We asked ourselves this all the time, Richard and I. On the phone, talking over circuitous routes and gasoline budgets and trying to put byzantine tours together. On the road, struggling over impossible distances and disastrous weather conditions and ridiculous theatre configurations and insufferable people.
Why do we do it? This crazy thing called theatre, made crazier because it came with fifty people and ancient set pieces and the increasing improbability of modern economics. Why do we beat ourselves over the head with obstacles and imminent disaster and come back for more, with a grin, next time the opportunity comes up?
For decades we asked ourselves this question. And the answer changed as we outdid each other. For a long time it was because we obviously had nothing better to do. Then it was because we were just plain stupid. Then for ages (and this was the closest we ever came to the truth), it was because we didn't know how to stop.
Well, yesterday, he figured out how to stop. And it's a heartbreaker on so many levels, most of which I will probably be uncovering for years to come. But I did get a precious hour to be with him, alone, shortly after he passed away. And as I sat there, I cried and talked to him, promising to take care of things, apologizing for all the places it got ugly, cracking a few G&S geek jokes ("you wont be there to see [your memorial], but it will be wonderful just the same"), telling him how much I cared, so much, for the company and for these 32 years of unparalleled story value, infinitely precious relationships, and an endless variety of soap opera and hijinks and drama. All of which were punctuated by the moments when we were one with an audience, feeling that unspeakably sweet rush of the first loud burst of laughter and spontaneous applause, and bringing them to their feet at the end of almost every show.
And as I sat there, I realized that it felt like I was backstage again, waiting with him in an unusually quiet dressing room. I commented to him that it was a pretty decent one, a star room, with lighting over the mirror and his very own bathroom and everything. I half expected to hear the overture coming over the monitor, and I wondered when he would get up and put on his makeup. I figured Mary would come bustling in momentarily with his costume, or that Alex would swing by in his tux to crack some jokes and make our ritual reference to the time he ended up lost on the way to the pit.
Sitting there with him was very quiet. Very peaceful. Finally, he could stop. After so many bus rides, so many hotel rooms, so many dressing rooms, here we were at the very last one. And we were not waiting for an exit, after all. We were waiting for an entrance. To another show. Another stage. Another audience.
Why do we do it? It came to me this afternoon. We do it because we love you, Richard. And this is the best way we know how to say it.
