I was in 'Christmas with the Crawfords' with Joey Arias. I did

Host:
The theater was half-dark, the smell of dust, sequins, and old laughter heavy in the air. It was that strange hour between rehearsal and performance — when costumes hung like ghosts from their racks and the stage lights hummed faintly above, waiting to come alive.

The set glimmered with silver tinsel and faded red velvet. A cardboard snowman leaned slightly to one side, and somewhere backstage, someone hummed “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” out of tune.

Jack sat on the edge of the stage, still wearing his coat, his elbows on his knees. He stared out at the rows of empty seats — as if they were memories rather than chairs.
Jeeny, barefoot and wrapped in a shawl dusted with glitter, sat cross-legged beside him, her hands curled around a paper cup of hot cocoa.

The ghost light stood between them — a single bulb on a metal pole, glowing softly, holding back the darkness.

Jeeny: (smiling) “Chris March once said, ‘I was in “Christmas with the Crawfords” with Joey Arias. I did that for six years, so I have a holiday show mentality a little bit.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “A ‘holiday show mentality’? Sounds like a euphemism for chaos and tinsel addiction.”

Jeeny: (laughs) “Maybe. Or maybe it means seeing the world through glitter and grace — finding joy in the spectacle, no matter how absurd.”

Host:
The ghost light flickered, casting long, dancing shadows on the stage floor. Somewhere, a strand of lights blinked back to life, like a memory that refused to fade.

Jack: “So… a life philosophy based on theater kitsch? That’s new.”

Jeeny: “Don’t underestimate theater kitsch, Jack. Behind every glitter curtain, there’s discipline, creativity, heartbreak — and hope. March’s words aren’t about performance; they’re about survival. Joy as rebellion.”

Jack: “Rebellion? Against what?”

Jeeny: “Against cynicism. Against the heaviness of the world. A ‘holiday show mentality’ means you get up every night, paint on joy, and give people something beautiful to believe in — even if it’s for ninety minutes.”

Jack: (leaning back) “So it’s optimism as a profession.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s courage in costume form.”

Host:
A distant echo of laughter rang from backstage — the kind of laughter that only performers know: equal parts exhaustion and ecstasy.

Jack: “You know, there’s something almost heroic about that. Doing the same show, year after year, keeping it alive as if it’s brand new.”

Jeeny: “It’s ritual, not repetition. That’s the beauty of theater — every performance is the same script, but never the same night. Just like life.”

Jack: (smirking) “So we’re all just actors in one long holiday special?”

Jeeny: “Pretty much. Some people get the starring role; others play background elves. But we all hit the stage, ready or not.”

Host:
The lights above the stage began to warm, filling the space with a soft amber glow. Dust motes floated in the air like snow caught in sunlight.

Jack: “I suppose that’s what March meant. After six years of the same show, you stop performing and start becoming. You embody the spirit of what you’re doing.”

Jeeny: “Yes — and that’s what art is. You live inside it until the line between costume and self disappears.”

Jack: “But doesn’t that get exhausting? Pretending joy every night?”

Jeeny: (gently) “It’s not pretending. It’s choosing. That’s the difference.”

Host:
The orchestra pit sat empty, but the faint hum of electricity felt like anticipation itself. The world outside might have been cold and unkind, but in here, the air still believed in applause.

Jack: “So, a ‘holiday show mentality’ is really about hope — the kind that’s dressed up in sequins and sarcasm.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s the art of finding warmth in artificial snow.”

Jack: “You know, I once thought theater was just escapism. But maybe it’s more like… therapy disguised as spectacle.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is. You take all your pain, your fear, your longing — and you turn it into laughter, song, or a ridiculous dance number. That’s transcendence, Jack.”

Host:
The sound of the rain outside began to fade, leaving behind only the creak of the stage and the heartbeat of light.

Jack: “March must have lived in that tension — the glitter and the grief.”

Jeeny: “He did. His designs were wild, larger than life, but they carried emotion beneath the fabric. Every costume was a kind of confession.”

Jack: “So maybe being fit, as he put it, wasn’t about perfection. It was about endurance — the stamina to keep shining.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The stamina to keep believing in magic after the curtain falls.”

Host:
The ghost light flickered again, its glow wrapping their faces in warmth. The two of them sat quietly, as though the theater itself were holding its breath.

Jeeny: (whispering) “You know, Jack, maybe that’s what life is — one long rehearsal for joy. You keep showing up, even when it rains. You keep dancing, even when your shoes pinch. You keep believing, even when the audience forgets to clap.”

Jack: “And that’s the holiday show mentality.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The faith that the curtain will rise again.”

Host:
The house lights dimmed completely now, leaving only the ghost light glowing between them — a single point of defiance against the dark.

Jack: “I used to hate the holidays — too much cheer, too much pretending. But now I wonder if that pretending isn’t courage in disguise.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because to smile when you could stay silent, to sing when you could quit — that’s not denial. That’s grace.”

Jack: “Grace in glitter.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly.”

Host:
Outside, the city lights flickered like stars caught in the rain. Inside, the theater pulsed with quiet reverence — not for fame, but for persistence.

And in that dim, golden space, Chris March’s words took on their truest form — not as a passing quote, but as a philosophy:

That art is not escape, but endurance,
that joy, repeated enough, becomes a kind of prayer,
and that even in the absurdity of holiday sequins and stage snow,
there lives the sacred truth that laughter is a survival act.

Host:
Jack rose, stretching his arms toward the rafters. Jeeny stood beside him, her face lit by the ghost light.

Jack: “So what now?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Now we take our places. The curtain’s about to rise.”

Host:
The faint buzz of the stage lights grew brighter. The air shimmered with possibility.
And as the imaginary orchestra struck its first silent chord,
Jack and Jeeny smiled at one another — not actors, not philosophers, but survivors —
ready to perform the oldest story of all:

Hope, in costume, refusing to die.