"Well, I mean, we needed furniture! And there was a house, a few blocks down, with this nice wicker furniture on the porch that they probably never used. So, in the middle of the night, we crept down to the house and sneakily took the furniture over to the apartment. I can only wonder about the owner of the house's reaction the next morning --" at this, Jesse scrunches his face into a confused, bewildered look -- "'Um, honey? The wicker furniture is gone!'"

We laugh. Jesse continues, "It was nice to finally have something to sit on besides, like, the dirt floor. We invited friends over, and had, you know, wicker furniture parties... but after a few months our landlord decided to put the apartment up for sale and we had to move out. The question: what to do with the furniture? We decided the only reasonable thing to do would be to return it to its rightful owners! We figured we'd just had it on an 'extended loan.' So, in the middle of the night, we again sneaked down to the porch and restored the couch and chairs to their original positions."

He pauses for effect. "Now, it's one thing to imagine the house-owner finding the furniture gone, but imagine his reaction this time, as he goes outside the next morning as usual to get the newspaper --" Jesse somehow adds a sense of absurdity to the confused look -- "'Um, honey? The wicker furniture is back!!'"

At this we all crack up, laughing hysterically. Jesse says, chuckling good-naturedly, "Now remember: do as I say, not as I do... the trouble with that story is that we didn't get caught! But that doesn't mean it was a moral thing to do. Okay then, on to business."

Some of the most fun times I've ever had were during tellings of Jesse's infamous stories. Sitting on the stage, in front of the rows of blue seats we were sitting in, he'd often have us in a continuous state of mirth for over half an hour. Jesse was the 29-year-old director of the musical production of Romeo and Juliet that I was in with the 24 other kids sitting around me. "This is no swim camp," he likes to say, and nothing could be truer: we had only three weeks to produce a full-length Shakespeare musical. By "produce," I mean doing everything necessary for a show: rehearsing and then performing; designing costumes, props, makeup, and lighting; and building and painting set, hanging lights, and recording light cues (the latter set were done mainly on weekends, with the help of parents and friends).

I have many memories like the one just mentioned of sitting in the rows of blue chairs, looking up at the stage. Usually, Jesse would lead the "proceedings," but the floor was often turned over to us for what we called production meetings. Since students were also responsible for the technical aspects of the show, production meetings were when the people working on a particular technical job informed everyone else what they were doing, how they were progressing, etc. Often, they asked for guidance or assistance.

There was a certain costume meeting in particular that will undoubtedly be remembered as "oh, yes -- that one." Jesse wanted to have the meeting that day so we'd have enough time before the show to find or buy all the costumes. As we slowly started going through each character's many costumes, it became clear that this was not going to work. People were speaking out of turn, all at once, and the costume designers couldn't keep track of it all. My mind began to wander: down to the scribbles in my notebook; across the bow-tie-shaped stage to the rows of invitingly unoccupied red chairs; up to the florescent lights and stretched cable on the high ceiling. As the time dragged on, this funky little theatre which always had a positive and exciting atmosphere began to feel a little oppressive; the light filtering in from the sunshine outside began to seem very appealing. I heard snippets of conversation:

"Oh, I think I have one of those..."

"Is maroon okay instead of red?"

"Hey, what about shoes?"

"Whoops, forgot about that..."

After close to an hour of this kind of disorganized wrangling, Jesse finally broke in. He told the costume designers that they needed to get their act together, make up an organized list, and hold the meeting the next day. He didn't like to be stern with us, but the fact was that any further delay would put the show in jeopardy. We broke for small-group or individual scene work, and the costume designers intently went about making up thorough, organized lists to be ready the next day.

Despite setbacks of this sort, the show progressed remarkably from day to day. There really was no other option. Between us, we had 25 songs to learn and hundreds of Shakespearean lines to memorize (I had 150 or so as Friar Laurence), along with blocking (all of the movements on stage) and character work. So as a way of seeing our progress, at the end of most days we had mini-performances for the rest of the cast of newly-learned songs or scenes of sword fights. Talk about exciting! What was especially cool about these performances was that people who had previously never touched a sword in their lives were making me sit on the edge of my blue seat (or as far back as possible if I was in the front row!) with their impressive stage dueling. With Jesse playing the piano, actors who hadn't sung much were singing high or low notes for the first time. Often we begged to see the performances one or two more times, until we had to go home for the night.

Now, it is hard for one to imagine the impossibility of what we were doing without actually seeing the show for oneself. Yet Jesse has a way of pursuing the seemingly impossible with the attitude that it is indeed the only thing worth striving for -- and only possible if you believe in it. Embracing "yes," which means keeping a positive outlook and learning from mistakes, was always an important theme. For instance, if some notes are messed up while rehearsing a song, the reaction should be "yes!" -- glad that you can learn from it and sing it better next time. And with every play I've done with him, we've succeeded -- but every time the stakes are raised and the goal placed higher.

As the days progressed, opening night loomed ever closer. As we started doing run-throughs of the show during the last week, another important activity frequently took place in the blue seats: note-giving. Jesse (and the dance and sword-fight choreographers) wrote down notes so they wouldn't have to stop the run, and then afterwards (often the next morning) took the time to read them to us.

"Capulet -- in the opening scene, enter loudly! Then remember to keep it under control, you handled that well today."

"Thank you."

Since there were usually so many notes, Jesse had a simple rule to make the sessions as efficient as possible: "Don't explain to me why something was how it was -- it doesn't matter to me, as long as it gets fixed. Instead, just say 'thank you' and we'll move on."

"Paris, when you come on in the next scene, you're happy with yourself! Don't look at him like he's the ugliest thing on the planet; you're hangin' with da man, you think you're cool! Remember that."

"Yeah, sorry abou --"

"No apologizing, now. Let's see...." He always made sure to remind us that if we weren't already so good, he couldn't afford to give such picky notes. "Chorus members, you've gotta make sure to stop what you're doing immediately when Capulet comes on. Same for the second 'beat' when Montague enters. Oh, and Montague -- could you come around this side of the fence, instead of the back? We can see you better that way...."

The day before opening night, sitting tiredly in the blue seats, we found out that the running time of the show was just under four hours! Jesse had originally planned to cut one or more of the songs or scenes, but they had all turned out so well that almost everything remained included. This show, if we could pull it off, would truly be a feat.

After rehearsal ended that day, Jesse said he needed me to stay and help with some lighting issues. There were some stage lights that desperately needed to be re-aimed and a few light board issues that had to be fixed. He needed my expertise in order to get this done before opening night. As darkness descended outside (which helped us aim more precisely) we steadily worked in the theatre, going through the lights that needed adjustment. After an hour or so, I sat down to rest a minute in one of the blue seats, thinking about all of the things I'd done there over the past three weeks.

Sitting there reflecting on all of it, I realized that as much as I was excited about the shows, when it was all over I would miss the process more than anything. As much as I love to act, the preparation is the most rewarding -- the magic is truly not in the destination but in the journey. The friends, the dedication, everyone working towards a shared dream... and the fun of it all! Like listening to Jesse's hilarious stories.

I heard Jesse sigh, "It looks like we're going to have to move the ladder back under that pole... that light's not pointed nearly where it should be." It was a difficult spot to get a ladder under, but I stood up eagerly.

"I've got it," I said.

With Jesse's help, I moved the ladder back and then climbed it to sit on the very top, next to the light in question. As I put on my gloves to shield my hands from the heat, I looked down from my perch above the glowing stage. Mostly plunged in darkness, the empty theatre was silent except for the slight hum of the light beside me.

Ready for action, it was at that moment that I remember thinking to myself, "this is what I live for."