My folio piece

[changeling]

Insider Trading


"That's it then," I said.

"There's always a sense of anticlimax at the end, isn't there?" asked Sandy, as he picked up a cordless drill and began to dismantle the set.
"All that work over," I agreed. I picked up a rather unwieldy flat and lugged it backstage. "The production period always goes quickly. All that build-up for nothing."

"Hardly nothing," said Sandy dryly. He turned back to the girl standing next to him, shifting her weight nervously from foot to foot. "You've checked the dressing room?" She nodded, and bit her lip, staring at the drill. I couldn't remember what her name was. I knew she was a cast member. Anna? Mary? Something like that.

"What's been lost?" I asked, helping him lift the couch that was centre stage stage.
"The necklace Antonia wears for the second act is missing. She says it's not in her dressing room, so we were hoping Glen had left it on stage again by mistake and it fell under the couch." He checked between the cushions. There was a notable lack of necklace. "Check in the dressing room again, Toni. Check your bag. You might have put it away by mistake. See if you can find the other girls. They might have seen it."

Toni scurried backstage, head down trying not to meet the eyes of any of the crew in case they gave her jobs to do. Cast always hate bump-outs, and try to avoid them as much as possible. Makeup removal, changes back into street clothes and the tidying of dressing rooms seem to take twice as long on closing nights. It probably doesn't help that this is the night when stage crew take control and get to boss everyone around. Crew/cast rivalries exist in all of the theatres I've been in to a greater or lesser extent. Crew feel maligned that they don't get enough recognition for their hard work, and see cast as pompous, useless arty-farty types. Crew respond in kind to the crew's hostility, and see crew as a bunch of maladjusted, bitter, psychotic drunkards with staple guns. Which, of course, some of them are. By the same token, I've met actors so intrigued by their own lower intestines that you couldn't remove their heads from their arses with the application of industrial grade lubricant. It's the way it works.

"Hope she finds the damn necklace, silly bint," said Sandy in an undertone, unscrewing the last screw in the bracket that secured our last flat to the stage. I caught the door flat and walked it backwards until it was lying safely on the stage. "It's on loan from Whitehorse, and I promised Marg we'd have it back tomorrow." He tipped the screw into the spray paint can lid he was using to hold them. "You know Susan's torn the seam on her dress again, and that's another of the hired costumes."

"I'll fix it," I said, lift one end of the door flat so we could carry it backstage.

"No, don't bother. Erin'll do it. She's coming in tomorrow to pick up the costumes anyway, so someone just has to let her know."

"Are we bumping the lights out tonight?" I asked as we propped the flat up against the others.

"No, it's getting too late. Besides, there are too many people around. We might bring the rig down on an actor's head, and then where would we be?"

"It might be an improvement," I said darkly. Some of the cast seemed to have been making an extra special effort to be difficult. Our leading man Jarryd had turned up half an hour after he was supposed to, with absolutely no explanation and a smug grin. He'd missed the cast warmup completely, which hadn't helped my stress levels at all.

Sandy had put on his director's hat and had given Jarryd a quiet, private talking to in the dressing room after the show, and although he wasn't repentant, he was at least rather cowed, which was definitely a point in Sandy's favour. He's my favourite best friend.
He laughed at the scowl on my face. "I should have tried dropping a lighting rig on Jarryd during rehearsals. It would probably have improved matters. It may even have helped him learn his lines faster."

I savoured the mental image of dropping the lighting rig on Jarryd's head before touching base with reality again. "Probably not," I said ruefully. Besides, Tania would have been down our throats about the occ health and safety risks."

Tania, our stage manager, was an utter control freak, obsessive about occupational health and safety to a degree that verged on mania. A theatre is potentially an incredibly dangerous place, and someone like Tania is exactly the sort of person you want backstage, orchestrating scene changes and other stage crew miscellany. However, that didn't make her any less of a bitch. Most of the cast and half of the crew were terrified of her. Bump-ins and bump-outs were her forte. She strode through the confused conglomerate giving directions and orders like a queen.

The set had been dismantled and was now waiting in the storage area backstage for transport. Stage mums bustled past with armfuls of costumes, and everyone was getting in everyone's way. A couple of cast members stood in the wings talking, and Tania yelled at them to be useful or piss off. Even a couple of crewbies looked up at that. To be fair, cast often tended to be more of a hindrance than a help at this stage of the night. I glanced surreptitiously at my watch. With a bit of luck we might be out of here by two AM.

