Off Book

2. Ian

2

IAN

“Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d . . .” Act I, Scene I

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Seth’s voice comes from behind me as I scan the cast list for the one-acts. It took all of ten seconds for him to start yelling in my ear.

“Wait, hold on. I haven’t even found my name,” I say, and Seth slaps his finger against the page, pointing to my name.

The Mercy Seat

Director: Anastasia Oberhausen

Stage Manager: Madison Bunch

Cast: Ian Davidson & Jade McKinney

“Jade McKinney, of all people,” Seth scoffs, and I wait for him to explain, but he just keeps shaking his head and staring at the list as if it’ll start talking to him.

“Why are you saying it like that, Seth? What’s wrong with Jade?”

“You know who Jade McKinney is, don’t you?”

Middle Penn College does not have a huge theater department. Around a hundred people, give or take, inclusive of all the majors, minors, and random people who like to perform but don’t want a degree in it. I know Jade peripherally. She’s been in several of the tech meetings I’ve been in with the costume crew over the years. After three years, you eventually get to know everyone here, even if it’s just their name. If I search my memory, I can sort of conjure her in my mind, but only a few things stand out.

“She does costumes? Red hair?”

Seth nods and starts to say something, but a group of students approaches, their jittery excitement palpable. Seth and I move out of the way as the students read the cast list. They squeal at the names—presumably their own—grabbing each other’s hands and hugging and celebrating as if the paper announced a much larger role than just a part in a student-directed one-act.

“So what’s the big deal about being cast with Jade? She’s a senior, right? I’d rather be paired with her than a freshman. At least she has acting experience. One of us needs to.”

A girl with bright pink hair reading the cast list turns and gives me a nasty look. I realize she’s probably a freshman and mouth “sorry” to her. She glares at me before walking away, her friends in tow, and flips me off.

I deserved that.

“Oh, Jade has experience, that’s for sure.” Seth’s voice is heavy with implication.

“Don’t be gross, dude,” I say as we maneuver away from the cast list and toward one of the lobby benches. Neither of us sit. We both just linger, gripping the straps of our backpacks.

“I’m just saying . . . Jade has a reputation.”

Seth is the more social of the two of us. It was his social nature that led to us being friends. The fall of my sophomore year and Seth’s freshman year, we were both taking the required Theater Makeup class all theater majors have to take. Maybe we gravitated toward each other because we were the only guys in the class that semester, but Seth likes to say he adopted me. One day he sat down next to me and started talking, and then, all of a sudden, I had a new best friend.

Seth’s social nature is also why I lean on him to understand the social landscape of the theater department. Whereas I like to stay in the tech booth, on the catwalk, and in the light lab, Seth is always among people, hanging in the wings during rehearsals and at parties afterward. But sometimes his observations come with a double standard.

“What does her reputation have to do with her acting?” I ask.

“Her reputation is that she sleeps with her scene partners.” Seth raises his eyebrows.

“So do you.”

“Okay, I have hooked up with some scene partners, but you know I haven’t actually had sex with any of them,” he says, defensive.

“Maybe she hasn’t either.”

“Ian, I’m not being a fucking misogynist. I’m saying Jade has a reputation for being sexually . . . expressive, and you . . . do not.”

It’s a nice way of saying I’m a virgin—something my guy friends in high school teased me mercilessly for, but which Seth has never made me feel bad or weird about. Even now, he’s just trying to make a point. I’m not sure what his point is, but he’s trying.

“I just think the two of you paired up should be interesting. I, for one, can’t wait to see what happens,” he says.

“I’m sure Jade and I will be able to be scene partners without having to deal with our . . . reputations. Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah, I’m studying with Alexis in a few.”

Alexis is his best friend and the only girl he’s had a crush on since freshman year. She’s the reason he doesn’t actually sleep with his scene partners. Why he keeps up his playboy persona, I’ll never know.

I raise my eyebrows. “Alexis, huh?”

“Shut up,” he says and starts to walk away.

“If you can’t take it, don’t dish it out,” I yell after him as he pushes open the doors to leave the theater.

“Ian?”

I startle and turn to find the technical theater professor, John, poking his head out from the lobby office.

“All set?” he asks, and with a nod, I follow him back into the offices.

The Middle Penn College theater program has three professors: two acting professors, and a technical theater professor. I’m meeting today with Adam Litsey, acting professor and director of A Midsummer Night’s Dream , and John Chappell, the technical theater professor and technical director of the show, to discuss the lighting design for Midsummer .

“We’re excited to see your lighting design,” John says. He’s exactly the kind of stereotypical technical theater professor you might see in a movie, always wearing a tool belt, a T-shirt, jeans, and work boots. There are safety goggles perpetually perched on top of his head of bright red hair, and there’s always a pencil tucked behind his ear, a Sharpie in his back pocket, and drill bits spilling out of his other pockets.

