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When it's good, there's rock and roll in your blood.  Energy pounds through your veins, your fingertips and your hair until everything comes together in a surge: the flashing of the white lines, the hum of the tires, glimpses of lights as you speed by on the nighttime interstate edge.  When it's bad, it's very bad indeed.  It's waking up so tired it feels like there are bugs crawling beneath your skin. . . .

There were three of us for this tour -- myself and two assistants, Danny and Shaun.  We were out on the road for 44 days, covering over 9000 miles and doing 26 one night stands.  A dense schedule was booked all through the Rockies and into the Midwest, and we often had to do four or five nights back-to-back, traveling after each show to the next town.  The tour went from late February into early April and the weather was unpredictable in every area we covered.  We averaged about one hour of sleep for every four we worked. 

I've been with Opera A La Carte, a touring Gilbert & Sullivan opera company, since right after grad school.  Richard Sheldon, my boss, single-handedly produces, directs and plays a lead in every one of the company's eight productions.  A bundle of compulsive, nervous and extremely talented energy, he has kept the company going for twenty-five years now out of pure, dogged, almost masochistic determination.

As technical director, I am in charge of solving unforeseen problems and setting up the shows. Two or three of us arrive at the theatre in the morning. Together with the local crew, we off-load everything from the truck and proceed to construct the set on the stage.  We focus the lighting instruments and write cues for the show.  We supervise the setting up of the sound system and the orchestra pit, and make sure the costumes are ready for the performers when they arrive.  During rehearsal we orient the company to the new theatre and try to accommodate their needs.  For the show itself, we coordinate the orchestra, company and box office and make sure everyone is in the right place.  I call the cues during the show and Danny and Shaun coordinate the set change between acts.  Afterwards we tear everything down and re-load it back on to the truck.  Staying one step ahead of the company, we then speed on to the next place and do it all over again.

There is an old joke about the circus man who shovels elephant excrement; when offered the suggestion that he quit, he retorts "What, and give up show business?"  Theatre has been around for centuries, and nothing (yet) has been found to strip it of its unique magic.  But for those of us lowering the house lights, raising the curtain and pulling the ropes, the knowledge that we are a part of a venerable tradition is rarely enough to carry us through the long drives, the tedious afternoons, the endless days when absolutely nothing goes right.

We work, unnoticed, behind the scenes.  In fact, the better we do our jobs the less we're noticed: no one should ever comment on a perfectly executed lighting cue, only the one taken by mistake.  What we do is exactly the opposite from the performers we seek to enhance: we strive to be invisible.

The question inevitably arises.

Why do we do it?

Day 1 - Questa College, San Luis Obispo.  Wake up to clear cold sky -- tired, sore from loading the truck, but able to shake it off quite easily.  Stretch and go for a quick jog, committed to sticking with a regimen of exercise and a reasonable diet.

We load in at 9:00 a.m.  Seven or eight kids are there to help us out, on some work program.  They have long hair, aren't used to this theatre stuff.  But they're eager and willing to work.  For lunch we sack out in the van, basking in the warm sun.  I roll up my pants legs and lean back against our pile of sleeping bags.  We eat apples and zucchini bread -- enjoying a relaxed, sleepy hour.

Our shows are designed to perform everywhere from an elementary school to a civic auditorium and thus there are certain prerequisites that we have to follow.  First of all a set must be sturdy.  It must be built in a modular fashion so that it will pack easily and navigate around loading docks, up ramps, into freight elevators, sometimes even through regular-sized doors.  It must be built for safety.  And, unfortunately, it must usually be built cheaply.  The company has no outside funding: all set construction is usually done at nearby colleges, using their scene shops and student labor.

When designing a set, all these considerations must be taken into account as well as the aesthetic requirements.  Richard is adamant about keeping to tradition.  He likes simplicity and function, pulling from drawings of old D'Oyly Carte productions, adapting them as his staging (and budget) dictate.  Everything must be in period, everything must conform as much as possible to the way it was originally done. 

When we travel, we usually bring two shows with us, both of which have to fit into one truck, along with costume boxes for each show, prop boxes and huge traveling cases for the timpani drums, which won't fit onto the orchestra bus.  For this tour, because of its duration and the problems we always have with space, I persuaded Richard to let us take a van along as well.  In that we put the prop boxes as well as all our gear.  Shaun and I remembered all too well the disasters of the last tour, when the truck broke down eleven times in twenty days.  Traveling in unpredictable territory on little or no sleep, we were afraid to tempt fate by relying on only one vehicle.