Tania collected the last of the radio mics graciously from John, a lesser crew member, and advanced on the two of us. "Sandy, Mel. You're not doing anything. Could you run these mics up to the bio box and put them away in the cardboard box next to the lighting board? Tidy everything else up and put the box by the back door when you're done." She thrust the bundle of mics into my arms and tossed the keys to the bio box to Sandy. He dropped off the front of the stage into the auditorium and stood jingling the keys impatiently.

"Surely you don't feel that all this has been a letdown. I mean, the first time one of your plays has been produced! That's pretty exciting."

"I know. It was a bit weird though, hearing my words in someone else's mouth. Not to mention the degree to which I got paranoid that it could have been written better. Do you know how many drafts I went through before opening night?"

"Yes," he said. "I read them all, remember? Even the strange patchwork one you put together for the auditions."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot." I yawned. "Guess I'm just too tired."

"I liked your play, anyway," he said, haring up the auditorium stairs to the bio box.

"That's reassuring. You did direct it, Sand."

"Well, I would have liked it anyway. Mum told me last night how much she enjoyed it. Did I tell you?"

"Yeah, during interval."

"Oh. Anyway. Was your mother here tonight?"

"No, she went to visit Dad in hospital. He's just had another knee reconstruction. It's not really her sort of thing anyway. She likes happy endings."

There was a pause for a minute. Sandy knew the uncomfortable relationship I shared with my mother. I just wished Dad could have come along. He was usually the parent who came along to my performances.

"Why'd he have the reconstruction?" Sandy asked, fiddling with the keys.

"For the sheer enjoyment of it." Sandy gave me a Look. "He jumped the fence to retrieve a screwdriver he'd dropped. Come on, Sand, hurry up and open the door. I'm going to drop something in a moment."

Sandy held the door for me like a gentleman. "Are you going to the after party?"

"Don't know. Where's it going to be held?"

"Cara's having it at her place. I'll give you a lift if you want."

"That'd be good." I steadied the mic box with a knee and tipped the radio mics in. "Are all of these mics rented?"

"Yeah, a couple of the theatre's stopped working during dress rehearsal, and we really needed more than they had. They're planning on buying a few more in April, though."

"That'll be good. I take it you're going."

"To the after party? Of course!" He said, picking up the box and tucking it under his arm. "Cara would kill me if I didn't. Besides, I'm sure the techies don't need me to help reset the lighting rig tomorrow. Why? Weren't you going to come? You could bring Amy. I know you two haven't been able to spend much time together recently."

I shrugged. "I dunno. Thought I might have an early night for once. Haven't had enough sleep for while. You know how it is."

"You can have an early night tomorrow," he said, looking at me quizzically. "Is something wrong?"

"No, should there be?" I said, evasively. I tripped down the stairs back towards the stage.

"Mel. Are you having a fight with Amy?"

"Nope," I jumped up on the stage and Sandy passed me the box. "She dumped me. She decided she wasn't interested in a relationship. She was just after sex."

Sandy looked aghast. "When did this happen?"

"Oh, Wednesday before last," I said, deliberately casual. I shifted the weight of the box onto a hip.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, sounding a little hurt.

"It wasn't that important," I lied, avoiding eye contact. "Besides, you've been busy with director-y things. Had actors to deal with. Jarryd."

"Mel." He took the box out of my hands and set it down on the stage. He folded me into a bear hug. I could tell I was about to start crying, which I really wasn't planning on doing in front of the whole theatre. I stepped back and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes to stop the tears.

"I'm fine," I sniffled, glaring at a curious stagehand who had ventured into my line of sight. "Must have picked up that cold going around the crew."

"Mmhmm," he said, not at all convinced. "Look, come anyway. Keep Cara and me amused. Get completely pissed and forget her, okay? She doesn't realise what she's missing." He squeezed my shoulder.

"I know." I picked up the box and headed backstage. "I can't get to the party, though. My sister took the car tonight. I was planning on walking home. Maybe taking a taxi."

"I'll drive you. I said that before," said Sandy. "Come on. We'll have fun, I promise." He gave me puppy dog eyes and I gave up. He's the only person who can get away with that with me.

"All right," I smiled. "But promise me you won't let me get ridiculously drunk."

