Five forty foot trucks. Fifty stagehands sweating and straining carrying two hundred pound decks up hill. One after the other delivered into teamster’s hands that speak roughly, sporting prison tattoos. Inside the theater three-story high grid, with men pulling lines, ropes worn with age, filled with hemp splinters–which are too small to see until they infect the hands then squirt out pus and blood a week latter. Electricians climbing high, hanging from harnesses, lowering lights and cable from electric bridges.
Below the stage… basement and plenum constitute a maze of corridors, a labyrinth of wardrobe crates and props being pushed and pulled to stage level to be raised up the ramp onto the streets and then loaded onto trucks.
On the floors rest garbage and debris, ready to be swept up, a constant vigil to prevent tripping and broken casters. The noise; the den of fifty people pushing and pulling at break neck speed. Groans and grunts, bosses barking orders, the laughter of men cheering themselves with humor… and… the occasional scream as one goes down wounded or injured. Like a scene from Dante’s Inferno the stagehands move in a constant circle, up the ramp… then… back down for another load. Each man, his own Sisyphus endlessly leaning on the hope for the end of the Drag Out!