Santa Rosa  After four hours' sleep, we are up and at it again.  We're late and don't care.  The crew is happy, enthusiastic and helpful -- greeting us eagerly and offering us donuts.  The house used to be a church, pews 180 degrees around a thrust stage.  There is no curtain, no orchestra pit and no wing space. They tell me they have an over-zealous fire marshal who religiously appears before every show, walking with his arms outstretched to insure adequate emergency escape routes. It's one of the weirdest places I've ever seen.

Our main problem is where to put the musicians.  Everything but two side rows of seating has been sold out so our 27-piece orchestra is going to have to fit into a 10x10 space directly stage left.  But where will the conductor stand?  He has to be seen by both the orchestra and the company.      

We finally decide the only way to do it is to put the big strings on stage in front of the Rocky Cliffs of Penzance.  The cellists are embarrassed but the double bass player hams it up.  After awhile it almost looks all right . . .

The show is the time when we have fun.  It's become my new pet theory that the 976 telephone numbers are just a civilian's substitute for headsets.  In the dark, connected to people you can't see, all sorts of things come out.  Lots of double entendres usually, and dumb jokes made funnier by a long day of work that has finally let up.  It's a tacit agreement: on headsets anything goes.  If the crew is tight and work well together they usually have a long history of in-jokes, war stories and gossip, all told with interjected punchlines, suppressed laughter, and continual embellishments.  Periodically I call a cue, then the conversation continues.  We speak softly into our mouthpieces:  The audience thinks the show is going on onstage, but what's crackling through the walls around them, beside them and in back of them, is much, much better.  We know.

Oregon to Washington, 3 a.m.  The drive from Newport to Tacoma on the logging roads takes much longer than we planned, and the three hours up I-5 is sheer torture.  We leave the hotel for the theatre after one hour of sleep.  This is the fourth show in as many days.  And a show down in Portland tomorrow. 

Three people, one truck, one van: the math is inexorable.  Two of us have to be alert enough to drive at all times.  The other gets to crawl into the nest of sleeping bags in the back of the van, there to fall into that dead, instant sleep at which we have become so adept.  The determination of who drives is a race against time -- when one driver can't go on, the other must.  When both drivers are beat, only one can be spelled: there's no getting around the situation but somehow we manage to make it through each leg.  Thinking about the big picture become increasingly less amusing.

As I drive I try to figure out who will win, the road or us. I give myself the handle "Road Worrier" because that's what I do, constantly calculating the time and mileage against our fatigue. I scrutinize my partners’ driving from my various vantage points, trying to gauge their health, their mood, and their ability to keep going by how they move their vehicle around.

Take Shaun, the consummate male.  As the tour progresses, the louder the music pounds through the cab and the more impatient his driving becomes.  We've dubbed him "Leadfoot" because of his unique ability to push the cumbersome truck past what we'd consider the absolute extreme.  The speed we travel is exactly as fast as we can drive the truck flat out.  A millimeter of space between the accelerator and the floor is a millimeter too much.  We all know this as an unspoken rule, and we all follow it unconsciously. And we travel at about 68 mph -- at least when Danny or I are at the wheel.

But when Shaun drives, an incredible thing takes place.  The truck starts hitting 70, even 72 at times.  Road-beat and full of grit, he tears that big old rig along the road like it's a sportscar, manhandling it with steely determination.  He'll come up behind some local guy in a Buick -- headlights glaring, engine growling, cab bouncing frenetically as it pulls the clumsy load -- and hang.  Hang right there on the guy's bumper, roaring at 70 mph.  He stays just long enough to make sure that the Buick knows he's cost Shaun precious time and energy (not to mention unspeakable frustration) -- then smoothly pulls around with a single flip-off blip of the turn signal.  He never misses a beat, never takes his foot off the pedal, just ducks back in front with the same two-foot margin, leaving the Buick rocking in a slipstream of disbelief.

Danny has a completely different style behind the wheel.  Rather than conquering the world with the truck, he submits to it, fuses with it.  Wearing a multi-colored scarf and a neon baseball cap, he stretches his right arm over the seat back, gazing out through the huge windshield grandly through his mirrored shades.  He cranks up the tape deck, always listening to the Grateful Dead, savoring the nuances between different performances of the same song like a connoisseur savors variations of cabernet.  He curls into the cab as though it's a cocoon, the music weaving silky strands of rejuvenation and life around him.  He emerges after two or three hours refreshed, beaming, ready with a huge hug for his fellow travelers.

