Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups, in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. Every story you hear on Nothing Much
Speaker 1: Happens is written and read by me, with audio engineering
Speaker 1: by Bob Wittersheim. If you'd prefer to hear our stories
Speaker 1: without any ads, it's simple and quite affordable. For about
Speaker 1: a dime a day, you'll get the whole catalog of
Speaker 1: episodes one hundred percent ad free, plus a bonus story
Speaker 1: every month. In fact, we have our next bonus story
Speaker 1: coming out in just a few hours. It's called The
Speaker 1: Sledding Hill, and it's a story about an afternoon lying
Speaker 1: in fresh snow. Sign up at Nothing Much Happens dot com.
Speaker 1: Now I have a story to tell you. It's a
Speaker 1: soft place to rest your mind, and I think it
Speaker 1: works best if you imagine yourself in it. So as
Speaker 1: you listen and follow along with the sound of my voice,
Speaker 1: pull the details of it around you like a blanket,
Speaker 1: and before you know it, you'll be in deep, restorative sleep.
Speaker 1: I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little
Speaker 1: slower the second time through. If you wake in the
Speaker 1: middle of the night, you could listen again, or just
Speaker 1: pull those details back into your mind. Think through any
Speaker 1: part of the story you can remember, and you'll drop
Speaker 1: right back off. Okay, it's time. Turn off your light,
Speaker 1: set everything down, get as comfortable as you can. You
Speaker 1: have done enough for today, Truly it is enough. Take
Speaker 1: a deep breath in through your nose and out through
Speaker 1: your mouth again, slow in and with sound out good.
Speaker 1: Our story tonight is called opening Night, and it's a
Speaker 1: story about the moments before the curtain rises. It's also
Speaker 1: about flowers in the green room, the electric feeling of
Speaker 1: stepping out from the wings, and an armful of programs
Speaker 1: waiting to be passed out Opening night. We had a
Speaker 1: few hours yet, and most everything was done. The costumes
Speaker 1: were hanging in the dressing rooms, the lights were set,
Speaker 1: and hopefully the cast was ready. I carried an armful
Speaker 1: of programs to a table at the back of the
Speaker 1: auditorium and had a seat. The programs needed to be folded.
Speaker 1: Each was just a few sheets. We weren't on Broadway here,
Speaker 1: just a small playhouse, a community theater that did four
Speaker 1: or five shows a year. I laid the stack of
Speaker 1: papers out in front of me and started to put
Speaker 1: them together, lining up the sheets and clapping the edges
Speaker 1: of the pages against the table to even them out,
Speaker 1: then finding the middle seam and creasing it tightly with
Speaker 1: my thumbnail, and tucking the finished version in a box
Speaker 1: for our ushers to reach into later tonight. I liked
Speaker 1: having the empty theater to myself. I wasn't going to
Speaker 1: be treading the boards tonight. I was just helping wherever
Speaker 1: I was needed, a sort of gopher for the stage
Speaker 1: manager and the director and any cast member who suddenly
Speaker 1: couldn't find their props or lost a shoe. Still, the
Speaker 1: space had a kind of magic to it. The empty
Speaker 1: seats looked expectant in the low light, and I thought
Speaker 1: about the very first time I saw a play. My
Speaker 1: mother had taken me, and I might have been in
Speaker 1: second or third grade. I know the play well now,
Speaker 1: in fact, I've been in it twice since, but most
Speaker 1: of it had gone over my head that first night.
Speaker 1: The thing that had certainly registered was the electric feeling
Speaker 1: of watching live theater. I just couldn't believe how it felt,
Speaker 1: how it looked, how different it was from a movie
Speaker 1: or show on TV. I remembered being mesmerized by being
Speaker 1: able to see the lead actress blink and breathe. I
Speaker 1: was close enough to hear every step and sound the
Speaker 1: cast made. I carried the box of ready programs over
Speaker 1: to a tiny alcove beside the door and set them
Speaker 1: in there, ready for showtime. Then walked through the aisles
Speaker 1: of seats to the third or fourth row and scooted
Speaker 1: along to the middle seat. I pressed the seat down
Speaker 1: behind me and sat. This might be the very spot
Speaker 1: I'd sat in for that first show. I leaned back
Speaker 1: and looked up at the ceiling. It was high and dark,
Speaker 1: and I could just make out some of the light
Speaker 1: fixtures that in a couple of hours would fly the
Speaker 1: stage and make the people sitting in these seats forget
Speaker 1: for a while about anything besides what they saw before them.
