It happened at the beginning of the third act, just after intermission—because The Tempest was, of course, five acts.
Everything had been going so well. The first three acts had been perfection: the storm raging in the theater, the lightning effects, the lasers, the wind tunnel, the shaking chairs rigged throughout the audience, the wirework, the zip lines and the water cascading in torrents on stage. The actors too—every one of them: transformative.
Every minute, every inch, had been grand and luscious and moving and spiritual and arresting in the very best way. A show that would wake you from your dreams weeks later recalling the water and fire and smoke. Charlie almost wondered if their plan had been the right thing to do. But they had to, she reminded herself. There had been no other way. People tended not to come to the aid of anything failing until it was failing in a dramatic, dire enough way. So they were just providing that impetus when, during that quiet, reflective scene, Charlie as Prospero imprisoned in her jail cell...
An explosion.
A fiery, charring BOOM ignited the back of the stage and sent Charlie flying several feet in the air, landing on her leg with a scream. Fire alarms blared, emergency lights flashed in the auditorium. Sprinklers flickered on, shooting water at the stage and the audience. Matteo ran out first. The lobby doors at the end of every aisle flew open, the ushers then the others—actors, stagehands—anyone in the wings flowed out toward the side doors. Sarah ran to Charlie’s side, with Chase helping her up, hobbling with her.
Nick’s voice called out from the lighting booth, “We need to safely evacuate the theater. Please walk, don’t run to the nearest exit. We apologize for the inconvenience.” He repeated it over and over as the audience scrambled out the doors, the crush of bodies, the stampede of feet, the sirens and sprinklers. Ushers and apprentice stagehands led the crowd into the Quad as they had been trained to do, coincidentally, in a refresher emergency preparedness seminar a day earlier.
Once the theater was checked, everyone accounted for, the masses safely outside, firefighters inside assessing everything (“It’s the strangest thing, we can’t find the source of the fire, we think it was just a burst light, some kind of flare? We’re continuing the search to be sure the place is safe,” the fire marshal said), Nick addressed them all.
He stood atop a bench at the center of the Quad, shouting to get the attention of the hundreds of audience members still milling around, expecting to be let back in. Off to the side, Fiona recorded on her phone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m terribly sorry, the fire department is investigating. We suspect things will be just fine,” he said, calm. “However, we do owe you a show. We would like to complete this remarkable performance out here on this beautiful night. Our cast is present and accounted for—”
“Nick! Wait a minute, man,” Matteo yelled out from behind him, walking up to the bench. “Charlie may have a broken ankle. She’s got some smoke inhalation, they’re checking her out, but she gives her blessing for her understudy, Sierra, to go on.”
“Wait, is she okay? As long as she’s alright?” Nick shouted back to him, taking a few steps in his direction.
The audience around him pressed in closer, conversations halting, everyone hanging on these words.
“Yes, she doesn’t want anyone to worry,” Matteo told the group, which seemed to sigh in relief at this.
“Okay,” Nick addressed them all again. “Then, we’ll stage the rest of the show, right here, if you all give us your blessing. We could put everyone over here.” He pointed to the great, vast lawn. “And up front here,” he said, pointing near where he stood, “will be our stage. We apologize for our technical issues. We’re grateful everyone is safe, and I don’t want to say the show must go on, but you know what I mean.” They actually laughed at this. “The role of Prospero will now be played by Sierra Suarez. Sierra?”
Sierra jogged out from her place amid the pack of apprentices toward Nick as a voice cheered in the back.
Nick waved to the actors to assemble, and they took their marks. “I give you the conclusion of The Tempest.”
Applause welcomed the show’s return. The audience, many of them bedraggled and damp from the sprinklers, had found places to sit on the lawn, seemingly invigorated to be part of the adventure. A hush fell and Sierra’s voice, the actors alongside her, carried to Charlie, and she felt at ease.
Charlie watched it all from the street. The ambulance had parked on the hill, giving her a nice perch.
“Remember,” she told the man wrapping her ankle, “the second anything real happens, you guys get outta here.”
“You got it,” he said. “You all picked a good night, it’s been quiet.” He gave her ankle a pat. “Think you’re set here.” He winked.
“That looks legit,” she said, stretching out her leg to admire her bandaged foot.
“That’s because it is,” he said. “I don’t know how to fake it.”
“If this place stays open, you all have some free tickets coming your way.” She hopped down from the back of the ambulance, set to limp to Nick’s side.
Nick was supposed to be standing along the periphery of the Quad closest to the street where she was. But she couldn’t find him. This was, so far, the only thing that had not gone according to plan tonight. She couldn’t walk too far or too fast or risk being seen by the entire audience, so she hobbled, lurking along the edges in search of him. Whispering to anyone who asked, “Just a sprain, it turns out. I’m just fine, thank you, enjoy the show.” She returned to the street just as the ambulance was ready to roll out.
“Can I bum a ride?” she asked, to keep up appearances. “It’s on the way.”