"I promise," he said with his usual rakish grin. "But what's your definition of ridiculously drunk? Is it before or after you start Cossack dancing?"

"Before," I said, firmly. "Definitely before. I couldn't walk properly for two days after last time."

"It was pretty funny."

"I'm sure it was. Buggered my muscles to hell, though." I put the box down by the roller door at the back of the theatre. A van was parked outside, and bits of set were being packed into it. Sandy gave me one of his Significant Looks, and I turned around to find a young woman in the stage crew uniform of black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and she was carrying a clipboard. "Lou. Hi."

Louise was our assistant stage manager; a far, far nicer person than Tania, although admittedly that wasn't saying much. "Hey. Will you guys clean the dressing rooms? One of you needs to vacuum, the other can wipe down the benches and mirrors."

"I'll vacuum," volunteered Sandy.

"Oh, goody. I get to clean up the lipstick marks from the mirrors. Thanks a lot, Sand."

"It's not that bad," sympathised Lou. "Really pretty clean considering. And I had to clean up after Michael last night, so consider yourself lucky."

"Oh, yeah, heard about that. My sympathies."

"What happened?" asked Sandy.

"Bad souvlaki," Lou said, with a grimace. "Well, I've got to go and help put away the set."

"Not coming to the after party, then?" Sandy asked Lou's retreating back.

"Oh, I'm coming," she smiled over her shoulder. "I just need a lift. I'm hoping Tania will give me a ride."

"You can ride with us," said Sandy quickly. "There's still space in my car."

"Sure," Lou said. "I'll meet you out the back after the bump-out."

"What was that all about?" I asked my smirking colleague.

"Please. You're so transparent. Besides, she so wants you," he said with a grin.

"She's so straight," I countered.

"Like a tree full of monkeys on nitrous oxide!"

"Don't get my hopes up," I said, picking up a cloth and the bottle of methylated spirits. "Besides, she's got ex-boyfriends. You know Creepy Ted the sound tech? She went out with him last year."

"You have ex-boyfriends," Sandy pointed out, following me into the first dressing room.

I paused and considered this for a moment. This fact was my last hope in my casual pursuit of Lou. "Well, I haven't had any for awhile," I said. "I haven't made a habit of it."

Sandy plugged in the vacuum. It was an ancient General Electric one, and looked like a cartoon nuclear waste drum on wheels. None of your elegant modernism here; its paint scheme was pumpkin yellow and seventies brown. "Maybe she's bi then," he suggested. "I still reckon there's chemistry there. In fact, I'd bet on it. I bet you a movie tomorrow that something happens between you two tonight."

I tipped some metho onto the cloth. "Be more specific. A big, knock-down argument is something happening between us."

"All right. I predict that something romantic and/or lewd will go on between the two of us tonight, at least (but not limited to) a kiss, at the very least."

"Will you buy me popcorn and a drink if you lose?"

"Depends," he said. "Will you?"

"Depends how badly I lose," I said with a wicked smile.

"All right, likewise. See? There's no actual downside. If I win, you'll have the rare situation of being glad you lost. And if you win the bet, and she doesn't do anything, you'll get to cry on my shoulder and we'll go see a sappy chick flick."

"Sandy," I said with mock exasperation. "You're the only person I go to see sappy chick flicks with. You're usually the one who wants to see them. Remember how you had to drag me with you to see 'City of Angels'?"

"You ended up enjoying it, you know you did," said Sandy, with a smile.

"I didn't!"

"You did. You cried at the end. I had to give you a tissue."

"I had something in my eye."

"For fifteen minutes?"

"Yes!"

He laughed. "Sure. But this is a moot point anyway, because she is so going to jump you at the after party."

"I hope so." I gave a small sigh. "It seems a little unlikely, though. She's pretty reserved. And underneath my playful, boyish, yet oddly charming and sexy exterior, I'm a bit shy myself."

"You don't say!" said Sandy, giving a gasp of pretend surprise. "Move your foot, there's a love. I want to vacuum under that bit of bench."

"You know, for a straight guy, you certainly act pretty gay."

"It's one of my nicer qualities," he said with a graceful incline of his head. "I'm just an incredibly good-looking lesbian trapped in the body of a man."

I grinned. "That must be why I find you so incredibly attractive."

"You mean it's not merely my amazingly good looks and witty repartee?" he said, grinning back.

