Sidelined

I'm standing in the wings looking at the lighting rig, the wires, the ropes, the cables; I'm counting the number of chairs stacked in the corner, losing track and starting again; I'm sitting on a metal stool, standing up, counting down, biding time. The comedian on stage is dying, dying slowly, horribly, dying; but still he plows on, drowning through his 15 minutes of lame. I stretch, breathe deeply, and try to stop shaking. I recite my opening lines to myself a couple more times, and bounce up and down. I am ready, no I'm not, yes I am, no I'm really not- why the hell do I do this? The comedian is losing limbs out there. Get off my stage, I think, introduce me and get the hell off my stage. I will save you, I will save this, this is my stage, I own it, I shall take it by force and own it. The crowd, a mixture of youthful yobs and theatrical snobs are baying for blood now, yet I have no fear of them, they are cotton wool to me. Stop shaking. I look at the lights again, I am addicted to their warmth, they nourish me more than sunlight and wash me clean. When I am under them I become, there is nowhere I want to be but standing in front of these strange strangers, a monkey dancing. I feel home, after the spotlight all else is shadows, music at half volume in a clattering, chattering tube carriage. This freedom lasts a heartbeat; off-stage is all a mass of sweating nerves and bad stomachs; after the lights I can barely remember what happened. Is it worth it? Am I worth it? Probably not, but it beats a proper job.