Page 5 of Echoes in the Storm
Unlike tonight. Friday night shows are always the busiest, but isn’t that what I love the most? The noise? The distraction? The barely contained chaos?
I drop my kit bag inside the door, checking once more up the driveway for any signs of the old sedan or Shane. Chances are, the traveller will be gone by the time I’ve eaten, my cousin having given him the usual once-over and passive-aggressive warning. He doesn’t keep getting awards for the town’s best cop for no reason. The people of Burbank feel safe as long as Shane’s on the beat, and that’s all thanks to his take-no-shit attitude.
I stand in the kitchen, staring into the fridge while I decide on what to eat. The rest of the backstage crew get together at the local pub for a meal between the matinee and evening show—a ritual of sorts. Sometimes I join them, but since Jared dropped the bomb about the house on me last week, I’ve found myself spending more and more time here when I can, absorbing the memories in small, unhealthy doses.
I put myself through the same torturous routine as I do every night, pulling the plastic child’s bowl out as I prepare my basic packet meal in the microwave. The matching half-size spoon means it takes me twice as long to eat my pasta, but again, that’s okay, because it’s all a part of the process.
Of the healing.
Of ripping the wound back open straight after.
Of never forgetting.
I tidy up and restock my kit bag with essentials: water to rehydrate, and snacks for intermission. The sun has set by the time I lock up and make my way back to the car, the dark overtaking the world and transforming it into something infinitely more intimate, more mysterious.
My favourite time of day.
I pull the car around and head down the driveway, glancing to my left as I prepare to pull out onto the road with all intentions of settling my nerves by proving that the beaten-down car has long since left.
Only, it’s still there. As is its occupant. Except he’s not inside the old Holden anymore—he’s seated on the roof.Odd.
I should go over and see if he needs help, ask if he’s okay. But not only has Shane already been there, done that, but I can tell, even from this distance, that the guy is more than capable of holding his own against the monsters of the night thanks to his jacked size. Anyway, if I muck around with him, I’ll be late for pre-show checks, which would involve justifying why to our stage manager. And her wrath is not the kind of attitude I have the time or patience to deal with this week.
Steering right instead, I try my best to act ignorant to the fact the roadside creeper is still there. Yet as I drive up the road, I find myself spending more time looking in the rear-view than I do at where I’m headed.
A fine metaphor for my life.
**
“Jesus, Cammie. You almost didn’t make it.”
Our sound technician, Bevan, holds the stage door open for me as I stuff my grey cardigan into my bag, leaving me all decked out in black.
“Hey,” I say as I dart down the stairs to join the rest of the crew in the first dressing room. “At least it would have given you lot some entertainment, huh?”
With a name like Mary, you might be forgiven for thinking our stage manager is a sweet lady, but there’s nothing sweet about her rock-solid five-foot-four stature. With earplugs that could be mistaken for counterweights, and a short, choppy hairstyle that screams “I will fuck you up”, she commands the space with nothing short of tyrannical charm.
“Doodles!” she greets, using the nickname she gave me the first time she spotted my extensive ink work. “Glad you could make it back.”
Given how I’ve barely managed to scrape in on time, it was definitely a good thing I didn’t head over and check on the random car and driver. “I missed you too much, Mary. Couldn’t stay away.”
She gives me a sly smirk, and then turns to address the group. Crew members all run through their routines as Mary outlines the same rules as she does every time, adding on performance notes taken from the last show. Our riggers strap their gloves; the lighting technician making scribbled notes on his jotter as Mary gives him pointers about cues that need tightening up. The runners check each other’s outfits over, ensuring they’re still completely blacked out, our youngest member tucking his green-tipped hair beneath a black knitted beanie.
Satisfied we’re all suitably threatened into making sure the show goes off without a hitch, Mary sends us to our stations. I make my way toward front-of-house with Bevan and our other spotlight operator, Susie.
“Kelly came into the pub,” Bevan states, his head down. “Probably a good thing you went home for dinner.”
“Yeah?” I try to act aloof, but they both know how relieved that near-miss will make me. Small-town gossip doesn’t allow for many secrets.
“She said Jared paid you a visit last week,” Susie adds. “Seemed real happy about it.”
“Bet the bitch did.” The three of us round the steps that lead up to the balcony and our stations.
“You haven’t seen him in ages, though.” Bevan glances across at me.
Rehearsals, especially technical ones when we have to fine-tune our sequences and cues, leave a lot of time for chatting over the headsets. A lot.
“Nope.” I pull my gloves and water from my bag, and then tuck it beneath Bevan’s sound desk. “He wants me to sell the house.”