Speaker 1: I pushed up from the chair and headed down the
Speaker 1: row to the aisle. I walked to the back of
Speaker 1: the house, glancing through the rows as I went to
Speaker 1: see that all was clean and ready for our audience,
Speaker 1: and it was. I checked my watch. The cast would
Speaker 1: be here in a bit to start warming up and
Speaker 1: getting into costume, and I took a side door into
Speaker 1: the green room to see that it was ready we
Speaker 1: always laid out a table of snacks and drinks, along
Speaker 1: with a bouquet of flowers for the cast and crew
Speaker 1: on opening night. When I fussed with the roses for
Speaker 1: a few moments so that they showed well in their vase,
Speaker 1: I took a stack of napkins from a drawer and
Speaker 1: laid it out next to the crackers and nuts. The
Speaker 1: green room has a different energy from the house and
Speaker 1: certainly from the stage. It feels anticipatory, excited, but muted.
Speaker 1: I kept up my tour and next went to check
Speaker 1: the dressing rooms. I flicked on the switch by the door,
Speaker 1: and the big bulbs ringing each mirror lit up. The
Speaker 1: counters were clear and clean, and I set out a
Speaker 1: couple boxes of tissues here and there. I twisted the
Speaker 1: knob on the speaker above the door that let actors
Speaker 1: hear what was happening on stage, so they wouldn't miss
Speaker 1: their cues and could make out a few voices and
Speaker 1: pacing feet. That must be the stage manager and crew
Speaker 1: getting things ready down the hall. I pushed through the
Speaker 1: heavy stage door and stepped into the wings and backstage space.
Speaker 1: It was dark, tall thick curtains at the edges of
Speaker 1: stage right and left kept it that way. I walked
Speaker 1: past the light booth and exchanged a wave with the
Speaker 1: technician inside. Over the prop table, I clicked on a
Speaker 1: lamp clamped to the wall. It was fitted with a
Speaker 1: blue light bulb that would give our actors enough illumination
Speaker 1: to pick up what they needed, but wouldn't be visible
Speaker 1: to the audience. We'd covered the table with a piece
Speaker 1: of white butcher's paper and outlined each prop in marker
Speaker 1: with its description written alongside. That way, when we checked
Speaker 1: the table, as I did now, we could see right
Speaker 1: away that everything was accounted for. There was the locket
Speaker 1: for the last scene of Act one, the newspaper that
Speaker 1: would get carried out at the top of Act two,
Speaker 1: a handkerchief that would be dropped and picked up and
Speaker 1: lead to the reveal. Near the end of the show,
Speaker 1: I could hear the cast coming in through the hall,
Speaker 1: dropping off their bags and chatting in the green room.
Speaker 1: I snuck closer to the edge of the stage and
Speaker 1: peered out across it and into the audience. There was
Speaker 1: so much residual, excited energy store it up in these
Speaker 1: old wood floors that just standing there made me shiver
Speaker 1: with the thrill of being about to make an entrance.
Speaker 1: I took a breath, as if I were really preparing
Speaker 1: for such a thing, then stepped out and crossed to
Speaker 1: center stage. There are things that might stir us up
Speaker 1: so much, push us past what we thought we were
Speaker 1: capable of, and even frighten us a bit, but also
Speaker 1: make us feel so vibrantly connected to each coming moment
Speaker 1: that we know will do them again and again. And
Speaker 1: standing on stage reminded me that I'd keep doing this.
Speaker 1: The ushers were gathering, and soon we'd be opening the
Speaker 1: house and welcoming our audience. I crossed over to the
Speaker 1: other side of the stage as the prosnium curtain came
Speaker 1: down behind me, clicked on a few more blue lights,
Speaker 1: and stepped into the back hall. Actors were shedding coats
Speaker 1: in the dressing rooms, and suddenly the mostly empty theater
Speaker 1: felt full and bustling. Coming the other way, I spotted
Speaker 1: the stage manager with her clipboard. She looked at her
Speaker 1: watch and called out places in thirty. Everyone around her
Speaker 1: responded in a chorus, as we'd been trained to do
Speaker 1: since our very first shows. Thank you thirty, we sang back.
