Interest

Interest

We mulled about, solem in the dressing room. We were a mix of addicts, cons and deadbeats, and I didn;t know it then, but the best theater company I have ever worked with. The police man confided in me that the gun he was using as a prop was real. I was going to tell him Checov's axiom on play writing, but I thought that dangerous. So I'll tell you now; a gun on the wall in the first act must go off by the fourth.
Time was running short and spraying the homeless cat with colorful hairspray had lost it's apeal. It roamed our leggs, trying to rub off it's fleas, which we interperated as affection.
"FIve minutes," the stage manager said, then put her purse on a make-up table. It's contents came vomiting out onto the floor, including a bottle full of white pills, which scatered. "Shit, my vicodin."
"I'll help you!"
We started the show slow, but soon found a comfortable pace. The cop got the audience laughing, aiming at everyhting that moved. I remembered lines I had forgotten since the second week of rehearsal. The show came to a satisfying end in three acts and we all went and got drunk.