Story 124: Professional Applauser

            I arrive with most of the audience: definitely not early and not too late, but late enough so I don’t have to wait forever in the seat for the opera to start (we all hate that). The theater is its usual grand self and I would appreciate the décor more if it wasn’t the 1,067^th time that I’d seen it.  As always, the regular grind ruins all magic.

            A few of my colleagues are sprinkled strategically throughout the theater – we’re not allowed to officially know each other as to keep our secret identities intact, but I can’t help it when I regularly spot the same apathetic faces that almost certainly match my own, in disproportion to the pre-show excitement in the air.

            I unobtrusively check my notes tucked into the show’s program: even though they’re unaltered throughout the show’s run, I never take anything for granted (that way lies sloth and unemployment).  Let’s see, four acts, one intermission where the cast, crew, and I take a break, and done in less than four hours.  Each act has five major songs, and I know the key words by heart (I usually listen for “O,” “amore,” “Dio,” “cuore,” “bellissima,” “amico,” and all forms of “morire” to guide me).  The initial tune-up five minutes after the listed showtime is my signal, and I wait until I see the top of the conductor’s/maestro’s head as he (almost always a “he” at these things) emerges into the pit before I begin clapping madly at his entrance.  He hasn’t done anything yet, the members of the orchestra invariably hate him, and he always is acknowledged over the opera’s director, but he gets to bow before the show even starts.  Whatever – I don’t make the rules, I just get paid to follow them. 

The opening song most times is setting the scene or just flat-out exposition, boring as anything, but the lead singer on those is a step below the principals so he or she has to have their due.  I watch the maestro mainly for that final lowering of the arms to end the song, wait ¼ beat, then go to work: clapping madly to signal to the audience that the song is over and that they can and should reward the singer with appreciative noise (the orchestra can take a flying leap until the final bows, as far as the audience is concerned – this is the singers’ show now).  A good seven to 10 seconds are enough for the secondary singer and ensemble; 20+ seconds are required for the principals.  My stopwatch comes in handy many a time for these.

Once the lead soprano/mezzo/alto/tenor/baritone/bass make their entrances, that is when I really get to work.  Their performance quality varies from show to show, so it’s hard to tell ahead of time whether the Act II aria should have the same length of applause consistently or whether the second love duet in Act IV trumped it this day.  The lead soprano’s not been on her game lately either, which makes it trickier: there’ll be applause out of politeness after her mad aria, but should I throw in a “Brava!” even though she was a bit off-key, a bit off-tempo, and a bit off-putting?  My instincts say “Yes” and I “Brava!” away, seconded by some guy five rows behind me.  I know once the show’s run is over, though, that she is totally going to be fired.

After the grand finale and the stage lights come back on, I stand and clap as if I am trying to break my hands for at least the next five minutes, with a few classy whistles thrown in the mix for the well-received singers at that performance.  The applause intensity increases for the principals and then for the conductor, whom the orchestra members subtly snub as he gestures to them to receive their long-overdue recognition.

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, curtain falls, and I’m out.  Off to the gym to keep my triceps, biceps, and deltoids toned, followed by an ice-down of my hands.  The opera company pays for my membership so it’s worth giving it my all, I figure.

If I ever again attend a live theater event that I’m not being paid for, I’d appreciate it if someone would let me know when to clap.  The cues for the ­­­audience sometimes are unclear.

Story 123: Office Supply Thief

            Darn it, I’m out of staples again.  How am I supposed to keep the reams of my very important personal papers together if the company doesn’t chip in for the cause?  Speaking of reams, I need another one of those, too – at least there’ll be a delivery of paper this afternoon, especially since I’m the one who placed the order.

            I can’t believe the company I work for makes so much money yet is so cheap that it can’t pay me a decent home office supply wage.  I figure at the very least it owes me some paper clips.  And correction tape.  And regular tape.  And all the binder clips.

            They raised the cafeteria prices again?!  What for, the food’s still gross.  I think they want me to starve when I stay overtime even though I don’t have to.  This calls for some extra spoons and ketchup packets for the old apartment kitchen, I think.

            Ah, that lady in Cubicle #38 left that really good brand of scissors on her desk, unattended, yet again.  When will she ever learn?  Hopefully never.

            Another budget meeting.  Did they leave out those laser gadgets again for us to use “just for the meeting”?  Yes they did!  My nieces love these things.  I tell them that they’re gifts from vendors wanting our business, so the devices won’t be infected with any potential feelings of guilt.  Not that I ever have any of those, but they’re sensitive little girls.