Speaker 1: I smiled as I made my way back through the
Speaker 1: green room toward the house. That call and response had
Speaker 1: always felt like a particularly well devised form of communication.
Speaker 1: Some information is given, and then you respond politely and
Speaker 1: show that you understood by repeating the most important aspect
Speaker 1: of it. I tried to make a habit of it.
Speaker 1: When some message came my way to say thank you
Speaker 1: and acknowledge the vital missive now here being part of
Speaker 1: something I loved, I pushed through the doors and signaled
Speaker 1: to the ushers to open the house. I thought, thank you.
Speaker 1: Opening night. Opening night. We had a few hours yet,
Speaker 1: and most everything was done. The costumes were hanging in
Speaker 1: the dressing rooms, the lights were set, and hopefully the
Speaker 1: cast was ready. I carried an armful of programs to
Speaker 1: a table at the back of the auditorium and had
Speaker 1: a seat. The programs needed to be folded. Each was
Speaker 1: just a few sheets. We weren't on Broadway here, just
Speaker 1: a small playhouse, a community theater that did four or
Speaker 1: five shows a year. I laid the stack of papers
Speaker 1: out in front of me and started to put them together,
Speaker 1: lining up the sheets and clapping the edges of the
Speaker 1: pages against the table to even them out. Then finding
Speaker 1: the middle seam and creasing it tightly with my thumbnail,
Speaker 1: and tucking the finished version in a box for our
Speaker 1: ushers to reach into later to night. I liked having
Speaker 1: the empty theater to myself. I wasn't going to be
Speaker 1: treading the boards tonight. I was just helping wherever I
Speaker 1: was needed. Was sort of gopher for the stage manager
Speaker 1: and the director, and any cast member who suddenly couldn't
Speaker 1: find their props were lost to shoe. Still, the space
Speaker 1: had a kind of magic to it. The empty seats
Speaker 1: looked expectant in the low light, and I thought about
Speaker 1: the very first time I saw a play. My mother
Speaker 1: had taken me, and I might have been in second
Speaker 1: or third grade. I know the play well now, in fact,
Speaker 1: I've been in it twice since, but most of it
Speaker 1: had gone over my head that first night. The thing
Speaker 1: that had certainly registered was the electric feeling of watching
Speaker 1: live theater. I just couldn't believe how it felt, how
Speaker 1: it looked, how different it was from a movie or
Speaker 1: show on TV. I remembered being mesmerized by being able
Speaker 1: to see the lead actress blink and breathe. I was
Speaker 1: close enough to hear every step and sound the cast made.
Speaker 1: I carried the box of ready programs over to a
Speaker 1: tiny alcove beside the door and set them in there,
Speaker 1: ready for showtime. Then walked through the aisles of seats
Speaker 1: to the third or fourth row and scoot it along
Speaker 1: to the middle seat. I pressed the seat down behind
Speaker 1: me and sat. This might be the very spot I'd
Speaker 1: sat in for that first show. I leaned back and
Speaker 1: looked up at the ceiling. It was high and dark,
Speaker 1: and I could just make out some of the light
Speaker 1: fixtures that in a couple of hours would flood the
Speaker 1: stage and make the people sitting in these seats forget
Speaker 1: for a while about anything besides what they saw before them.
Speaker 1: I pushed up from the chair and headed down the
Speaker 1: row to the aisle. I walked to the back of
Speaker 1: the house, glancing through the rows as I went to
Speaker 1: see that all was clean and ready for our audience,
Speaker 1: and it was. I checked my watch. The cast would
Speaker 1: be here in a bit to start warming up and
Speaker 1: getting into costume, and I took a side door into
Speaker 1: the green room to see that it was ready. We
Speaker 1: always laid out a table of snacks and drinks, along
Speaker 1: with the bouquet of flowers for the cast and crew.
