The Savage Club

Front Of House does the post-show sweep of the seating blocks (two wine glasses, three beer bottles, sixteen crumpled tickets) and then it's just Philip, at the desk, programming the designer's last changes before opening night. He'd do it tomorrow, but having a real job means doing all the grunt work in the evenings. Theatre policy is no drinking in the booth, so Philip makes a point of stepping out into the back row to take a gulp of cider between cues. There aren't actually that many of them (the designer isn't that much of a douchebag) but since House is out, the air conditioning is off, and the rising heat from the lights gets him buzzed pretty quickly.

He stumbles through the rest of the teardown: tucking the desk into its dust cover, making sure the fire exits are bolted, whispering goodnight to the dimmer packs. In the gloom of the lighting room, the disused lights hang from hooks in rows like bats, black barndoor wings tucked in towards their bodies.

As he wanders through backstage toward the foyer, Philip gives a little rap on the door marked "off limits". It's not really on the list, but techs are a superstitious lot: A friend made him go out of his way to do it during a pack-out once, which probably saved his life when a light fell from the grid onto where he'd been a moment ago. he's knocked on it after every show since.

This is the first time it swings open.