Future Plans

It's official. I've decided. When I'm a ghost, I'm going to haunt the Brewery Arts Center in Carson City. I'm going to sweep the stage clean when the crew leaves a light on for me and chew holes in the costumes when they don't. Darn moths, they'll say. I'm going to whisper the lines into the ears of the shy kids, like a ghost once did for me, and leave ectoplasm in the lunch boxes of the brats. When the wind blows just right, I'll play Moonlight Sonata on the old piano in the attic and wait for the night watchman to come and yell at the air and at the creaking of this old building and in his old bones. Later, feeling lonely and a little guilty, I'll watch re-runs of Ozzie and Harriet over his shoulder and try to keep his coffee warm. On opening night, I'll keep the cast company in the green room, feeding their jitters and pestering them with props that never stay in one place when left unattended. No one is off the hook with me as a ghost and I'll have to make sure to blow a fuse on at least one performance, sending the stage manager and light board operator into a delicious tizzy full of furious whispers. It is simply part of my duty, as a ghost, and must be done. I'll make it up to them, though, through several performances with lights that fade just right and clever, witty insights whispered over the headsets. I'll run along the rafters and I just might accidentally get tangled up in one of the scrims, just as it's about to drop, making it catch about halfway down, leaving the stage looking like half of Never Never Land and half of Wendy's bedroom. Sorry about that, it will be an accident. The fly operator will panic. The stage manager will whisper vicious yells at him over the headset. Not knowing what else to do, the curtain will come down about 20 minutes too early in the first act and the audience will feel uncomfortable, but a little bit excited about witnessing the magic of a play breaking down. I will untangle myself as quickly as possible and all will resume as normal. After that, I will help the fly operator, whose hands will now be shaking, lift the heavy loads, and feel a tad baffled at his ability to so swiftly fly scenes on and off of the stage. On closing night, I'll sit in the audience. In an empty seat high up in the mezzanine. I might throw some popcorn at the audience, but mostly I'm just going to watch and feel satisfied, and a little bit sad. I know that one day, they'll look back on my mischief with longing. I'll still be there, though, re-writing lines behind actors' backs and leaving lint in the coffee pot, waiting for opening night to return.