Saturday, August 15, 2015

Friday night. Show time. Actors are doing their thing extra brilliantly. Scene changes all slick and perfect. Lighting perfect. Sound perfect. I sit at the sound desk at the back of the auditorium smugly congratulating myself for hitting all the right buttons at all the right times. I'm so great. What a breeze this is. Why do I ever fear doing sound? And then suddenly I hear - 


And I think:
"Shit! It's me! Isn't it?!"

I hit play.
Chris speaks instantly from the tape recorder. 
The actors stutter a bit and then continue with their lines.

I look at the script.
I look at the stage.
I realise - too late - that Roberto hasn't signed the confession. Paulina hasn't gathered up the pages in her hands, shuffled them, nodded her satisfaction to Gerardo. The tape hasn't been stopped, taken out of the cassette player, a new tape inserted, play is pressed and THEN Roberto speaks. 

I feel a little like you would surely feel if you could actually rewrite history. A sinister time-leaping puppet master. 


I shall try for a perfect final night's performance tonight. Though then again, why tarnish my track record?


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