It’s 11:06, and in 24 minutes, the team at Theatre Lab will start the first read through of Mastodons.
I have shut myself in the office, put the Steven Universe movie on to distract the kiddos, and I’m waiting. I can hear my dog absentmindedly pace around, looking for food or pets or, hopefully, someone to let her in and out a million times so she can bark at the neighbors. But she’s going to have to deal, because I’m zooming in to rehearsal.
A part of me is nervous. I’ve had four productions canceled in the last 18 months due to the pandemic, including a previous production with this team last year, and a part of me is skeptical that it’ll happen. But, supposedly, halfway across the country, actors are gathering to read words I wrote and make a story.
11:09.
I would be anxiously playing a dumb match-3 game on my phone, but it’s currently lounging in a bowl of rice beside me. The three year old tried to let a stuffed otter carry my coffee yesterday and the perfect amount splashed on to the home button, rendering it useless. I can take calls, so if the stage manager suddenly rings up to say that the building caught fire or that they were just kidding, I can take that call. But no absentminded browsing, no mindless feed scrolling, and no social media posts of the shiny necklace I put on to feel fancy and important. I did take a picture, because as everyone knows, nothing happens unless you show the internet.
I did open a tab of 2048 Cupcakes, the desktop equivalent of phone game nonsense. I think it helps? Mostly it makes me want a cupcake. I unfortunately have no cupcakes, but I do have a bottle of water, a mug of coffee and an unopened can of sparkle water, because I guess I’m thirsty? I’m something. I’m nervous. I’m excited. I’m about to start rehearsal.
11:17
Okay. Three more minutes, then I’ll get on. My last zoom call with the director and designer was an unmitigated disaster thanks to all my technology deciding it all needed to update right then and there, and then restart, and then update again. I had to watch the call on the computer with the audio and chat off and text the director separately, so he’d read them to the designer. It was hell.
11:19
A small five year old head pops in. She has to go potty, but wants to see what I’m up to . She opens the bathroom door adjoining the office to have company. I watch the clock and listen to an elaborate anecdote I retain none of. She washes her hands. I shut the door.
11:21
I check my headset (again). Open the script doc and the PDF. Immediately find a character on the character list that was cut two drafts ago. Sigh. Make a note in my otter notebook. Sip of coffee. Deep breath. Click Zoom Link.
Let’s go.
