Four black walls hug the carpeted floor, that is no bigger than the size of two garden sheds. Posters, that tell its age and history, are carelessly taped on the walls with mic tape. Each poster is tattooed with signatures. Each signature represents a person who gave up their lives for four years to be within these four walls. A large board, with a sea of knobs, rests in front of a window. These knobs convey the effortless talent, that passes through them, to the opening night crowd. Another board, smaller and younger, sits adjacent to the larger board. This board is simple; it is sprinkled with worn down faders. These faders illuminate the talent. Behind the boards, sits a clock. The hands seem to be frozen in time at 7:00: Show time.
This tiny booth, that is tucked away in the back of the theater, serves as my home away from home. There’s barely even breathing room, so you get to know everyone in there pretty well. We treat each other like family: We fight, we laugh, and we have fun.