The daily adventures and travails of one neurotic, klutzy, hungry, cynical college girl. Tune in for prizes! (offer void where prohibited. See office for details. Not responsible for lost articles.)
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Friday, October 07, 2005
Grace is broken.
I'm going to pick up the story from yesterday morning, because translating the entire saga is boring and is a slow build that topped it's crest last night anyway.
I woke up feeling sore all over. What was supposed to be a long earned sleep was marred by driving the assistant director to Sunset at 1 am (get a car, or get ready quicker) and by some well-intentioned calls early in the morning that interrupted my REM cycle.
So, of course, I'm in no mood for "all day rehearsal." But I put on my game face, because as my director made it specifically clear, I am to be cheerful, on point, and ready in every capacity she demands.
I get to the theatre. Lo and behold, my "promised" parking space is a wisp of the wind. The parking lot is jammed full. I turn around and park in the questionably shady neighborhood. I walk to the theatre and find the door locked. I knock loudly. I knock again. Defeated, I turn to walk around the theatre to the entrance I have the key to open. (Yes, the entrance from the parking lot is not the key they gave me. Convenient.) Just as I cross halfway into the dirty, wet alley, the door opens and my actress is at the threshold.
I get inside and find myself useless again, as they want me to do some menial task, but they aren't even sure how they want me to do it. So I get myself some coffee (bad, bad idea as time will tell. I quit coffee a while back, but this show is making me resort to all sorts of drugs to deal) and open my laptop to start writing.
After hours of being "on book" which is ridiculous since the show opens tomorrow and the actresses should be breathing, sleeping, and eating their lines by now, we are nearing dinner break. The director snatches me before I go. I want to write her words as they were thrust upon me.
"What are you doing during dinner break?"
Ominous music, as I sense an errand coming.
"I'm going to take care of stuff I planned to do during the personal time I have today?"
"Okay, drive (asst. dir.) to her work, and pick her up before tonight's call."
-I'm sorry, did I miss a please? Or maybe a Will you?-
I drive AD to her work and drive home. I pick up some much needed items for around my apt and get inside. I can't even begin to think of what to eat, because I'm tired, drained, and stressed. I sit and take care of some tasks around the apt. I can't sit, eat, or breathe slowly. I feel like it's jittery drug withdrawal.
I try and coordinate some dinner with good friends, but time is awkward and unkind to me. So I head to the theatre, and find myself unable to pick up dinner, because traffic has slowed me down enough to cut out the half hour I gave myself to eat.
Upon parking, I talk wiht both the D and the AD and they are both running very late. I get inside and try to tell the stage hands who are building the set, that I must have the set by 7 for an 8 o'clock run. The producer sneers and yells that I won't get this. I walk away.
I go inside the booth and put up my "wall" so I don't have to feel what's going on.
The rest of the run is irrelevant as long as you understand that I have no respect, authority, or clear idea of my duties. Why am I being yelled at? Why am I pushed aside? Why am I here?
Also, I'm starving now, and I would eat the tires off my car if I had to. WHY DID I NOT EAT?
My swell of emotions is nearing the brink. My jaws and lower back ache from holding myself so tense. I must be so good at appearing content, because no one has mentioned the thin skin of hysteria I have bubbling underneath.
The end of the run, my director again berates me for "not feeling the show" as she intended. Yeah, you got that right. I'm supposed to call your cues when you FEEL them, as opposed to you telling me when to call them? I'm omniscent, but impotent. Got it. The producer steps in and we work out the kinks, plus some condescending congratulations when we finish.
"I think you FINALLY get it, Grace."
Fuck you with a rusted screwdriver.
If I see you lying the gutter, I'll go to elaborate measures to make sure you're just as miserable as you've made me now.
The booth operator (who I've hated until now because he patronizes and cuts out the rug from under me) is the only one to mean it when he says I'm doing a good job. He repeats is 3 times, as if he knows what's coming.
I close up and come downstairs for our "collective" notes. Our director is busy pontificating on a story about a facial to our lighting designer. Tension is running high. Finally on a breather, I ask her for my notes since it is midnight and I have work tomorrow. She repeats that she wants the notes for everyone to be told to everyone at the same time. I check on the actresses and find them ready. I go downstairs again and again ask for my notes.
She looks through her pad. She doesn't have any for me.
The demon inside is clawing.
I say goodnight and I leave out hte door. Of course two cars are parked perpendicular to mine, blocking me in. I come back and announce this fact. I am met with screaming that no one wants to hear this. I stand in the doorway, determined to get home. The D tells me to see what cars they are to ask the specific drivers. I look. One of them is hers, and the other is hte booth operator's.
I walk inside and slip on the tile. Holding my script book, my laptop, and my purse, I fall to the ground, knee first and hard. Stunned I sit for a second, feeling the fiery pain creeping up my thigh. The AD is the only one among 4 people who witnessed this debacle to ask me if I'm okay. She takes one look at my screwed up face and tells me it's okay to cry.
NO. I will not cry in front of these people who don't deserve it. But unfortunately, ti's not up to me. I'm done. Broken. My last moment of strength is worn out. I start to pour tears, so I run to the bathroom. There is a strange, dry heaving coming from my throat. I can't close the door, so people watch as I melt down by the toilet.
They seem uncomfortable by my display. I would be, too. I AM, too.
My knee has swollen to twice its size so I grab an ice pack fom the freezer (no one has thought to offer so far) The AD catches sight of my gnarly knee and insists on showing the company president. THey are both appalled by the picture of veins, crushed flesh, and bulbous muscle. He apologizes taht it happened to me. I brush off his apology. You don't get to feel better about yourself by tossing some words at me.
They move their cars, and I peel out as I'm starting to wail from everything I'm feeling. I scream, weep, and hurt all the way home. Of course I can't find a parking space at 1 in the morning. I park at a spot that seems a mile away from home. My walk can only be described as Igor from Frankenstein. I get inside and find myself unable to sleep because I can't relax.
To top off a brilliantly executed day, this morning I wake up at 8:17. I usually leave my house at 8:10, when I'm parked nearby. 7:55 when i am parked in Siberia. With my now warm icepack taped to my knee I can only fit in the same pants I wore yesterday. I pull on a new tshirt. I have no time to shower, brush my teeth, or grab some water. I take my lenses, my tooth brush, and toothpaste and scramble out hte door, murmuring "No. no. no.no. no."
I hop, skip, stumble my way to my car. I drive like a maniac, half hoping the police will pull me over for speeding and reckless endangerment. By the miracle of a God who finally cuts me some slack, I make it inside my building with 2 minutes to 9. I take the two minutes to wash my face and brush my teeth. I go to the kitchen to grab some bread and they all tumble to the floor in my frenzied grip. Exasperated, a possibly dirty floor affecting my breakfast is the least of my problems, so I pick them off the floor.
I sit and my desk and began this long vomit of an essay. It is now an hour after I began.
Done.
9:08 AM
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