Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep - Opening Night

Episode Date: February 28, 2022

So get cozy and ready to sleep.Our story tonight is called Opening Night and it’s a story about the moments before the curtain rises. It’s also about flowers in the green room, the electric feeling of stepping out from the wings, and an armful of programs waiting to be passed out.Order the book now!Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-HappensSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Welcome to Bedtime Stories for Grownups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Katherine Nicolai. Every story you hear on Nothing Much Happens is written and read by me, with audio engineering by Bob Wittersheim. If you'd prefer to hear our stories without any ads, it's simple and quite affordable. For about a dime a day, you'll get the whole catalog of episodes, 100% ad-free, plus a bonus story every month. In fact, we have our next bonus story coming out in just a few hours. It's called The Sledding Hill, and it's a story playing in fresh snow. Sign up at nothingmuchappens.com. Now, I have a story to tell you.

It's a soft place to rest your mind. And I think it works best if you imagine yourself in it. So as you listen and follow along with the sound of my voice, pull the details of it around you like a blanket. And before you know it, you'll be in deep, restorative sleep. I'll tell the story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through. If you wake in the middle of the night, you could listen again, or just pull those details back into your mind. Think through any part of the story that you can remember, And you'll drop right back off. Okay.

It's time. Turn off your light. Set everything down. Get as comfortable as you can. You have done enough for today. Truly, it is enough. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth. Again, slow in, and with sound out.

Good. Our story tonight is called Opening Night, and it's a story about the moments before the curtain rises. It's also about flowers in the green room, the electric feeling of stepping out from the wings, and an armful of programs waiting to be passed out. Opening Night We had a few hours yet, opening night. We had a few hours yet, and most everything was done.

The costumes were hanging in the dressing rooms, the lights were set, and hopefully the cast was ready. I carried an armful of programs to a table at the back of the auditorium and had a seat. The programs needed to be folded. Each was just a few sheets. We weren't on Broadway here, just a small playhouse, a community theater, that did four or five shows a year. I laid the stack of papers out in front of me and started to put them together, lining up the sheets and clapping the edges of the pages against the table to even them out, then finding the middle seam and creasing it tightly with my thumbnail and tucking the finished version in a box

for our ushers to reach into later tonight. I liked having the empty theater to myself. I wasn't going to be treading the boards tonight. I was just helping wherever I was needed. A sort of gopher for the stage manager or the director, and any cast member who suddenly couldn't find their props or lost a shoe. Still, the space had a kind of magic to it. The empty seats looked expectant in the low light, and I thought about the very first time I saw a play. My mother had taken me,

and I might have been in second or third grade. I know the play well now. In fact, I've been in it twice since. But most of it had gone over my head that first night. The thing that had certainly registered was the electric feeling of watching live theater. I just couldn't believe how it felt, how it looked, how different it was from a movie or show on TV. I remembered being mesmerized by being able to see the lead actress blink and breathe. I was close enough to hear every step and sound the cast made. I carried the box of ready programs over to a tiny alcove beside the door and set them in there, ready for showtime,

then walked through the aisles of seats to the third or fourth row and scooted along to the middle seat. I pressed the seat down behind me and sat. This might be the very spot I'd sat in for that first show. I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was high and dark, and I could just make out some of the light fixtures that, in a couple of hours, would flood the stage

and make the people sitting in these seats forget for a while about anything besides what they saw before them. I pushed up from the chair and headed down the row to the aisle. I walked to the back of the house, glancing through the rows as I went, to see that all was clean and ready for our audience. And it was. I checked my watch. The cast would be here in a bit to start warming up and getting into costume. And I took a side door into the green room to see that it was ready. We always laid out a table of snacks and drinks, along with a bouquet of flowers for the cast and crew on opening night. And I fussed with the roses for a few moments,

so that they showed well in their vase. I took a stack of napkins from a drawer and laid it out next to the crackers and nuts. The green room has a different energy from the house and certainly from the stage. It feels anticipatory excited but muted I kept up my tour

and next went to check the dressing rooms I flicked on the switch by the door and the big bulbs ringing each mirror lit up. The counters were clear and clean, and I set out a couple boxes of tissues here and there. I twisted the knob on the speaker above the door that let actors hear what was happening on stage so they wouldn't miss their cues and could make out a few voices and pacing feet. That must be the stage manager

and crew getting things ready. Down the hall, I pushed through the heavy stage door and stepped into the wings and backstage space. It was dark. Tall, thick curtains at the edges of stage right and left kept it that way.

I walked past the light booth and exchanged a wave with the technician inside. Over the prop table, I clicked on a lamp clamped to the wall. It was fitted with a blue light bulb that would give our actors enough illumination to pick up what they needed, but wouldn't be visible to the audience. We'd covered the table with a piece of white butcher's paper and outlined each prop in marker,

with its description written alongside. That way, when we checked the table, as I did now, we could see right away that everything was accounted for. There was the locket for the last scene of Act One, the newspaper that would get carried out at the top of Act Two, the handkerchief that would be dropped and picked up and lead to the reveal near the end of the show. I could hear the cast coming in through the hall, dropping off their bags and chatting in the green room.

I snuck closer to the edge of the stage and peered out across it and into the audience. There was so much residual, excited energy stored up in these old wood floors that just standing there made me shiver with the thrill of being about to make an entrance. I took a breath, as if I were really preparing for such a thing. Then stepped out and crossed to center stage. There are things that might stir us up so much. Push us past what we thought we were capable of and even frighten us a bit

but also make us feel so vibrantly connected to each coming moment that we know we'll do them again and again to each coming moment, that we know we'll do them again and again. Standing on stage reminded me that I'd keep doing this. The ushers were gathering, and soon we'd be opening the house and welcoming our audience.

