I don’t know how to find my seat. Am I to stand quietly at the back? Perhaps they want me to make my own—why else these piles of wood and nails and plush burgundy upholstery?
The ushers are blond and male, their harsh accents familiar from old movies. I turn around and note the locations of glowing EXIT signs. It’s not too late to leave, to fight through the incoming crowd to one of the EXITS. But where could I go?
An usher is leading me to the stage. Crowds surge in the doors and down the aisles. There has been no rehearsal, I’m not ready, I don’t know who I’m supposed to be. No matter, says the usher as the house lights dim. It’s only entertainment. He puts his hand on the small of my back: Come see me after the show.