Two Men. One Dream.

Rachel Louise Snyder began her career as a reporter on human interest stories; in many ways, she still is one. She tackles topics from the plight of overfishing in the North Atlantic to the interpersonal effects of the global garment trade not with facts and research, but with experiences learned through her relationships with those most affected. A vision of an industry's problems is not written out for you; she lets it appear through acclimation, as facts and figures seep through the complicated lives of the "characters," building up a picture of the global situation without outright stating it until the very end. It's the ultimate in "showing, not telling," and it removes any trace of non-fictionyness from the non-fiction, creating an emotional narrative instead of a textbook.

I'll try to replicate that feeling of empathy as I discuss the stresses of set construction, and how it effects the relationship between two male companions. Their names (which I have altered for purposes of anonymity and so I can make them totally gay) are Jack and Zeek.

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Jack is stressed. You can read the stress in the ruffle of his hair, the caked and hastily applied stage make-up on his cheeks, the brutal grimace which transforms his brow into a mess of ridges and wrinkles worthy of any Klingon. I lean over with my paint roller ready, and ask him if he needs help with the stage block he's finishing off. He shakes his head, a violent spasm that travels the length of his athletic frame.

"No, I don't need any godd**n help. I can paint a stupid block. Not that hard."

"He's just stressed, Greg," Zeek says, resting one great hand on his partner's back. "You should at least finish up the corners. I think Jacky needs a little break."

"Can finish my own d**n corners," says Jack, as he reluctantly slumps down his roller and stomps over to our director's inhospitable corpse-like couch.

Jack has been stressed like this for weeks, but it's been coming through more and more over the past few days. The play has been inching closer, and no matter how I or even Zeek try to comfort him, Jack is incapable of not worrying.

"Maybe we should go out," I say with a timid look at the still-glowering Jack. "Get tacos. Or something."

"Yeah, tacos! You love tacos, Jacky!" Zeek says.

"I do love Tex-Mex... and you," says Jack. A slight smile appears unbidden on his face.

"I love you too, Jacky-bear." Zeek leans over, lifting Jack into the air like a bride, and carries him out towards the dressing room.

Fights like this have become ever more frequent for my friends, and have for actors across the nation. Acute shortages in wood supplies, caused by the communist policies of the current American President, have raised prices on everything from swing sets to wooden saws. And without crucial wooden tools or wood with which to work, an actor attempting to construct even the most basic set faces a massive overhead. Perhaps with a more stringent policy towards wood conservation, thespian couples like Zeek and Jack would be able to enjoy a dressing room moment alone without the looming cost of their production driving them apart.