Free Screen Play by Chris Coppernoll Page A

chair leg. “I need to get back to the theater. And, Harper, remember to come by the office. There’s some paperwork for you to fill out. We need to start getting you paid.”
    Ben crossed the dance studio quickly, parting the assembling clique of dance students waiting in the doorway, and disappeared down the stairwell to the street. I picked up a chair and carried it to the stack by the dancer’s bar, cleaning up the studio for the incoming class. A few minutes later, I, too, pushed open the steel door at street level and stepped onto West Forty-fourth Street. The city air was biting and cold, scented with diesel fuel. I didn’t care; I was feeling great about finally making a contribution to the show, however small.
    A block down West Forty-fourth Street, I noticed a truck unloading stage equipment in the covered alley beside the Carney. The door leading backstage was propped open, so I took the shortcut, striding down the tapered walkway and tugging open the faded red door someone had wedged open with a stopper.
    Despite the million-dollar renovations out front, backstage the historic Carney still looked like it belonged in a 1940s showbiz picture starring Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland. Ropes and rigging that moved staging panels were tied to a wooden railing. Apartment 19’s set pieces, made to look like Manhattan of the 1950s, rested on wheeled dollies so stagehands could quickly strike the stage. Above me, a metal-grated catwalk was just visible in the dimness and pixie dust.
    There was a public call-board mounted on the wall by the electrical circuit board, listing rehearsal instructions until opening night. Further down the half-lit hallway, I could see the office door was ajar. Pale light streamed out from the florescent overhead fixtures.
    “Can you make sure everyone gets into wardrobe and makeup as soon as they come in this morning?” I heard Ben ask as I approached.
    “I’ll get everyone in place, Ben.”
    Tabby appeared from the office door, nearly bumping into me. She gave me a quick look but said nothing, carrying out her mission to rustle up actors as they moseyed in on an early Saturday morning.
    I peeked around the door into the production office to find Ben searching for something on the large, cluttered desk.
    “I’m trying to find those papers for you,” he said, once he’d realized I’d wandered in and we were alone in the office.
    I leaned into the doorframe, giving him enough space inside the cramped back office that was half-consumed by the oversized desk. Ben continued rummaging. I didn’t react when he opened the bottom tub drawer to reveal a very large, mostly empty bottle of Scotch rolling around inside.
    “It’s going to be great,” I said.
    “What?” Ben asked.
    “The show,” I said. “It’s going to be amazing.”
    “We shall see.” Ben replied like his mind was somewhere else. “Ah, here it is.”
    He pulled out a simple manila folder from underneath an issue of Variety magazine, and when he held it up to his face I noticed that his hand was shaking. A sticky note the color of robin’s egg blue fluttered as he opened it.
    “Just fill out whatever’s in there and get it to Tabby, okay?”
    “Sure,” I said, taking the folder. I started to walk away, then paused. “Ben, do you remember when we used to do all this for free? All of us, working night and day, trying to get everything just right? We did it for the love of theater, and that’s exactly why an audience will show up here tomorrow night. They won’t know what it all could have been. They’ll just appreciate the special gift you’ve given to them.”
    Ben stopped shuffling papers and looked up at me.
    “But I’ll know, Harper. The most chilling words in all the human vocabulary are could have been.” Ben straightened his back, no longer hunched over the desk. “And if we got it wrong, Harper, what was the cost back then? A bad grade? A snarky review in the student newspaper? We never gambled with