"Nope, it's your lesbianity, it's gotta be."

"Is that even a word?" he asked through the laughter.

"It is now."

"God, I'd love to drop that one into everyday conversation. 'By the way, Mrs Wilson, that's a wonderful lesbianity you have there. It suits your antique dining table down to a tee.'"

"'Ma'am, I'm the meter reader. I've come to measure your lesbianity.'"

"Oh, god, don't even get me started on meter readers," said Sandy, unplugging the vacuum cleaner and trying to wheel it into the other dressing room. It handled as easily as a drunken supermarket trolley. "One came to read the meter last week and he had the hairiest backside I've ever seen."

"Don't tell me how you found out because I don't want to know," I said, rubbing at the waxy eyebrow pencil marks on a mirror.

"He was wearing low-riding jeans!" protested Sandy.

"Sure," I said. "Well, the anatomically inaccurate drawings of genitalia on the mirror certainly show that this was a male dressing room. I bet this one was Jarryd's work."

"It certainly has something of his style," said Sandy, eyeing it critically. "A certain nouveau playground chic." He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Anyway, how do you know they're anatomically incorrect? You're gay. You told me that none of your relationships with guys progressed that far."

"They didn't! I've seen pictures." Sandy started to snigger. "In books!"

"You're not helping your case at all, here."

I glared. "In biology books. I did do it in high school, you know. You have a filthy mind."

"I was trained by the best," he said, touching an imaginary forelock.

"You great trotting nonce," I laughed.

"I am not!"

"You are so!"

"All right," he said, crossing his arms in mock indignation. "How am I a nonce?"

I crossed it off on my fingers. "You like musicals."

"That's my parents' fault! They're the ones with the musical theatre background. That was bound to happen. Anyway, so do you!"

"I'm a girl. It's allowed," I said mildly. "You have a heavy involvement in theatre in general."

"Again, my parents' fault. Besides, you can be straight and be in the theatre."

"It seems to be rare. And, well, you're a little camp...in the same way that the sea is a bit wet. And you mince."

"I do not!" Sandy pouted. "It's a manly walk."

"Sure. Manly. Uh huh..."

"It is."

"Fine. I believe you. You do play netball and softball, though."

"So? It keeps me in shape. What's your point?"

"They're girly sports."

"Mel, you astound me! Deep down, you're just a sexist pig, aren't you? Reinforcing sexual stereotypes like that. What would the Lesbian Club have to say about that?"

I ignored him. "There are other things as well. You dance enthusiastically. You colour-coordinate your outfits well. You have a penchant for PVC."

He paused, trying to think of a counter. "I don't like ABBA, though."

"Only because your father has a tendency to dance around semi-naked to it." We both shuddered at the mental image of Sandy snr (a mountain of a man with an angry strawberry for a nose) dancing around semi-naked. He had a bad habit of wandering through the house in boxer shorts. "Quite frankly, if I'd been introduced to ABBA by a semi-naked parent, I'd loathe them too. That doesn't negate your poncyness. Besides, you like chick flicks. I don't like most chick flicks."

"Oh, come on! Tell me you don't think Julia Roberts is attractive!"

"Maybe a little," I conceded. "You can definitely keep Meg Ryan, though. She's cute, but you know I don't fancy blondes."

"Good thing Lou's a brunette, then, isn't it?" said Sandy, slyly. He held the dressing room door open and tried to kick the vacuum cleaner through. It fell over and lay there rather forlornly, wheels spinning.

"Oh, for crying out loud, Grant..." I set the thing upright. "You use your foot to push it through the door." I demonstrated. The vacuum cleaner did not fall over, but sailed through, trailing its suction tube like a trunk.

"My apologies," said Sandy. "I'll concede that I may be a nonce. But I promise you this much, Edwards, I do not trot. It's more of a gambol."

"You two are insane," said Lou, who seemed to have been waiting for us. "Get a move on, pretty much everyone else has left. Toni found the necklace, by the way. It was under someone's bag."

"Well, that's reassuring," said Sandy. "That's one less thing to worry about. Just let me put this away in the storage cupboard, and we'll be off. If you want to wait in the car, go ahead," he added, tossing his keys to me with a knowing smile.

I caught them expertly, and raised an eyebrow. "A pink fluffy key ring? You're so gay, Sand."

"Yeah, so all the boys on the football team used to tell me."

"Were you teased much?" Lou asked.

