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It was in the fifteen minute break after the first show—there would be four that night—that talk began of a walkout. Each show lasted for an hour and a half and included several costume changes and scenery arrangements. The pay was decent for a small town theater production, but in their contracts were severe penalties for mistakes. A forgotten line would cost one hundred dollars. A mistimed spotlight, by as little as a second, would be seventy-five. The money from the penalties went straight to the producer—a plump young woman who sat in the back row, carefully following along in her binder, making notes when things went wrong. For much of the show her eyes were buried in her binder, but she never missed a single detail. The fines appeared as deductions on the weekly paychecks.
The walkout idea started within the lighting crew. It arose first as a question, harmless and naïve, but quickly became a battle cry. Word was sent down to the concessions staff, who quickly passed it on to the ushers and ticket takers. It was not until intermission in the second show that an usher, determined but timid, sidled up to a member of the stage crew and whispered in her ear, “Tonight we walk.” The stage crew, a group of cowardly old men, ironically union members, acted ambivalent to the idea. Luckily a member of the makeup team overheard, rising to the occasion to whip them into shape. The leader of the stage crew was shoved against a brick wall, nearly choked, until he agreed. The actors, several of whom were quietly pregnant, went along reluctantly. An agreement was reached to walk out during the third show.
It was a scene in which a father and son were to be discussing the merits of a planned marriage. The actor playing the father, rather than raise his hand to discipline his son, reached for his own face and tore off his fake beard. He turned to the audience, and in an impassioned voice proclaimed:
“We will not be treated like this! Walk out!”
The lighting crew, in a final act of bravado, blinked the house lights on and off, spelling out in Morse code: “W-A-L-K-O-U-T”. Only a few members of the audience were astute enough to recognize Morse code, but seeing the actors walk off stage, and the stage backdrops dramatically fall backward, everyone got the idea. They rose and filed out into the lobby, forming a line at the box office to ask for refunds.
The producer, cool and unshaken, walked to her car and made a phone call. I picked up on the first ring. She asked me for a favor, and I agreed to it. The strike will be broken, even if something has to burn.