“I’m excited for the opportunity,” I say.

John gestures for me to have a seat, and I greet Adam, shaking his hand before sitting. My chair is situated on one side of a desk, while Adam and John set up on the other side.

“Ian, lovely to have you here. We’re looking forward to collaborating,” Adam says, pushing his glasses up onto his nose.

Adam Litsey has an unassuming presence. He has a soft voice and his manner is mild, but when he takes the stage, he comes to life. It’s a real-life Transformer-type situation, and it’s utterly magical to watch. It almost makes me wish I took more than just a Beginning Acting class with him. Almost. But I only took that class in the first place because it was required for my degree.

“How are you?” Adam asks, leaning forward on his elbows.

“I’m all right. Just got cast in the student-directed one-acts.” An awkward chuckling noise bursts out of me against my will.

“Cutting it a little close, huh?” John comments with a friendly smile.

In addition to the acting class, it’s a requirement for technical theater majors to act in at least one show before we graduate. Actors are also required to join a show crew, spend a semester in the scene shop, and take a couple of design classes too. I think it’s supposed to give us a more wholistic experience of the theater world.

I didn’t think much about it when I joined the theater program at Middle Penn, but every year, the requirement taunted me. John Chappell, my advisor, would remind me at the end and the beginning of every semester that I needed to get involved in a play.

I’m a senior now, so I had no choice but to audition for the one-acts or one of the Main Stage shows. Considering the non-musical show this year is Shakespeare, the much smaller, student-directed, barely attended one-acts were my preference. I wasn’t sure they would count, but John said they would.

“Tried to skip it entirely, but alas,” I say, and the three of us share a chuckle, “I wanted to graduate in time.”

“We will definitely be chatting about your graduation plans, but let’s dive into this meeting. What do you have for us?” John asks.

I wrestle three black folders out of my backpack, handing two to John and Adam and keeping one for myself, a packet of papers stapled together neatly inside. “So, if you flip past the cover page, the first page is my concept design summary.”

When John asked if I’d be the designer for A Midsummer Night’s Dream , he requested I put together a packet for the first design meeting. He walked me through filing the paperwork to let this design project count as a class this year, because even though “in the real world, you won’t do this,” it’s still college, and I need something to be graded on.

John and Adam both skim the page but then look at me. There’s a slight tremor in my hands, and I grip the edges of my folder to try to still myself. I mentally cue myself, the way a stage director might: And three, two, one, Designer go.

“A couple words stood out to me as I thought about the Midsummer Night’s Dream lighting design. ‘Immersive’ and ‘whimsical’ are the main two. So when we’re in some of the opening scenes, I want the lights to saturate you not only in the setting but also in the feelings of the characters. Before the faeries take the stage, the main story is the love square, and I want the lighting to reflect some of that tension.”

Adam and John are nodding, which gives me the confidence to continue. I sit up a little straighter, absorbing their assurance.

“Once we get into the scenes with the faeries, I want the feeling to reflect their whimsy and mischief. I want the lighting to be an outward expression of the inner workings. The rest of the summary talks a little more about the color scheme and some of the textures I’d like to use to achieve that, but if you turn the page, you can check out some of my inspiration photos.”

We all turn the page in our packets, and John and Adam continue to nod as they look through the photos.

“So I’ve got lots of bright whites for the early scenes, with some softer pink accents. I want that bright white to fuel the intensity of the lovers’ quarrel, and for it to serve as a contrast once we’re in the forest scenes. That first page of the color schemes is for non-forest scenes—bright whites with some soft, warmer accents. I plan to lean into the cool colors for the forest, so you can see the color palette on the second page with some ideas for that.”

They take in the photos, and I take a steadying breath. It feels like it’s going really well, but my heart is racing, and despite my confidence, I’m still a little shaky.

Both Adam and John look up at me with smiles.

“This looks great, Ian,” Adam says. “You’ve got an immense talent for this.”

“Thank you,” I say, beaming at his praise. “Did you have any questions?” I glance between John and Adam, and they both shake their heads.

“I think this is going to look great on the main stage, and we can work together once you finish the lighting plot to hash out some of the details,” John says.

“Great! Thank you so much. I’m looking forward to it.”

We all stand and say our goodbyes, and on the way out of the office, John calls after me.

“Ian, walk with me to my office. I thought we could chat about postgrad plans,” he says.

My stomach sinks to my knees. I’d hoped to avoid these conversations until January at least, when I might have a more solid plan, but maybe John can help me narrow down my options.

We walk through a set of doors that take us to the main stage. It’s a real Everest of a climb through the audience seating of the main stage to John’s office—a crow’s nest up in the tippy top of the theater.

