They had done a lovely job with it. The performances were clear, the story was there -- one of the greatest gifts I think you can receive, in a first production of your work, is a clear sense of what's working with your script and what's not. Their production showed me what it was that I'd made, and the work I still had to do. I took lots of notes. I enjoyed the performances. The audience seemed to, too.
Then, ten minutes before the end of the show, the director came onstage. She said:
"I'm sorry, folks, but we've had an emergency and we need to end the show now."
She turned to the lead actress, and told her she needed to leave. She told the audience the company would be happy to offer refunds.
The lights came up.
We all looked at each other.
Someone called out that the playwright was there and could tell everyone how the play ended. I stumbled to the stage and did my best to recount the final moments of the play -- the crucial moments, the moments that really make everything else make sense. Really all I can remember is looking toward the wings and seeing the cast huddled together, their faces as stricken as I'm sure mine was.
The audience wanted to know what happened in the play, but even more, they wanted to know what had happened to stop the play.
The lead actor's husband had almost died. He's fine now, but he almost died, and it was way, WAY more important that she get to the hospital immediately.
It was one of the most memorable nights I've ever had at the theater, certainly at a play of mine, and I hope I never experience anything like it ever again.
Sometimes you will go to see your play and something extraordinary will happen.
Sometimes that extraordinary thing is not your play.
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