run crew reflections

its the longest month of the year, which doesn't really matter in the theater because it's a 6 call, but on the drive i don't need light to the the houses getting bigger, in fact, it'seasier to tell i'm out of my neck of the woods because the houses of the rich have a glow, the dimmers never fully off and the lawn lights beckoning beacons. the show was wizard of oz. and i was their bitch to the enchanted world of costumes. the ceo of wb mason's wife was the tin man. another wife was named muffy. and the monkeys? they were actual flying monkeys. and what kills me is now how privileged they are monetarily, although that killed me too. not only did these people go home to mansions, but they knew henry. and his presence is a fucking county. my professor. their director. they worked so closely with him. one of the fourteen year old boys knew his boyfriend. i didn't. they broke up and henry dies. the two events were unrelated, only sequential. it was a quiet cancer that ate at him until the shell remained, and even that passed too. but thinking about all that isn't in my job description. i have to dress the munchkin inheritors of the zildjian drum company. tell the tin man she looks beautiful in silver lame while she laments her matte figure and chews ginger. i hear about the scarecrow's sinead o-connor phase at bates, and paint noses that are conveniently upward facing on future lions, dogs, monkeys. i could try to marry rich and procreate soccer playing, balleting spawn. i could work my way toward a scituate utopia, but the yellow brick road rubbed off the soles and the ruby red slippers, glued on glitter.