Another Dog and Pony Show

Jun 11, 2010

My midnight call time the other night was pushed back to three A.M. -- without question, the worst possible time to be called in to work. When my alarm went off, I was completely discombobulated. If someone had given me one of those tests they give people that are are rolled into the ER -- "What year is it? Who's the president of the United States? How many fingers am I holding up?" -- I would have failed miserably. However, those few extra hours of sleep turned out to be a lifesaver because once I arrived at Alice Tully Hall, I didn't leave again until midnight the next night -- twenty-one hours later. And, honestly, the only reason we went home at midnight was because the union would've charged the producers a gazillion dollars for every minute we stayed past pumpkin time. "Let's go, guys, we're gonna pull the plug on you."

"These guys aren't fucking around," someone said, "They'll cut the power at midnight."

It was frustrating because the reason we were working so late was that the union set builders were behind schedule, but whatever, by then I was more than happy to go home anyway.

I was in again at 9 A.M. the next morning. We were fed both lunch and dinner -- good food, by the way -- but it meant we didn't leave the theater all day long, which led to more confusion concerning time. Before I knew it, gowns and tuxes were filling the seats. "Show time already?"

I played "Eye Spy" from the balcony with Lilly, the graphics producer, as the fashion elite made their entrances. Eye spy Anna Wintour. Eye spy Michael Kors. Eye spy some crazy shoes and wacky hairdos. Eye spy women struggling to stay balanced as they walk down the aisle.

"Who is that? They look familiar."

"I don't know, but I recognize that guy."

My job had been to design some of the elements that were projected onto the set -- backgrounds and things -- not to work any of the gear that actually projects them, so once the show was underway, my work was done.

"Are you going to stay and watch?" Lilly asked.

"May as well." I said.

I noticed that Lilly had the foresight to bring a change of clothes with her, as did a few of the other people that had been busy behind the scenes, while I was suck with a T-shirt and sneakers. It didn't make any difference during the show, since I was hidden away in the balcony with the techies, but the cocktail party afterwards was another story.

"Go get a drink," said Robin, the owner of the production company that hired me.

I opened the door leading from the balcony directly into the party and squeezed through the crowd, looking for the bar. Excuse me, Isabella, pardon me, Iman, mind if I squeeze past you Dakota? Excuse me rich old man with your stunning six-foot-two girlfriend. I made my way to the bathroom, instead, took a piss, and took a breather.

"Fuck it, I'm going home."

Not that I'm any stranger to feeling out of place.

Got on the same subway car as a few of the young girls who had modeled in the show's special Alexander McQueen tribute. Gangly, giggling, arm in arm, their hair was down, but still filled with hairspray. Makeup half removed. Baggy T-shirts and hot pants. Too cool for the party, or simply not invited? Either way, they appeared to be going to a party of their own.

Mind if I tag along?

In another life, perhaps.