The Standby
Once upon a midnight dreary, while rehearsing, weak and weary
With a quaint and curious show book - at which I often swore -
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my office door.
“‘Tis Security,” I muttered, “tapping the control room door -
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, it comes back to me clearer, it was in the bleak, grey Fira
And each point left by the mark out wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From one single line of budget, funds for sandwiches and tea.
For a little pot of petty cash vainly I had made a plea;
For some teabags, two or three.
Back to the crew on standby turning, all my soul within me burning
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is Colin, tapping on the handheld
Derrick testing out the sound gear to be certain, to be sure
That when we start rehearsing, the pitch and tone are pure.
Merely this and nothing more.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each black serge curtain
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before.
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“Tis some rigger now entreating entrance at my AV door.
Some hairy, scary, royal rigger, looking like the mighty Thor.
Only AJ, no one more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, there’s a sign upon the door.
And the fact is, we’re rehearsing, and the crew are now all cursing
‘Cos your tapping stopped the timecode, but we hadn’t reached cue four.
Come on in and let me fire you” - here I opened wide the door.
Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
That the power had gone off and all our programming was lost.
But the bare stage and the backdrop told me it was just the board op
Boozing, snoozing and then losing his place within the script.
It was Tibs, or was it Sneezy; leaning back, taking it easy
Finger poised for walk-in, but the doors were firmly closed.
And I whispered now the dreaded phrase -
The dreaded phrase: “No show”.
With these words the black tabs lifted, ghost light glowed and shadows shifted
And before me stood the chorus, comrades all from days of yore.
Ever downstage they came filing, all in show blacks, never smiling
Those whose words and deeds and laughs and songs
Have taught us all we know.
Not a “Standing by” they uttered, never murmured, never muttered.
They expected us to wing it
As they took their last encore.
All these voices now are silent, but I felt e’en so their violent
Distress at how we treat the stage and those who labour there.
“Where’s our business? Have you lost it?
All those pitches? Graphics? Budgets?”
We just wait here now on standby as we watch the world forget.
Stranded on the cans in walk-in, waiting, wond’ring, just not working
In the dreadful, ghastly silence ‘twixt the standby and the go.
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And the driver, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the branded forty-footer just outside the loading door.
And the crew are all just waiting, the fever fear abating
And the lamplight o’er them streaming throws their shadows on the screen.
And my soul from out that shadow climbs: I want to do a show.
We all want to open truck doors.
We’re just waiting for the go!
Simon Prior 2020
With all due thanks to Edgar Allen Poe
