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I give him a hug and relish the casual affection of being with someone who’s known you for a long time.
One of the most startling things about being in college was arriving and realizing no one here knew me. I could tell everyone here my name was Steve and they wouldn’t know any different. These people will never know the high school, middle school, or elementary school-aged versions of myself. And if anyone here stays my friend for life—Seth, maybe? Jade?—they will only ever know me from this point in my life forward. Something about that has always felt so lonely to me. How will people know the whole me if they’re only meeting college me? I shake the thoughts from my head. Robert has known me since middle school, and the comfort of seeing an old friend outweighs the mini existential crisis I have when I think too hard about this stuff.
“Good to see you, Robert. Did you say hi to John yet?”
John and Robert were theater majors together in college. There really is nothing like the friendships forged in the catwalks of the light grid or the heat of the scene shop.
“Oh yeah, we got breakfast at Grandma’s this morning.”
Grandma’s is a diner just fifteen minutes from campus. It’s almost always packed full of college students, unless you go before eight in the morning, which I’m guessing is what they did. It’s the perfect place for breakfast—greasy comfort food, waiters who don’t look you in the eye, and coffee so pungent it might actually be jet fuel. There’s gotta be a tradition in there for Robert and John, because Grandma’s is best consumed hungover, not sober at 8 a.m. on a Friday morning.
“Should we take a stroll before lunch?” Robert asks.
I nod and follow him outside.
Robert likes to walk and talk—he’s not a “sit still” kind of guy. The halls within Red Barn Playhouse are worn thin from his pacing.
It’s a perfect fall day in Pennsylvania, just enough of a chill to wear a light jacket but not too cold that our walk is unbearable. It’s days like today that make me regret choosing a major that keeps me inside all the time.
“John tells me you’re one of his best students,” Robert says, arms clasped behind his back as we begin our walk.
“John says that about everyone.”
“I’ve known John a long time, and he will sing anyone’s praises, that’s true. But he reserves superlatives for those who deserve it.”
My cheeks burn at the compliment. They must have talked about me over breakfast, and the thought of it makes me feel a little warm. My armpits start to sweat more than the weather warrants.
“So you’re interested in the tech director role?” Robert leads the conversation.
“Yeah, I think so. You know I have a special interest in lights, but I’m definitely willing to consider it.”
“I know you’re probably not thrilled about the idea of spreading yourself across all the tech areas, but I really think you’d be a great fit for the role.”
Robert has always seen in me what I don’t see in myself. At the ripe age of eleven, I showed up at the Red Barn Playhouse forHairauditions and said, “I’m not a very good singer, but can I still be in the play?” I didn’t want to actually be in the play, but I didn’t know how else to be involved. I’d just seen my first musical,Wicked, and I was so mesmerized by the production that I knew I wanted to be part of it somehow. If I’d known there were teams of people who helped put the play on behind the scenes, I would have asked to be part of that.
Robert told me if I couldn’t sing, this wasn’t the play for me, but there was a space on the crew. He explained how crew members helped with lights and sound and props, and it sounded so perfect for me that even in my eleven-year-old heart, I knew that was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
He stuck me on the set crew, and my dad and I showed up to help build the set and paint it. After that, I was involved with every play Red Barn put on, and within two years, Robert had asked if I wanted to try to help with the lights. That was when I really fell in love. But I don’t know if I would have tried if Robert hadn’t been there guiding the way.
I expected his confidence in me to fill me with pride and warmth; to make me feel taller and bigger somehow; to give me the confidence to know, yes or no, if I definitely wanted this job. And his words do strike at the eleven-year-old in me who dreamed of these words, and maybe dreamed of this exact life for himself. But his confidence in me doesn’t shake anythingloose or give me a grand realization. I feel exactly like I did before: unsure about the right path for me and how to trust myself to make the decision.
Why is it that I have the confidence to punch someone but not the same level of self-assuredness to decide what I want to do when I graduate? I thought I wanted someone to tell me what to do, but I don’t. I want someone to tell me how to trust myself. How to stop overthinking.
We continue on the sidewalk that takes us around campus. We’ve only made it a quarter of the way around the loop. We take up the whole sidewalk, walking side by side, and people have to walk on the grass to pass by us. I feel bad, but Robert doesn’t seem to notice.
“How long would I have to think about it?” I ask. “I don’t graduate for another six, almost seven, months. I kind of thought I’d have more time to think about it, but I know you’re hiring now.”
“We’ve got a temp in. She’s great, but she doesn’t want to stay long-term. She’d be fine staying on until the summer. So you have some time. Maybe by the end of the semester? Not too many applicants are looking to come to suburban Pennsylvania to be the technical director of a small playhouse,” he says with a laugh, and I try to laugh too, but I relate too much to his words, and that gives me heartburn. “You haven’t asked, but I’m sure you’re curious about the pay and benefits, and I want to assure you that you would not have to take on another job while working for Red Barn Playhouse. We’re looking to pay the position 45,000 dollars to start, plus benefits. Healthcare, 401k. We’re offering a lot of stability,” he says, because this mandoesknow me, and he might have just said the thing I needed to hear to say yes.
“Sounds . . . safe.”
Jade’s words clang around in my head—the way she said it, like, “Of course you want that—Ian always plays it safe,” or like, “Well, that explains why you like it.” And really, what’s wrong with liking things because they’re stable and safe?
We can’t all be like Jade, staring down the barrel of our fears and doing things anyway. History wasn’t just forged by the courageous; it was also shaped by those who took safer, well-trodden paths.
Probably.
It doesn’t matter. I’m not here to make history. I need to make money and live my life in a way in which I can thrive. And being in survival mode doesn’t sound like thriving.
