Brief Encounters

Timeline 1 (Part 31)

The Pub

The pub we chose wasn't just a spot for post-show drinks—it was a theatre landmark, a second home for countless casts over the years. Just a block from the stage door, its creaking wooden sign swayed in the evening breeze, a welcoming beacon for actors, techies, and anyone else seeking refuge after a long night.

Inside, the air carried the unmistakable blend of beer, fried food, and a faint, nostalgic tang of old wood polished by decades of laughter and spilled drinks. The lighting was soft, the kind that smoothed every face and deepened every laugh. It wasn't quiet, but it wasn't chaotic either—just a steady hum of voices and clinking glasses, blurring time in the way only good places can.

We crammed into a corner booth, one of those well-worn setups where the seats were always a bit too snug, forcing everyone into a closeness that felt oddly comforting. The table, etched with scratches, faded carvings, and perpetually sticky from countless drinks, stood as a witness to nights like this.

Drinks appeared almost instantly, the bartender knowing our usual orders without a word. Idina, ever the ringleader, grabbed her pint and raised it high, her expression that of a maestro about to conduct.

"Alright," she announced, her voice cutting through the ambient chatter. "Story time. I'm in my quick-change, running like a maniac because I'm late for my entrance. I make it onstage, launch into my big solo, and halfway through, I realize—" She paused dramatically. "—my wig is on backward."

The table erupted in laughter, someone choking out, "No!" between wheezes.

"Oh, yes," Idina said solemnly, nodding. "The audience looked at me like I'd just rewritten Shakespeare. But you know what I did? I turned to them and said, 'You're welcome for this bold, experimental choice.'"

"Speaking of broken props," someone said, pointing in my direction. "Jeanna, care to explain why two wands and a tiara met tragic ends last month?"

Groans and laughter followed as I threw up my hands in mock surrender. "Defective props! None of that was my fault."

Rehearsals for Wicked were chaos even on a good day. Quick changes, moving set pieces, and Elphaba's flying broom threatening decapitation during tech runs—it was a miracle we made it to preview night intact.

That particular rehearsal, though? Absolute carnage.

It started with the tiara. My beautiful, sparkling Glinda tiara—the one that made me feel like I belonged in the bubble—met an untimely demise during a scene transition. Practicing an overly enthusiastic twirl, I caught my shoe on the edge of the platform. I stumbled, grabbing at a nearby prop tree for balance. The tree wobbled perilously, and in my scramble to steady it, the tiara slid off my head and hit the stage floor with a sickening crack.

The stage manager shot me a look that screamed, We are so over budget already, but I pressed on, determined to salvage the day.

"To Jeanna!" someone from tech declared, raising their glass high. "Patron saint of shattered tiaras and backstage chaos."

"To Jeanna!" everyone chorused, glasses clinking in unison.

The table erupted into more laughter, a sound that felt like home after a long day. I raised my glass, grinning sheepishly, and gave a mock bow, accepting my dubious title.

Stories flowed as easily as the drinks—tales of prop mishaps, missed cues, and those surreal, absurd moments that could only happen in live theatre.

Sitting there, I caught myself smiling as I glanced around the table. No one here cared if I broke a wand or tripped onstage—I could simply be myself, flaws and all.

My thoughts briefly shifted to William. Things with him were different—not bad, just heavier.