into harsh verbal exchanges in the course of the show… we were both stressed out of our minds. Now, I’m aware that I had very little official power, but I was probably the most experienced techie backstage (not that I’m bragging… several people have told me this, and I’m just tired of arguing with them). It would make sense, that way… I was in charge of all the “odd jobs” around the set. In addition to some scene shift work, I had to deal with the following:

-The Elevator. This was the first major job that I knew I would have, and it was always miserable. The elevator was directly below the trapdoor in the center of the stage, and it was through this that all the Witch’s big, flashy entrances and exits (like when she melts) happened. It worked on a simple winch system, which was VERY loud. It had about 200 lbs of counter-weights on it, which worked opposite of the elevator platform (when the platform was up, the weights were down). Unfortunately, since we couldn’t have a perfect counter-weight system (it would either be too hard to bring the platform up, or too hard to bring it down, if it were any different), there were a couple of instances where we needed a pair of other men to take the edge off the platform (either to pull down on the weights to bring the platform up faster, or to lift on the weights to bring it down faster).

            When I first tried the elevator in an “official” manner (during dry-tech), it was just me to operate the winch. In other words, nobody was there to nullify the counter-weights. And since Putnam wanted the Witch’s entrance to be fast… well, I tried to explain the situation with the counter-weights to him, but he brushed me off. So I shrugged, and went to it. When the cue was called, I began spinning the handle as fast as I could… and it promptly lost its grip on the winch. It spun freely. I fiddled with it for a moment, listening to Putnam complain, “Why’d the elevator stop?!?”

            I could swear that I heard my death-knell, but I swallowed the lump in my throat and yelled back, “The winch broke.”

            Another moment of silence followed that. A long moment. Nothing I could do about it, I thought to myself. Finally, Putnam announced, “I’ll be right down!”

            Well, he arrived on the scene, completely ignorant about how the elevator was set up. He fiddled with it. He spun the handle in one direction. He spun it the other direction. He stared at it for a minute. Finally, he glared in my eye, from six inches away, and said, oh-so-slowly, “If you’ve broken the elevator… we don’t have a show.”

            Now, the odd thing about Putnam… every time he finishes a sentence, he always smiles. Always. When it’s a serious situation, there’s a longer gap between the finishing and the smile… this time, there was a good fifteen seconds of his stern, creepy old face glaring at me before his lips parted in a half-scowl, half-grin (in other words, a very weak smile).

            Well, we fiddled with it for a few more minutes, until I realized that the handle on the winch was, essentially, just screwed into place. So, I grabbed it, and spun it in the opposite direction (it had become unscrewed before… going backwards screwed it back into place). After a few seconds, it got caught, and pulled the elevator back all the way down. I then tested it, and, yes, it worked again. I relayed this news to Putnam, and I could practically hear a small bit of stress fall off his shoulders. I also repeated my earlier admonishment about having a couple of guys to take the edge off the counter-weights, and Putnam agreed.

            I love being right. Sometimes it’s just such a bitch to get there.

-The Projector: This was my biggest annoyance in the show. Not that it was difficult, just annoying. The stage design had a long arch, right in front of the audience, that circled the orchestra pit. This “ramp” (as we called it) was used as the Yellow Brick Road when the four friends (Dorothy, Lion, Tin Man, and Scarecrow) would do their whole “We’re off to see the Wizard!” song and dance number. Anyway, it was decided that the best place for the projector – which was used for several scenes, including the tornado scene (it showed stuff flying around, and showed the transition from Miss Gulch to the Wicked Witch), the Oz scene (it showed the Wizard’s large, ugly mug appear above a throne), and for the crystal ball when Dorothy is caught in the Witch’s castle (Aunt Em appears first, then is replaced by the Witch, much to Dorothy’s chagrin).

            Anyway, the projector was placed underneath this ramp. Right at the apex of the ramp. I had to climb a ladder to get up to it, but… since we had a big ol’ friggin’ orchestra in the pit, I couldn’t very well go inching my way past ten-thousand-dollar violins and harps, could I? Nope… the ladder was placed at one of the far ends of the ramp, and I had to crawl a good twenty feet under the ramp – as silently and as quickly as possible, and anybody who has any life experience will tell you that the two are mutually exclusive.

