My second summer stock was at a little theatre in the middle of Illinois. It was a great little space with a revolve onstage, an outdoor rehearsal space, and lots of fun to be had.
So much fun that it was stated in our first company meeting that the artistic director would not pick you up from jail… Umm, what?
I mean, I get your boss telling you he won’t pick you up from jail, but my little twenty-year-old brain screamed, Why do adults need to be told this?! I was naïve enough to think that perhaps once many moons ago, back when our artistic director had been a hippy, he had worked for a theatre and they had been smoking pot and talking about love when some of the actors had been arrested for free love.
I was wrong. It was actually a current issue that needed to be addressed. I was only at that theatre for a short time that summer since I had to get to another gig, but my husband was there for the whole summer. Low and behold, two cast members were by the road, smoking pot, and got picked up by the cops. They tried to call the artistic director to come and pick them up, and he said no. It was late, and he wasn’t driving to town to get them.
Well played, Mr. Director. Well played.