My own driving is schizophrenic -- bouncing between Shaun's hell-bent-for-leather and Danny's happy groove.  When I can no longer keep my eyes open, I drive fifteen more minutes.  When I can't stand it any more, I make myself drive another fifteen minutes.  I look at the speedometer.  I calculate miles.  I consider the other drivers: who would I rather have at the wheel, an exhausted me, or an exhausted Danny or Shaun?  It's a toss up. The healthy diet long abandoned in favor of instant gratification, I thrive on Cheetos and Cranberry juice, eating as many carbohydrates as possible.  After the first two weeks, we can no longer stomach or tolerate the false highs from Snickers and Cokes: when you borrow from non-existent energy the crash is absolute.

Tacoma: We're in the thick of it now.  We drink the last of the Lipovitans (a Japanese vitamin drink that is so full of B-Vitamins I once passed out from it), and toast each other by the truck as we blink with scratchy eyes in the morning light.

I remember the Pantages from before.  The most beautiful theatre I think I've ever seen: a Victorian jewel box with lavender seats, an ivory stained-glass skylight, rich mahogany wood, and dainty gold-leaf trim.  The crew last time had been great, the kind of crew that made me love unions all over again.  They were competent, friendly, secure in their work and amongst one another.  They took care of us when we stupidly broke our set and made us feel quite at home.  I am looking forward to the day and am banking on the fact that we will be well-taken care of.  Little do I know.

I get to the loading dock first and park the van as Danny jumps out.  The crew has opened the loading door and Shaun starts pulling the truck back.  Suddenly people are screaming and yelling and I hear a loud, metallic THUMP.

Shaun had run over a No Parking sign.  He has no idea he's done it but the house crew is hopping mad.  "We were yelling at him to stop -- what's wrong with him?"  "What is he, deaf?"  "Can't work with guys like that.  Too dangerous."  Shaun jumps out of the cab, oblivious to the commotion he's caused.  He comes around and everyone starts yelling at once.  The crew hates our guts and there's not one thing any of us can do to get them back on our side.

Of course I'm mad about it, too, but I can’t believe they’re so upset about it. It's just a street sign, for heaven's sake.  A street sign which, upon closer examination, has exploding bolts on the bottom for just such occasions.  Personally, I am relieved that Shaun had done that instead of driving off the road at four o’clock this morning.

But I have to fix things.  I have to get us through this day, through this show.  I leave Danny and Shaun by the truck and the lifeless street sign, and go inside the theatre.

They're all huddled around, still pumping each other up about our stupidity.  They really feel superior by now, and they are bent on showing us what total idiots we are.  I start making nice just as fast as I can.  I compliment the theatre and fondly reminiscence about what a great time we had there before.  Sullen silence.  I quickly figure out who the ringleader is, and give him a chipper grin.  No dice.  The guy just stands there like Mt. St. Helens, loving his power.

I go to the steward and lay my cards out on the table.  We've got to be able to stand each other, at least for the day.  He starts in with some kind of conciliatory double-talk, meant (I think) to appease me while still letting me know the enormity of Shaun's mistake.  I agree on all points and go back to the stage, knowing I've accomplished absolutely nothing.

The morning begins.  The crew does have to work, but that's about it.  They joke about the tackiness of our sets.  They pick up a column incorrectly and the top-piece breaks off.  Immediately they start blaming the people who loaded the set, the people who built the set, the last house that touched the set.  We glue it together, holding it together with vice grips.  They pull it up again, before the glue has a chance to set -- and again it falls apart.  This day is going to last forever.

It’s always an interesting moment, walking into a place as a woman technical director. When I started as an assistant TD, I got quite a few looks when I hopped out of the truck.  Some guys made it a point to flirt in order to handle the situation; others made it a point to comment behind my back, calling me "the chick" or "the girl."  In Rock Springs, Wyoming, my first tour out, one lighting tech pointedly refused to shake my hand or look me in the eye. 

When, shortly thereafter, I became "boss," it threatened to get even stranger -- but, oddly, it didn't.  For starters, I am able to control the situation better.  One of the main purposes for all the advance contact is so that I can get to know the main people I'll be dealing with.  We talk on the phone, I let them know that despite the fact I'm a woman I know what I'm talking about and I'm pretty easy to please.  This helps a lot and by the time we arrive, the only people I have to worry about are crew members.  And once they see I have a rapport with the house T.D. or Master Electrician, everything usually relaxes into place.

