A Payson Develops a Sense of Loss

The show is finally over. Guys and Dolls is kaput. All the free time on my hands may send me into shock. I played the guitar for the first time in two months today. Of course, I could only play for about two minutes, cause my calluses had disappeared and my fingers were tired and it just plain hurt. I also played piano for about an hour, but not Guys and Dolls stuff. Just Debussey sight-reading. It was glorious.

The final show went fabulously. The only snag was that one of the sax's light went out, but it was between numbers, and I passed him a bulb to replace it, because the bulbs are under the grand, but the fixture was too hot, so I just passed him an entirely new light set-up, and he managed to get the whole thing up and running by the time Havana started. Which is good, because the band teacher plays cowbells instead of her sax during that song, so he's doing double duty. He actually used to play maracas, but the band teacher took them away because she thought he was being overenthusiastic. This is coming from the woman who badly bangs the cowbells for the entire song while her facial expression resembles that of a child who has just discovered Christmas. Or Hanukka, if you want to roll that way.

When we got to the pit party, and it was just the two random saxes and Joanne and Cammie and I, we overcame the general awkwardness by dissolving into hysterics over the cowbells. When Ida showed up to the party at her house, she was incredibly confused by how much we were laughing.

We spent a good amount of time gossiping. (Why is Harry so grumpy? Nobody knows, but Morgan thinks his looks would be much improved if we attacked his hair with a weed-wacker. Why the hell is Emily still all over Spencer? He's out and proud, but they still hook up, even though she has a boyfriend. What fabulous flutist has a bit of a thing for a different fabulous flutist? The world may never know.) Anita and Richard tickled each other extensively. Cammie and I interrupted each other constantly. I begin to understand why Vicky thinks she talks a lot.

Also, there are photocopies of Eccentrius's face on the floor of the band room. I, for one, am simply thankful that he didn't go the traditional route and photocopy his ass. Or arse, as Joanne and her mum would say.

A final conversation with Harry:

Tea: I put your music with your bag.

Harry: Huh?

Tea: You left it in the pit.

Harry: Yeah

Tea: By the way good job on the second act

Harry: Yeah