A tale of two theatre keys
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the hour of doing nothing, it was the hour of activity, it was the season of competence, it was the dawn of embarrassment.
It came to pass that the Singing Librarian, unable to sing in a particular show, took on the responsibility of stage managing. He took his duties seriously, looking out for the safety of all involved and trying to ensure that the show was as smooth as it could possibly be. He operated the tabs (knowing very well that the general public would call them curtains), he assisted with the lighting rig and he moved props around the theatre. At the end of the short run, there came a day with two performances, a matinée and an evening showing. The company dispersed to various watering holes to refuel, but the Singing Librarian was the keyholder, and so after a brief walk, he returned to the theatre to ensure that any member of cast, crew or band who returned would be able to get in.
Enjoying a few moments of quiet, he ate his packed dinner and buried his nose in a good book, sitting in the theatre’s bar area, dimly aware of the sounds of a cleaner, the only other person in the building, working in the auditorium. As she finished her work, the cleaner passed through the bar, exchanged polite greetings with the Singing Librarian and made her way out of the building through the stage door. After resuming his reading, the Singing Librarian heard noises from the direction of the stage door. He shrugged, dismissing them as simply the sounds of someone struggling with the pass code, which they would no doubt remember shortly. As the moments passed, however, the sounds did not stop. Closing his book, the Singing Librarian made his way through the dressing room area to the door.
From outside, he could hear several voices, and the tone was not a happy one. Wondering what could have caused the whole company to forget the code, he grasped the door handle and attempted to turn. Nothing. It refused to budge. Those outside noticed this escape attempt immediately – “what are you up to in there, Singing Librarian?” “Stop playing around and let us in!” Another attempt to open the door, and another failure.
Slightly worried now, he could see that the door had been locked, even though he had left it needing only the code for entry. Clearly, the cleaner had been on autopilot when she left and had locked the door behind her. This was not a problem, as he had the key – needed the key to open the theatre each day. He withdrew his keyring from his pocket and inserted the key into the lock. Nothing. It would not turn to either side. “I can’t unlock it!” he called, a claim that was greeted with a mixture of amusement, disbelief and frustration. Apparently, some cast members needed to powder their noses urgently. However, an idea soon formed. If they key would not work from inside, perhaps it simply needed to be used from the outside. “I’ll throw the key down from the green room window!” Or he would have done, if the window actually opened. The toilet window proved equally immovable.
Outside the door, speculation grew about what the Singing Librarian might have been doing while everyone else was out? Was he hurriedly hiding his harem away? Did he need time to hide evidence of a prank? Was he simply taking revenge on them for some unnoticed slight? Eating cheese rolls and reading a German novel was clearly not an exciting enough way for the Singing Librarian of their imaginations to have spent the break. Feeling increasingly foolish, each side tried their entry methods again – code and key failed once more.
But inspiration struck. Earlier in the week, the Singing Librarian had been talking to the House Manager as she opened the door for the audience at the front of the theatre. Concentrating hard, he remembered where she had hung the front door key and dashed through the theatre. Finding the correct key, he unbolted and unlocked the heavy front door, and called out to the waiting cast and crew that the door was open. After they had streamed in and headed for the dressing room, he dashed round to the stage door where they had been waiting and unlocked it on his first try. Puzzled, he retraced his steps, closed up the front again, replaced the key and did his best to assure the rest of the company that this had not been a deliberate turn of events.
As he began his pre-show rituals, changing the batteries in the microphones and checking the location of the props, he could not help but ponder – why would you have a key that only worked from one side of the door? It was a far, far stranger keyhole than he had ever known.
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The Singing Librarian Talks 