Over the years, I've seen a notable increase in the numbers of women working technical theatre. It's interesting how the jobs shake out.  Very often, if there is only one woman, she deals with the paperwork associated with the lighting.  If she's not the Master Electrician, she's the person he relies on totally.  She usually runs the lighting board.  I've pondered and watched this, as these are the areas I am myself most comfortable with.  And, perhaps, it's not that surprising.  Women would not naturally tend towards jobs that require a lot of lifting or hauling, such as set construction or sound.  Lighting is more cerebral, dealing with manageable instruments and a wealth of numbers and set-ups.  Lighting requires organization and a head for numbers; brute strength rarely enters into it.  So maybe it isn't so surprising after all that women wind up in positions of authority in electrical crafts.

But what I love to see, and it's getting more evident every year, is how these women fit into their crews.  For the most part, they are watched over protectively by the guys, admired for their abilities, and helped out without question when it comes to physical tasks they can't manage.  They rarely take advantage of the latter, however, as they scramble up and down ladders, lug cables and always have a spare crescent wrench handy to help out their brothers.  Of course there are some throwbacks to earlier, uglier times: in one midwest city, we worked with a young woman who had had a child by another union member, a guy who wouldn't speak to her, even while they were working.  She was suing the union for harassment, for conspiring to make her leave, and for a list of other grievances.  As far as I could tell, she did her work proficiently and the men in the crew seemed to take to me without much undue anxiety.  But, when told about the scene behind the scenes, hers was a chilling story. 

 Richmond, Indiana:  The sponsors from the college we're performing at tomorrow throw us a dinner to celebrate the company’s anniversary. Everyone is dressed up in suits and dresses, looking clean and healthy and whole.  Richard chats with the sponsors and even Danny and Shaun have found some clean, somewhat pressed, clothing.  I have injured my knee and appear in the same old jeans, sporting a pair of nice new crutches.

Shaun and Danny and I sit with the techies we'll be working with tomorrow at the college.  The ringleader is a guy named Mark; he is wiry, with a red beard, red hair, and red eyes from a chronic lack of sleep.  He's in his thirties, but his two partners are young, not even twenty.  They have built a stage in the gymnasium at the college we're performing at tomorrow night.  It's a full stage, with a proscenium and a backdrop and lighting instruments hung up on an elaborate system of trusses.  Mark is passionate about his work, has been touring throughout the midwest for years.  He feels he has a calling: bringing traveling theatre to unorthodox spaces. It's the theatre that's important, not the space that it's performed in.

He listens to our stories, understanding everything, tells us a few of his own.  He lives in Des Moines, but his shop is in Dubuque.  After the show tomorrow night, they have to dismantle the whole stage, about eight hours of work if they hustle, then drive straight back to Des Moines in order to set something else up the next night.  We're amazed and impressed and oddly relieved: we thought we had it bad on four hours of sleep a night.  These crazy bastards do it on no sleep at all!  The six of us toast each other's blatant mental illness.

It's a night of commemoration.  Richard presents mementos of thanks to those people who've been in the company for over ten years.  He speaks about the very first night he started what was to become Opera A La Carte -- four people and a pianist, all of whom are still affiliated in one way or another, singing G&S medleys in a Santa Monica dinner club.  One night Groucho Marx (an avid Savoyard) got up and sang drunkenly on stage with them until they had to throw him off.  Later in the life of the company, when they first started traveling, the principals did all the loading and driving themselves.  Today they are the only touring G&S repertory company in the United States.  They are dedicated to keeping the traditions and spirit alive.  Richard expresses his gratitude to all of us, and we express ours back to him.  It is a night for assessment and reflection; a night where we're all in the same place, working together on the same production.  All grievances are forgotten, all annoyances smoothed over.  No matter what happened yesterday or what will happen tomorrow, we've all shared this moment and are touched by it in our own individual ways.

Why do we do it?

In Tacoma, right before show time after that horrible day, I managed to steal a few minutes to myself before the house opened. Edging out a backstage door, I went up to the front where the marquee had just been turned on in the gathering dusk.  People were walking up to the window, asking about the show and purchasing tickets.  They were dressed in their good clothes; the women’s hands tucked nicely inside their gentleman’s arms.  They smiled and talked, waiting with pleasant relaxation for the doors to open.  Inside, ushers were stacking up their programs, setting out the concession stand.  I hovered in the shadows, watching the drama unfold, then looked up at the marquee and wondered, truly, how it ever all gets done.

Theatre does have a magic.  Its spell is undeniable.  There is nothing quite as ancient and expectant as that first moment when the curtain rises.  A sparkling, hidden, mystic world is revealed, potent with possibility and structure and humor and passion.  Nor is there anything as deliciously satisfying as that same curtain coming down, completing the dramatic cycle with perfectly timed finality.  The house lights go up, as if by magic, and the real world is brought back, perceived by senses more finely attuned, newly awakened.

Maybe that is why we do it, after all.