Balls
After a surprisingly short rehearsal this evening, I headed down the the Opera House’s cafeteria, where our production’s designer and his assistant were sitting, nursing two small beers.
My night’s plans were still a good three hours away from starting, so I decided to sit down and get to know these two enigmatic gents.
After an hour or so of pleasant, tactful conversation, I decided to grab us another round. After doing so, I sat back down and continued to discuss the designer’s shared loft in Williamsburg in the late nineties.
I shifted in my seat. A glass bottle of carbonated water placed next to the chair toppled and subsequently exploded, spraying glass over several square meters.
I jumped up to grab some napkins, knocking our table and toppling my wine glass onto the floor. (It broke in much the same way as the bottle).
In trying to prevent the slick from dripping onto my laptop nearby, I managed to topple both beer glasses of my newfound mindmates, shooting shattered glass and alcohol all over the floor, passerby, etc.
Whilst dabbing at the inseam of the assistant designer with my scarf (which will now forever smell of Pilsner), another glass water bottle rolled off the table. And so on.
There I was, in the middle of the stunned cafeteria–musicians, singers, etc., staging a one-man Zorba the Greek…shrieking “balls!” as each new object fell and shattered…gesticulating wildly for mops, brooms, sponges, help, anything.
Eventually a small army of kitchen staff approached with tight smiles and towels. I bought everyone new drinks before slinking out of the cafeteria in shame.
Before I escaped, the assistant designer whispered a question:
“What does broken glass have to do with balls?”
Oh, dear readers…at that point…would that I could have shown him.
Nighty night.
