Sweat and paint and Rayette Hairspray sat heavily in the air. A girl with brown lines painted on her face blew on a banana (tied on a string around her neck) and wistfully described the Chunky bar she had eaten for lunch. Most of the other women in the room stared into mirrors, ratting hair, applying pancake, and blowing up balloons in the empty stretches of time, all over a continual underbuzz of conversation. Three men on the far side of a partition went through a similar, if quieter process. One man paced between the two make-shift rooms, alternately blowing up a green balloon and giving instructions. Every ten minutes or so he yelled out a Cape-Canavral countdown.

It was 7:30 on a Saturday night; the cast of American in Purgatory was preparing its closing performance. The Agassiz Theater lies a grassy fifty yards from the Loeb but seems shabby genteel by comparison. the dressing rooms huddle in the basement, ceilinged by exposed pipes that cast members have garnished with crepe paper. The festive one-for-all atmosphere heightened in intensity; in a few hours the only remnant of two months work would be a stack of slides the producer arranges in a small, plastic carousel. "AAAaaah, Ooooh, la-la-la-la-la-ne-ne-ne-t-t-t-;" gregarious gobs gather in garious groups." The cast hopped and stomped, up and down, practicing diction and singing scales, up and down. The man who paced was Kenneth LaZebnik, director-cum-ringmaster and coach now warming (or frenzying) up his actors in the few minutes before curtain.

"It's been too good, too real, I won't get mushy. Let's get 'em" LaZebnik said, hugging in a semicircle, the actors chanting their ritual send-off; behinds wriggling, they sang "pop, pop, pop, pop you all night." Some exchanged lipstick-red carnations. Randy Howze, who played the whining Ronald, kissed the producer leaving a sticky red mouth on her cheek. "Are we ready to go--let's get this show off the road--this is the last time--I'm getting so sad" and they filed backstage to the dark cramped wings. A nightly Hulaballoo frug to the overture released tension. They waited for their entrances.

In this pitch-black room not much bigger than a walk-in closet, the actors waited alone, standing among bare furniture and containers of Jiffy Pop. They listened nervously for cues and silently urged one another on with nods of the head and "O.K." signs. Through the narrow doorway, only the orchestra was visible and the brightly-lit scrim which changed color from scene to scene: red, green, blue. Stage lights turned the air to a tinged blue haze which echoed with the disembodied voices of actors and laughter and applause. Every so often an actor dashed through the greenroom, grabbing a throat lozenge or gulp of water along the way. "We have a pretty good audience" Douglas Hughes breathed in mid-dash. Upstairs, Dorothy Weaver, the producer, watched from the top row of the balcony. She anticipated every light cue by anxiously looking up seconds before it was scheduled to go on. She unconsciously willed audience reaction to every funny line or song by laughing or clapping just a little before they did. Two musicians in black tuxedos from the pit orchestra joined her. They collapsed in hysterics at every joke even though they've seen all the performances.

The first act moved fast. Intermission backstage involved more balloon-blowing, song-humming and cleaning up. People were grimy from rolling on the floor and squeezing pears and bananas. Elizabeth Genovese played the theme from "Love Story" on a dusty grand piano. The costume mistress lugged five popcorn costumes--27 pounds worth of shredded foam rubber. "Don't miss the best part," everyone advised. About ten minutes into Act Two they hurled themselves into those costumes in the back lobby of the theater for the popcorn ballet. The lightening quick change was an art--wigs off, costumes off, leotards bare, popcorns on; each actress had a dresser to help her and each reached her mark just barely on time. They grabbed their "shells" as two actors rushed by to grab "flames." The audience went wild. Four minutes later, the process shifted into an equally-frenzied reverse.

There are screams and popping balloons and hugs and pats on the back and the show closes. The audience, full of Loeb big-timers, streams into the greenroom after curtain calls and a crew of T-shirted techies replaces the actors on stage to tear down the set. Author Philip LaZebnik stands out in the greenroom, partially because of his lanky height, partially because of the flock of people who rush to shake his hand. But each actor is surrounded by his own crowd; they smile in a daze, drained and wet. Some of them are on the verge of tears, others just eat popcorn, saying the "empty feeling" won't hit them until the sober Sunday morning after.

Onstage the sounds of the strike are deafening. People work fast, unscrewing lights, taking out wires, ripping up tapes and hammering out every nail to save wood for future productions. Most of the people striking are crew from Godspell, the next show scheduled in the theater. Maybe that's why they seem so happy to demolish the set. One person on the techie circuit explained he spends every other Saturday striking a set of some sort. "I'm just here to rip it apart," he says. Douglas Hughes is hurrying because he's president of the Premiere Society and he claims they pay by the minute to use the building.

Most of the actresses are still downstairs, picking up crepe paper streamers, popping balloons, packing away costumes, and removing make-up. It takes them twice as long to change as it did during the run. No audience is waiting anymore. They are out in time to help sweep up the popped balloons and squashed fruit. By 11:50, American in Purgatory is packed away. Before the cast has even left Agassiz, the Godspell crew begins to screw in lights.

People start to leave for the cast party in Adams House Upper Common Room. Pace and conversation are slow as they leave Radcliffe Yard. An actress hums 'Adeline,' a song from the show. When they reach Adams House, taped dance music blares too loudly for her to continue. A balloon pops, as in punctuation; shreds of orange rubber float to the floor now cluttered with cigarettes and booze.