            Shift change: time for pen rounds.  Some desks have really nice ones – you know, the ones that it seems a shame to throw them away after they run out of ink `cause they’re so elegant or pretty, but really, what is a pen without ink?  Worse than useless.  Those are the ones that I crave, and Cubicle #57 has them aplenty.  This time, though, there’s a note on the pen holder: “Dear Pen Stealer: Would you like more variety?  Different colors?  Please, let me know how I can brighten your day.”  Well, that was thoughtful; I take the biggest pen and write back in disguised script: “Yes, please – some fluorescent greens would be great.  Thanks a bunch!! ♥ ♥”  People like it when you take a moment to show sincere gratitude.

            Let’s see, end of the work day, my hand truck is nearly full – I’d say I got a lot accomplished today.  I wheel away my new possessions, dumping my computer keyboard on top of the pile (the one I have at home has a stuck letter “E,” so forget typing anything ever again on that), and whistle all the way to the elevators.  As Security meets me there and escorts me to H.R., I lovingly slide the special pen up my sleeve for safekeeping.  The rest of my stash can be returned to their rightful owners or thrown out or whatever, but only I can possess that pen.  The company owes me that much.

Story 122: Wandered Into a Horror Movie

            Oblivia decided that a walk in the woods was in order that day, mainly because she had nothing else to do and the woods were just standing there, waiting to be walked in.  The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the insects were biting, and all was right with the world.

            As she came upon a quaint little footbridge that practically screamed “Kitsch!”, someone else literally screamed at the far side of the crossing.  Oblivia noticed that a river troll was trying to drag a jogger by the foot into his under-the-bridge lair, and was not being too gentle about the whole thing.

            “None of that!” Oblivia chided in her disciplining-children voice as she walked over the bridge and stomped on the troll’s fingers.  “Hands to yourself, if you please.”  The troll gave a yelp and slithered back to his den of iniquity.

            “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!”  The jogger shook Oblivia’s hand vigorously.  “I thought I was a goner!”

            “Yes, perhaps a warning sign should be installed – I’ll be sure to speak to the ranger office before I leave.  Enjoy the rest of your run!”  And Oblivia continued on her way: she had five miles to cover on this blue square trail and she had lost time already.

            Around mile 3.3, all sounds of Nature ceased abruptly as she entered a tranquil field.  The sun was covered suddenly by cumulonimbus clouds and a mysterious fog rolled in from out of who-knows-where.

            “Interesting,” Oblivia observed as she continued her brisk pace past a random ancient burial plot.  The chill increased to the point where she had to pull her hoodie over her head; she wished she retroactively had thought to bring a heavier jacket, but that may have made her uncomfortably warm and sweaty later.  Dressing for spontaneous walks in the park is not to be done carelessly, she thought as ghost hands reached out to her.

            “Oh my – coming up on your left!”  She remembered to call out at the last moment.  In all her musings on trail-walking attire, she had almost neglected trail-walking etiquette.  That would be forgivable in an amateur, but not in a seasoned pro such as herself.

            “I’m coming for youuuuuu….” The ghost moaned after her.

            “Oh, that’s all right, I’m headed in the opposite direction – thanks!”  She had not quite heard what the figure had said over her own thoughts, but ending with a “thanks” usually settled things for good.

            Approaching mile 5, she saw at the top of a hill a bunch of teenagers running haphazardly in all directions.  Does the high school cross country team have a meet today?  She wondered this before noticing that the kids were not in the best of shape, nor were they wearing anything that resembled any kind of uniform.

            She then saw that they were followed by an immense figure dressed as a clown, who was giggling and honking a horn as he ran after first one teen, then another.  A unique way to motivate them to exercise, she thought.  “Go get `em!”  She cheered and clapped her encouragement at them.

            The clown stopped short when he heard her, then turned and ran back into the woods.  Oblivia ran after him: “Wait, Coach, you’re the last hope these kids have!”  But he was gone.

            Seeing as the teens were all gone, too, Oblivia decided to finish her walk since she was nearly at the end of the trail and the sun was almost set.  Reaching the parking lot just after the moon had risen, she enjoyed the ambient sounds of wolf howls, mountain lion roars, chainsaws, and panicked human yells.  “Ah, Nature,” she reflected.  How relaxing.

            However, she almost had a heart attack when she got into her car and saw that the gas tank was almost empty: “Aiiiiiii!!!!”