            For the most part, it wasn’t a problem. Like I said, simply annoying. But, luckily, most of my cues gave me a few minutes to get down to the projector and prepare. However, there was one cue that always pissed me off to no end. Immediately following the Witch’s death, the scene shifts and the friends are back in the Wizard’s chamber, to present the broomstick to him. Guess what? That left me about forty-five seconds to get from the elevator to the projector. Normally, that wasn’t a problem… about thirty of those seconds involve the time immediately after the Witch’s melting.

            However, the cast onstage was rather – shall we say – unhelpful. See, as the Witch dies, she leaves her cape and hat behind in order to show the audience that, yes, she melted (as opposed to just descending down a hole in the ground). The problem arose when bits of her cloak would dangle down in the hole left by the elevator, and if I brought the elevator back up with those in the way, they would get stuck, and in the following scene shift, they would either have to be left behind, or they would have to be torn to remove them.

            So bringing the elevator up with cloth dangling in the hole wasn’t an option. So I had to wait – one night, I tried to climb up the side of the elevator to push the cloth back up, and hissed at the actors to pull it away, but neither attempt worked. Stupid actors.

            What choice did I have? I had to wait. The scene shifted, the cloak was pulled away, I pulled the elevator into place as fucking fast as I could, secured it… then I hauled ass like a bat out of hell from the elevator, up the ladder, and under the ramp to the projector as fast as I could. I wasn’t timing, but I think I did it in about five seconds. I’m just glad that the orchestra was playing really loudly, or else the audience would have heard this: stomp stomp stomp BANG! Clang! Clump clump CRACK “Ow!! Fuck fuck fuck fuckitty fuck fuck!” Clump clump clump click-whirr…

            I’m pretty sure I invented some brand new swear words in my haste, but I have since forgot what they were.

-The Cargo Net: My biggest source of panic in the whole show, simply because there was just no way to do this bit right. The cargo net was what the flying monkeys (hehe… flying monkeys…) used by the to kidnap Dorothy. It hung from a large fly bar, many dozens of feet above the stage (for those of you who don’t know, the flies in theatre are a large number of bars that run the length of the stage, and are hung above, from which curtains, set pieces, and drops are held aloft. Some of the flies hold lighting and sound equipment, called “electrics”. These aren’t supposed to move in the course of the show).

            For the cargo net, there was a problem with the lighting designer… he hung several of his lights so that they hung right below the cargo net fly. What this means for those who have a poor spatial imagination is that every time the cargo net was brought down (it goes up and down… duh), the pole would hit the very expensive lights. Every time. We tried, and we tried, and we tried, but no matter what we did, they would always hit the lights. In fact, during one of our attempts, the pole collided with a big ol’ Oz sign (it said “Oz” to denote the land thereof, and was decorated with nifty, Vegas-style lights). The cargo net collided with the Oz sign so hard, in fact, that the sign was torn to shreds. Luckily, it wasn’t used at any further points in the show.

            What’s more, the cargo net was hung so that the cables that held up the net itself were always visible to the audience. There wasn’t anything I could do to prevent them from being visible. Which meant that the audience saw these dangling, thrashing lines as we prepared the cargo net for placement (it was to be brought out in the middle of a scene, not during a scene shift, so it was always haphazardly placed). What’s more, it often got twisted up in itself – I had to stop the show once (luckily, it was a rehearsal), because it just wasn’t ready in time, and we tried to put Dorothy in it, she likely would have fallen out, or broken her ankle or something. Visions of a mutilated Dorothy danced through my head, so I just stopped what I was doing, turned around to Brian, and said, “Tell them to stop.”

            Once again, I heard Putnam’s oh-so-melodic voice cry out, “Why’d you stop?!?” I took a deep breath, and called back, “The cargo net’s tangled up.”

            At this point, I just wanted to run off and cry (yes, pity me, fucker). But, oh well… I knelt down, untangled the net, and we continued. After the rehearsal, I spent twenty minutes working out a system for the cargo net, color-coding all the corners to correspond with upstage-onstage, upstage-offstage, downstage-onstage, and downstage-offstage. Luckily, I didn’t have any trouble with the net getting caught afterwards.