Speaker 1: On opening night, and I fussed with the roses for
Speaker 1: a few moments so that they showed well in their vase.
Speaker 1: I took a stack of napkins from a drawer and
Speaker 1: laid it out next to the crackers and nuts. The
Speaker 1: green room has a different energy from the house and
Speaker 1: certainly from the stage. It feels anticipatory back here, excited
Speaker 1: but muted. I kept up my tour and next went
Speaker 1: to check the dressing rooms. I flicked on the switch
Speaker 1: by the door, and the big bulbs ringing each mirror
Speaker 1: lit up. The counters were clear and clean, and I
Speaker 1: set out a couple of boxes of tissues here and there.
Speaker 1: I twisted the knob for the speaker above the door
Speaker 1: that let actors hear what was happening on stage so
Speaker 1: they wouldn't miss their cue, and I could make out
Speaker 1: a few voices and pacing feet. That must be the
Speaker 1: stage manager and crew getting things ready down the hall.
Speaker 1: I pushed through the heavy stage door and stepped into
Speaker 1: the wings and backstage space. It was dark. Tall thick
Speaker 1: curtains at the edges of stage right and left kept
Speaker 1: it that way. I walked past the light booth and
Speaker 1: exchanged a wave with the technician inside over the prop table,
Speaker 1: I clicked on a lamp clamped to the wall. It
Speaker 1: was fitted with a blue light bulb that would give
Speaker 1: our actors enough illumination to pick up what they needed,
Speaker 1: but wouldn't be visible to the audience. We'd covered the
Speaker 1: table with a piece of white butcher's paper and outlined
Speaker 1: each prop in marker with its description written alongside. That way,
Speaker 1: when we checked the table, as I did now, we
Speaker 1: could see right away that everything was accounted for. There
Speaker 1: was the locket for the last scene in Act one,
Speaker 1: the newspaper that would get carried out at the top
Speaker 1: of Act two, the handkerchief that would be dropped and
Speaker 1: picked up and lead to the reveal near the end
Speaker 1: of the show. I could hear the casts coming in
Speaker 1: through the hall, dropping off their bags and chatting in
Speaker 1: the green room. I snuck closer to the edge of
Speaker 1: the stage and peered out across it and into the audience.
Speaker 1: There was so much residual, excited energy store it up
Speaker 1: in these old wood floors that just standing there made
Speaker 1: me shiver with the thrill of being about to make
Speaker 1: an entrance. I took a breath, as if I were
Speaker 1: really preparing for such a thing, then stepped out and
Speaker 1: crossed to center stage. There are things that might stir
Speaker 1: us up so much, us past what we thought we
Speaker 1: were capable of, and even frighten us a bit, but
Speaker 1: also make us feel so vibrantly connected to each coming
Speaker 1: moment that we know we'll do them again and again.
Speaker 1: And standing on stage reminded me that I'd keep doing this.
Speaker 1: The ushers were gathering, and soon we'd be opening the
Speaker 1: house and welcoming our audience. I crossed over to the
Speaker 1: other side of the stage as the proscenium curtain came
Speaker 1: down behind me, clicked on a few more blue lights,
Speaker 1: and stepped into the back hall. Actors were shedding coats
Speaker 1: in the dressing rooms, and suddenly the mostly empty theater
Speaker 1: felt fall and bustling. Coming the other way, I spotted
Speaker 1: the stage manager with her clipboard. She looked at her
Speaker 1: watch and called out places in thirty. Everyone around her
Speaker 1: responded in a chorus, as we'd been trained to do
Speaker 1: since our very first shows. Thank you thirty, we sang back.
Speaker 1: I smiled as I made my way back through the
Speaker 1: green room toward the house. That call and response had
Speaker 1: always felt like a particularly well devised form of communication.
Speaker 1: Some information is given, and then you respond politely and
Speaker 1: show that you understood by repeating the most important aspect
Speaker 1: of it. I tried to make a habit of it
Speaker 1: when some message came my way to say thank you
Speaker 1: and acknowledge the vital missive now here being part of
Speaker 1: something I loved. As I pushed through the doors and
Speaker 1: signaled to the ushers to open the house, I thought,
Speaker 1: thank you, Opening night, sweet dreams,