excerpt from "Work For It, Baby!"

Poor Henry Crawford

Henry Crawford was one of the stagehands that knew and had worked around the Charter Members that started Local 41 at the turn of the last century. He always worked as a flyman, and was considered to be a good one. The flyman's world is a long row of pull-ropes running the length of the wall at one side of the backstage area; which side in many cases is determined by where you can park and unload the trucks just outside. If the loading doors are at the right side of the stage, then the fly system will be installed along the left side.
Fly cues are normally heard from a biscuit, as it wasn't practical for the flyman to wear a headset because he moves up and down the row of linesets during the performance. If told to fly in the backdrop for the cemetery scene, or to bring in lineset 32, the flyman would move to the appropriate location, unlock the brake on his line and pull down to bring that drop, which was waiting in the flyspace above, lower until the bottom just kisses the deck, and re-lock the brake. Sometimes the number 32 has been painted onto the lockrail, and there is usually a replaceable card there marked cemetery backdrop. It is much more likely that when his cuelight comes on, that the stage manager issues a warning for cue number 47. The flymen, who may all have pieces to move, either in or out, when that cuelight goes off, will refer quickly to a long cue sheet that details, for each numbered cue, what linesets or which setpieces will move what direction, and probably who it is that has been assigned that particular cue by the head flyman. Poor Henry Crawford could not read!
How is it that Old Henry is such a good flyman? I worked around Henry for years before I became aware of his 'handicap.' He was not one of the old heads that taught me the business; in fact, Henry was reticent to advise any of his 'wiser' colleagues. Sometimes, when we were hanging a show, if I was out there on the deck doing whatever it was I'd been assigned to do; out there where other work was ongoing and the noise level was escalating as guys shouted back and forth instructions to one another; sometimes Henry was watching me, ...carefully.
When something began to move about on that stage; it could be something that was big and heavy that constituted a safety hazard; it could be something that was fragile or expensive that could have gotten damaged; it could have been a fresh supply of doughnuts just coming in the door; that's when Henry's huge old hand would manifest itself on my shoulder. He'd move me quickly out of harm's way, or call my attention to something I shouldn't be missing. He seldom said a word; just acted in his mysterious way.
Henry's awareness of his surroundings was peculiar; peculiar in a way that escaped the notice of most stagehands. Henry's relationship to the space that we worked in was qualitatively different than the other stagehands working around him. When it was time for Henry to bring in the backdrop for the cemetery scene, he went to the place where we'd hung the stupid thing mere hours ago; the same place where the head flyman had placed a notecard designating it as the place where that drop was controlled by a flyman. If that head flyman had been confused or distracted when he marked the pinrail; marked the wrong lineset by accident; it would not have fooled poor Henry.
If Henry had been directed to pull on a specific lineset, he'd peer out into the darkness that was onstage, looking for the presence(or absence) of the setpiece that was fixing to move; he'd look up and notice the position of the arbor(piled full of counterweights) which is always in the opposite position that the scenic element hanging on his batten will be in; Henry has 'instinctively' taken notice of the positions of any setwagons that will begin to move as soon as the flypieces have flown out of the way; noticing where the personnel are in relation to all this moving hardware; yes, and looking to see just where I have gone off to.