Four-twenty, blaze it.
Up for air?
Hey. Wake up, it’s Groundhog Day — hey… wake up, it’s Matt’s birthday (happy birthday, Matt!) — Hitler’s too (non-celebratory) — Martial law, or naw? It’s 420. Blaze it.
How many days has it been? They’re all the same, but a little different. Sitting on one green room toilet, I begin to imagine that on the other side of the door lies a backstage from last week—the one that had an extra pound of sliced turkey. Last night’s backstage had a forbidden ski slope, and I had no equipment.
Metal double doors flush to the sidewalk—just past, a floor which sloped sharply, declining to a dark load-in hall where dirtied runner rugs protected my boots from cracking ass to the theatre’s floor. A dormitory style bathroom between the two dressing rooms, similar to that of my first boarding school’s—a momentary glitch of the mind, and I am thirteen years old again, praying the cute girl in the dorm’s suite cannot smell my shit.
I rush to the right edge of the stage—fumbling in the darkness for a place to set my beers, and to feel you. A different you each time. Are you energetic? Are you a soul-sucking, punisher-ass bitch? Are you excited? Nervous? Resentful? Cute. Let’s go.
It’s the morning. Van call’s at noon. Breakfast ended at eleven. Or ten. There’s warm bean juice in the lobby. It’s coffee, but your mind’s eye imagines Vienna sausages floating in warm water beneath the plastic lid. Fucking California plastic—real in the tits, yet melts in the microwave.