The office is a mess, rolled-up lighting and set design plans strewn about the room, bits of gels, pencils, tools everywhere—I count three tape measures without effort. His office is like a search-and-find puzzle from a kid’s magazine, packed to the brim with stuff you’d have to sort through to locate anything.

“As always, apologies for the mess. I think one of those chairs is clear.”

He points to the two chairs across from his desk, and he’s right. One is completely empty, and the other holds a heavy-looking stack of papers. I take a seat in the empty one, and John plops into his worn leather rolling chair.

He claps his hands together to commence the meeting.

“I thought we could take just a few minutes to connect about postgrad. I know it seems early to be having this conversation, but your attention is going to be everywhere this semester, and I want to talk to you while you have the mental space for it.”

The press of my top row of teeth into my bottom lip keeps me grounded as the anxiety of leaving college threatens to carry me away.

College is a safe place, just like my home was a safe place growing up. But not knowing what I’m going to do after I graduate leaves a gap where there used to be a sense of security, like a deep crevasse on a mountainside. So far, I’ve avoided looking down into the crevasse, but now, John’s dragged me to the edge and is asking me to stare right into its endless darkness.

I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Well. Um. I’m considering a couple paths, truth be told. Maybe grad school for lighting design, or maybe just diving into the ‘real’ world and designing wherever the doors open up. I know technical theater isn’t a very . . . lucrative career. I don’t have any loans, and I don’t need to make a ton of money—obviously I got into the wrong field if that was my goal—but I also don’t have a trust fund to fall back on. Is there something in the field with more security?”

“Teaching is always an option.” John gestures around his office with a wave of his hand.

I press my lips together in a smile. Teaching isn’t exactly what I was hoping to do with my life, but he’s right. There is some security in it. Not just a steady paycheck, but health insurance too.

John leans back in his chair, arms crossed comfortably over his chest. “You could always try to get in with a local theater. They may not have an in-house designer position alone, but they would need a technical director, and that would include lighting design as well as set design, among other things. Actually, I just saw a position open up recently, not too far from here.” He wiggles his mouse to wake up the screen of his computer and clicks around a few times.

Whatever he clicks wakes up his behemoth of a printer from the early 2000s, which struggles as it spits out a sheet of paper. He hands it across the desk to me, and I scan the page. It’s a job listing for a technical theater director at a playhouse.

But I already know about this job.

Red Barn Playhouse is my hometown theater—the one I got my start in as a kid. The artistic director, Robert Wiggham, emailed me personally not two weeks ago to ask if I was interested in the job after graduating. The email has been burning a hole in my inbox, and the mounting pressure to respond is causing me more stress than it should.

It’s not my dream job, but I’m not sure how picky I’m allowed to be. It’s a stable job in the theater world, with benefits. Not to mention taking the job would mean I could live at home, save up some money to live on my own eventually. My parents would be thrilled to have me stay with them, and I wouldn’t mind being at home.

“Yeah, that’s my hometown theater.”

Despite the security and the obvious benefits associated with this job, I’m finding it hard to muster the kind of enthusiasm the job listing warrants.

“Would you look at that!” John says. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be amazing at this.”

It’s worth a lot. John Chappell’s opinion holds a lot of weight in my book. If he thinks I can do the job, I believe him. Everything I know I learned from him, and I have no doubt that if I ever need anything after graduating, he’ll always answer my calls.

“Thank you. I’ll definitely consider it,” I say, slipping the job description into my backpack.

“Let me give you this too before you go,” John says. He pauses to rummage around on his desk. When he finds what he’s looking for, he holds it out to me.

A thin stack of papers stapled together.

“This is a list—although not comprehensive—of theaters across the country who’ll be hiring crew of various kinds come next summer. It includes known summer stock opportunities former students here have taken, but some of the jobs are also internships, apprenticeships, and some are longer-term gigs. It’s obviously a bit early to be applying anywhere, but I wanted to give you time to explore options and consider all the possibilities.”

“Wow . . . thank you,” I mutter, flipping through the pages of theaters across the country listed on the front and back of each sheet. It’s almost overwhelming enough to make me pass this packet back across the desk and call Robert at Red Barn immediately.

“Take your time thinking about it. This is just the start of the conversation. You’ve got quite a few things to focus on this year, but I don’t want us to take our eyes off the future. My door is always open if you need to talk.”

“Thank you, John,” I say and tuck the packet into my backpack.

My mind spins with all the options as I leave the theater building in search of lunch. I don’t even know where to start sorting this out.

The ding of a text message pulls me out of my mental spiral.

Hey Ian, this is Anastasia, your director! First rehearsal is Thursday at 8 p.m. Can you confirm if that works for you?

I send her back a thumbs-up, but I don’t feel very “thumbs up.” In fact, the thought of facing my first rehearsal in three days sends my postgrad worries packing.

Forget planning for my future—I have to survive this one-act first.