What do you do when your night job quits you?

Two days after the Tony Awards, we all started getting phone calls from the general manager of Guys and Dolls, Frank Scardino. The general manager is essentially the CFO of the company that is a Broadway show. They act on the behalf of the producers of a show and run the payroll, crunch the numbers and are the center of the central nervous system of the business end of the show. Now when you’re an actor on a show, you only hear from your general manager when A) you’re getting fired, B) you’re getting promoted or C) the show is closing.

When we arrived at the theatre that night, our lovely producer, David Lazar, gathered us together and told us that if we had any questions about why the decision was made, he’d be happy to go over the numbers with us and explain in detail.

A notice was placed on the callboard informing us that the show would close that coming Sunday. Needless to say, it was a sad night at the Nederlander for all of us because we would only get to do the show a few more times. It also meant that this particular group of people, from the spotlight operators to the band to the cast to the dressers, would be working together for only six more days.

When you do a show, anywhere from high school to Broadway, you can’t help forming a family with the people involved in the production. You have different relationships with everyone and, because of the routine of the show, get used to seeing specific people at specific times every night. So that Tuesday night, as I was sprinting through the basement to get from stage left to stage right in 30 seconds during the opening Runyonland number, I performed my usual routine. I jumped down the stairs, greeted Rick Caroto who works in the hair department, high-fived Andrew Gottlieb the stage manager and greeted Andrea Chamberlin and James Harkness, two fellow actors, at specific points in rhythm with the music playing over the monitor. It occurred to me that these people I saw (and had ridiculous rituals with 8 shows a week) would, after Sunday’s performance, cease to become fellow cogs in a machine dressed in 1930s costumes. They would become people I’d see on the street or at auditions, this nightly ritual would exist only as a silly memory.

The last week flew by with people taking pictures and everyone asking everyone else if they’d heard of any good auditions. We are show people, after all. And each door closing means that you’ve got to try and force your way through a window somewhere else.

I very much enjoyed my time with Guys and Dolls. But it isn’t doing the show every day that I miss most when a show closes; what I miss most is seeing the people. I miss talking to them about their lives and careers, and learning new and interesting things about them, and myself, through their experiences. It’s the friendships and bonds that we form that we then have to dissolve with promises of keeping in touch that don’t always happen.

As an actor, being in a show can help you feel more secure and gives you a sense of identity. When you’re working, you’re an actor. When you’re not, you’re busting your hump trying to get a job and competing with the hundreds of other talented people who also need work.

I remember when The Farnsworth Invention announced it’s closing, actor Aaron Krohn and I had a conversation and shared the lament that every time a show we’re in posted a closing notice, we got a sense of dread in the pit of our stomachs and a strong feeling that we were never going to work again. I think that Susan Blackwell’s character in [title of show] refers to it as a Vampire, feeding off of our own insecurities.

A show closing is not the end of the world, even if it feels like it. It is the end of a chapter and the fire under your butt that makes you turn the page and start the next.

** photos shot by and property of Spencer Moses