"Oh, no, we were great pals," said Sandy loftily. "I must have spent...ooh, minutes at a time behind the bike shed with them. One at a time, of course."

Louise laughed.

"I've just got to get my bag," I said. "Give me a moment, I left it in one of the dressing rooms."

"I'll wait here." She swung her backpack onto both shoulders and headed over to the storage cupboard to help Sandy manoeuvre the vacuum cleaner inside. I headed side stage back to the dressing rooms, and picked up my backpack. Turning on a tap, I splashed a bit of cold water on my hair and tried to comb it back into something approximating neatness.

Neither Lou or Sandy were backstage when I arrived there a minute or so later. I assumed they must be waiting for me in the car park. I headed out the open back door, and took the back fire escape stairs two at a time and dropping onto the concrete next to Louise.

"Where's Sandy?"

"He's locking up the front of the theatre. He'll be here in a minute. Was that your impression of a herd of drunken elephants?"

"What?" I was completely lost.

"I would have known you were coming if I was blind. You thump up and down stairs like you have a personal vendetta against them. What have the stairs ever done to you?"

"I do not thump," I said. I glowered at her, but she just laughed. I tried the hurt puppy look instead, which evoked the same reaction.

"Come on, open up the car. It's freezing out here."

Sandy's car was the only car left in the small car park. I fumbled with the keys and opened the door. "After you."

"Thanks." She threw her bag across the back seat. It bounced once, then landed on the floor. She slid in after it. I tossed the keys onto the front seat and climbed in after her, somewhat less gracefully.

"So, are you doing anything after this?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You mean after the after party?"

"Um, no...I meant next semester." I could feel my cheeks growing hot. Please don't let me be blushing, I thought fervently.

"Oh. Well, Michael Fielden asked me to stage manage a play he's doing at uni. What are you doing after the after party?"

"I...don't know..."

She leant forward and brushed aside a lock of hair from my face, and then she kissed me.

"I wish I'd done that earlier," she said.

"What stopped you?"

She gave me a slightly puzzled smile. "You were going out with Amy, weren't you?"

"Oh, yeah," I said, slightly embarrassed. "I think we both knew that wasn't going anywhere for a little while. She broke up with me over the phone last week. Called me in the middle of The Panel."

She laid a hand on my knee. "I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter," I said, with a sad little laugh. A thought struck me. "But how did you know I wasn't going out with her any more? I didn't tell anyone. I only told Sandy tonight."

"I told Sandy ages ago that I liked you." She smiled. Something about her smile made me turn around. Sandy stood behind me, leaning on the open car door.

"Looks like you owe me that movie."

"You cheated, you bastard. That's insider trading. People have been shot on the stock market for less."

He just stood there grinning at me. "You promised. And I get to pick the movie."

I sighed, and turned back to Lou. "How'd you like to come with us to see a movie tomorrow?"

She gave a cute crooked half-smile. "I thought you'd never ask."

Comments

[corybantic.livejournal.com]

You are the uber!

that's all I think needs to be said...

hehe

Meter-reader....



Chocolate buiscuits.

[delirieuse.livejournal.com]

Jammy dodgers!

Wow.

[tycho.livejournal.com]

I like, I like !
Well done, Dani !
*lol* meter readers...
*ponders* Actually, you'd be surprised how easy it is to remove things from somebody's arse with industrial-grade lubricant. ... Or when they're dead and rigor-mortis sets in. Makes all the liquids nice and runny. Non-blood liquids that is.

Anyway, I think you should try to get that folio piece published or something. Try Farrago or something ! *applauds.*

Re: Wow.

[delirieuse.livejournal.com]

Okay, Tych:

Hyperbole pron: hy-per'-boh-lee (n): The use of exaggeration to make a point or for comic effect.

Besides, were we talking about removing regular items from people's arses? No, we were not. Were we talking about dead people here? No.
Thus your rhetoric is irrelevant.

But I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[shinyandnat.livejournal.com]

I do like sweety! My only complaint would be that everything happened in a bang at the end, but other wise, it's all good.

*mwah!* Love you!

[delirieuse.livejournal.com]

Yeh, it's the whole "I really, really want to go to bed now, and I've spent over 3,500 words building this thing up..." thing. :)

Love you too. *hugs*

Re:

[shinyandnat.livejournal.com]

I thought so *grins*

*big hugs*