I crossed over to the other side of the stage as the proscenium curtain came down behind me, clicked on a few more blue lights, and stepped into the back hall. Actors were shedding coats in the dressing rooms, and suddenly the mostly empty theater felt full and bustling. Coming the other way, I spotted the stage manager with her clipboard. She looked at her watch and called out,

places in 30. Everyone around her responded in a chorus, as we'd been trained to do since our very first shows. Thank you, 30, we sang back. I smiled as I made my way back through the green room toward the house. That call and response had always felt like a particularly well-devised form of communication. Some information is given,

and then you respond politely and show that you understood by repeating the most important aspect of it. I tried to make a habit of it when some message came my way. To say thank you and acknowledge the vital missive. Now, here, being part of something I loved, I pushed through the doors and signaled to the ushers to open the house. I thought, thank you, opening night. Opening night. We had a few hours yet, and and most everything was done. The costumes were hanging in the dressing rooms.

The lights were set, and hopefully the cast was ready. I carried an armful of programs to a table at the back of the auditorium and had a seat. The programs needed to be folded. Each was just a few sheets. We weren't on Broadway here, just a small playhouse, a community theater that did four or five shows a year.

I laid the stack of papers out in front of me and started to put them together, lining up the sheets and clapping the edges of the pages against the table to even them out, then finding the middle seam and creasing it tightly with my thumbnail, and tucking the finished version in a box for our ushers to reach into later tonight. I liked having the empty theater to myself. I wasn't going to be treading the boards tonight. I was just helping wherever I was needed.

A sort of gopher for the stage manager and the director and any cast member who suddenly couldn't find their props or lost a shoe. Still, the space had a kind of magic to it. The empty seats looked expectant in the low light. And I thought about the very first time I saw a play. My mother had taken me, and I might have been in second or third grade. I know the play well now. In fact, I've been in it twice since, but most of it had gone over my head that first night. The thing that had certainly registered was the electric feeling of watching live theater.

I just couldn't believe how it felt, how it looked, how different it was from a movie or show on TV. I remembered being mesmerized by being able to see the lead actress blink and breathe. I was close enough to hear every step and sound the cast made. I carried the box of ready programs over to a tiny alcove beside the door and set them in there ready for showtime.

Then walked through the aisles of seats to the third or fourth row and scooted along to the middle seat. I pressed the seat down behind me and sat. This might be the very spot I'd sat in for that first show. I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was high and dark, and I could just make out some of the light fixtures that, in a couple of hours, would flood the stage and make the people sitting in these seats forget for a while about anything besides what they saw before them.

I pushed up from the chair and headed down the row to the aisle. I walked to the back of the house, glancing through the rows as I went, to see that all was clean and ready for our audience. And it was. I checked my watch. The cast would be here in a bit to start warming up and getting into costume. And I took a side door into the green room to see that it was ready. We always laid out a table of snacks and drinks, along with a bouquet of flowers for the cast and crew on opening night, and I fussed with the roses for a few moments so that they showed well in their vase. I took a stack of napkins from a drawer

and laid it out next to the crackers and nuts. The green room has a different energy from the house, and certainly from the stage. It feels anticipatory back here, excited but muted. I kept up my tour and next went to check the dressing rooms. I flicked on the switch by the door, and the big bulbs ringing each mirror lit up. The counters were clear and clean, and I set out a couple of boxes of tissues here and there. I twisted the knob for the speaker above the door that let actors hear what was happening on stage

so they wouldn't miss their cues. And I could make out a few voices and pacing feet. That must be the stage manager and crew getting things ready. Down the hall, I pushed through the heavy stage door and stepped into the wings and backstage space. It was dark. Tall, thick curtains at the edges of stage right and left kept it that way. I walked past the light booth and exchanged a wave with the technician inside.

Over the prop table, I clicked on a lamp clamped to the wall. It was fitted with a blue light bulb that would give our actors enough illumination to pick up what they needed but wouldn't be visible to the audience. We'd covered the table with a piece of white butcher's paper and outlined each prop in marker, with its description written alongside. That way, when we checked the table, as I did now, we could see right away

that everything was accounted for. There was the locket for the last scene in Act One. The newspaper that would get carried out at the top of Act Two. The handkerchief that would be dropped and picked up and lead to the reveal near the end of the show. I could hear the cast coming in through the hall, dropping off their bags and chatting in the green room. I snuck closer to the edge of the stage and peered out across it and into the audience.

There was so much residual, excited energy stored up in these old wood floors. That just standing there made me shiver with the thrill of being about to make an entrance. I took a breath. As if I were really preparing for such a thing. Then stepped out and crossed to center stage. There are things that might stir us up so much, push us past what we thought we were capable of, and even frighten us a bit.

But also make us feel so vibrantly connected to each coming moment that we know we'll do them again and again. And standing on stage reminded me that I'd keep doing this. the ushers were gathering, and soon we'd be opening the house and welcoming our audience. I crossed over to the other side of the stage as the proscenium curtain came down behind me, clicked on a few more blue lights, and stepped into the back hall. actors were shedding coats in the dressing rooms, and suddenly the mostly empty theater felt full and bustling.

Coming the other way, I spotted the stage manager with her clipboard. She looked at her watch and called out, Places in 30. Everyone around her responded in a chorus, as we'd been trained to do since our very first shows. Thank you, 30, we sang back. I smiled as I made my way back through the green room

toward the house. That call and response had always felt like a particularly well-devised form of communication. Some information is given, and then you respond politely and show that you understood by repeating the most important aspect of it.

I tried to make a habit of it when some message came my way. To say thank you and acknowledge the vital missive. Now, here, being part of something I loved, as I pushed through the doors and signaled to the ushers to open the house. I thought, thank you, opening night. Sweet dreams.