The Man I Love (The Fish Tales, #1)(9)
True to Leo’s prediction, the booms were hung in no time and hoisted to attention in the wings when the dancers arrived. They were all somewhat sloppily dressed. None of the girls had their pointe shoes on and a lot of them wore their hair down.
“Business casual,” David said.
Indeed, the company exuded more the air of a pajama party than a rehearsal. As the lights were being designed and focused and the cues recorded, the dancers had little to do but stand in the generalized areas of each piece’s choreography and be bored.
Erik quickly learned dancers hated nothing more than standing still and being bored.
Meanwhile, eight boom stands divvied among six techs and two ladders meant a constant do-si-do backstage and across the stage. The potential to trip over something or someone was a constant threat. Multiplied by the seven Bach Variations over two hours, and Erik began to wish he’d eaten a more substantial lunch.
He was paired up with Allison, who had a maddening habit of saying “okey-dokey” to everything and a tendency to zone out when she was holding the ladder. Plus they always seemed to end up with the ladder with the uneven feet.
Up the ladder, down the ladder, move the ladder. Wait for the dancers to move. Wait while Leo brought lights up, brought lights down. Wait for Marie to make an agonizing decision and for Leo to translate her decision into focus. Swivel the lights into place. Wait for Marie to look and decide if she liked it. Shutter the lenses, bolt everything down. Keep the lights off the floor. Keep the lights off the curtains. Erik swore if he heard “Move it a quarter inch” one more time, he would stick a screwdriver in his eye.
“You’re on the floor, move it a quarter inch up. Now you’re on the curtain, take it quarter inch down. No, too much. Back it up. Just a hair. A tad. A smidgen. Just kiss it to the left. No, come back. Now hold it. Don’t move. Perfect. No, you moved it.”
They toiled and trudged on through each of the variations. Through it all, the dancers stood around. Most of them talked. Incessantly. If they had nothing of substance to say, they went for volume. One boy’s braying laugh made Erik wince and suppress a desire to throw a wrench in his general direction. He was getting decidedly punchy.
The non-talkers read books—Daisy was in this group—or sat and stretched, retreating into private universes. One girl was knitting, deftly stuffing needles and yarn down her shirt whenever she needed to move. A few kids actually looked like they were sleeping in five-minute increments, magically coming back to life whenever it was time to migrate. Will simply sat still, staring, in a Zen-like trance. Any moment Erik expected him to levitate right off the stage floor, but then Will would break out and stand on his head or do one-armed push-ups or something equally enviable.
As the lights were focused for the Siciliano pas de deux, Will and Daisy sat around together. Several times Erik walked by them, lugging the ladder and grudging their companionable chatter in French. At one point Will knelt beside Daisy, one arm curved around her chest, supporting her slumped weight, while with the other hand he pressed and kneaded all up and down the length of her spine. Daisy’s head lolled, eyes closed, a faint smile around her lips. Then Erik wanted to throw a slightly larger, considerably heavier object.
Like Allison.
Finally the ordeal wound down and Marie gave her flock twenty minutes. No such privilege was awarded the techs. They stayed up on the boom stands, tightening C-clamps, threading safety cables through the instrument yokes and securing them around the bar. A soft hand settled on Erik’s calf as he was working. He nearly flicked it off, thinking it was Allison. It was Daisy.
“Do you want me to bring you something to eat?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” he said automatically, and then felt the growling bite of his stomach. “Actually, yes, that would be great.”
“A sandwich all right?”
“Perfect. Anything.” Juggling wrench and cables he reached for his wallet but she waved him off.
“We can square up later.” She turned to go and smacked into David.
“Can I get a cheese steak, Marge?” he said. He said it sweetly but something in his manner was challenging. Erik had heard him refer to Daisy as Marge several times, but didn’t know why.
Daisy held out her hand, calmly locking eyes with David until he took out his wallet and gave her a twenty.
“Bring back the change this time,” he called after her, and then tossed a roll of gaffer tape up to Erik. “Chick thinks I’m made of money,” he said.
They hit the deck, dealing with the cables. Five snaked down from every boom stand and they had to be precisely lined up at the base and thoroughly taped to the Marley floor. “If a dancer trips on a loose cable,” Leo said, “I will blame you.”
Threatened, hungry and manic, Erik and David got progressively obsessive about the job, arguing about the best and least circuitous routes from the bases to the circuit panel. Yet for all their grouchiness, they worked well together. They chatted as they taped, about music, basketball and theater. Will passed by and pretended to peel up an edge of their sweated-over labors. David leapt up and gave ferocious chase through the wings, threatening to strangle Will with a safety cable.
And Daisy brought Erik the world’s most perfect turkey sandwich, a bag of potato chips and a brownie.
*
“Look how Tamar does this phrase,” Kees spoke lowly, leaning on the back of the seat beside Erik’s.