            However, that wasn’t the end of my troubles… see, the commander of the flying monkeys (hehe… flying monkeys…), Niko, is supposed to swing into the scene (along with two other monkeys), scream around a bit, then come back and pull the net onto the stage. Well, someone had to hand the net to him (*cough ME! cough*)… and since there was a large platform in the way, I had to edge pretty far out onto the stage. So far out that I’m absolutely positive that at least a third of the audience could clearly see me.

            Anyway, during the scene, as soon as Dorothy falls into the net, we had two guys on the line to yank it up into the air fast. Then the monkeys grab the net and swing it offstage (although they always took too long, in my opinion), and then it sets down again. I tried to make sure Dorothy didn’t crack her tailbone on the floor… but in addition, I had to make sure that the cables weren’t dangling too far out onto the stage. If they were, well… let’s just say it would have been painfully obvious to anyone viewing. After Dorothy clambered out of the net (no small feat, I assure you), I had to quickly bundle the net away… and immediately afterward, had to race downstairs, as fast as friggin’ possible, to run the projector for the next scene.

            That was the problem with the cargo net… there was no way to do it gracefully. That, and the spacing between these chores of mine was horrendous…

-The Gondola: The most physically demanding part of the show. At the end of Dorothy’s tenure in Oz, the Wizard offers to take her home in his balloon (the gondola), but, due to a mishap (damn Toto), he ends up drifting off by himself.

            Well, let me tell you this… that gondola was heavy. The Wizard (a quirky guy we called Brian Lewis) was also heavy. The counter-weight system didn’t do much. The way the gondola fly was set up, it utilized two ropes… one to bring it up and down, and another to swing it side-to-side. Both of these ropes had to be pulled in unison in order to share the load… otherwise, one would end up with 400 lbs of weight, and the other would end up with none. So it was a bitch to get used to working them both at the same time.

            The second problem was this: The two people working the fly lines were me, and Brian (our assistant stage manager). Now, Brian’s a nice guy, don’t get me wrong… but he’s… well… a wimp. Not the sort of person you want operating the most muscle-intensive operation in the whole show. When we first bring the gondola down, I needed to, essentially, pull on two lines at once… my own, and Brian needed a little help with his.

            Now, keep something in mind: This is the end of the show. I’ve run around this stage like I was in a marathon. I’ve operated the elevator, crawled around under the ramp, fiddled with the cargo net, and done a crapload of other exhausting activities. At this point, I’m already tired. My body is crying out for me to just stop. So believe me when I say that I was just running on adrenaline.

            After the gondola comes down, and the Wizard climbs into it, I have to start placing even more counter-weights on the fly lines, to balance out the Wizard’s added 200+ pounds (I think he weighed more than he said he did… at least Kia was honest about her weight, the darling). This process took two or three minutes, and had to be done quietly. If those fifty-pound weights hit one another, they sent out a sharp, resounding CLANG! that could easily be heard by the audience. Of course, at this point of the show, I was so exhausted that I didn’t care…

            Anyway, after the counter-weights were loaded, we were good to go… all that was left was to haul the Wizard up in the air quickly, for a few seconds, and then set him back down. Then I had to take all the extra counter-weights off, and then he could step out. After that, I was – essentially – finished.

            Luckily, I was able to get through the show with minimal external stressors bugging down on me (there were a few, of course, but I managed to shrug them off most of the time). The really difficult thing was that I’m not accustomed to being given so much responsibility, and there wasn’t a single moment during the whole three weeks (from the tech run-through to closing night) that I wasn’t scared to death. In fact, I’m pretty sure that my hairline crawled back a few millimeters during the course of the show…

            In any case, I learned a few things:

1.      Don’t work with Putnam when he’s stressed.

2.      Don’t work with Putnam when he’s stressed.

3.      Somehow, the show will come together, even if it’s just for one night.

4.      It’s not the end of the world if the fog machines clog. 

About that last one… I should mention that, for every show I’ve done at Pierce, I was in charge of the fog machine (machines, plural, for Wizard). Our old fog machine is the most unreliable piece of filth I’ve ever encountered, and I think it finally conked out for good during this show. Ah, well… there’s a brand new one for me to take care of.