Crash - Eighteen Months Ago
I stood in the deep black of the wings backstage, hidden from the crowd who were chanting Crash! Happy! Crash! Happy! I felt like I was going to throw up. As soon as I'd come off stage I'd told Mark, the stage manager, that I wasn't going back on. To turn the lights up. There'd be no encore.
Before I knew it, I was surrounded. Rod was there, trying to be sympathetic. Mark was barking at me to get my ass back out there. The sound guy was asking whether to take my mic off, or not. In the middle of the chaos, one of the Production Assistants handed me a towel to dry my face, and then swapped it for a water bottle, her face completely blank. She knew it wasn't in her pay grade to persuade the talent to do anything. They all surrounded me, their edges glowing blue from the special bulbs they used backstage so you wouldn't run into the walls, but the audience also wouldn't be able to see the light.
