Sun shining in the alleys behind the Odeon, stumble through the
stage door, shower, float to catering, newsprint scattered over
tables, catch up with the crew, the drivers, runners, riggers,
heads down, humming, the serious business of fry-ups, spill tea
on the the sports page, ketchup, hot ginger, toast & blueberry
juice, sit out on the fire escape in the sun & breath. They’re
flying tones of boxes in the house, rigging lights & running cables.
The tattooed arms of the house crew move in clockwork motion,
dressed in black & heavy boots, wool pulled down around their ears.
“Alright Karl?”, they nod in passing, carrying heavy truss like
children’s toys. The backbone of the show, disappeared long before
doors, returned after everyone’s left, to break down, load the trucks
& slip into the night, unsung.