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Stories
Support pulseHEAD.com, and get some free money too. (THIS SPACE AVAILABLE)FICTION SUBMITTED BY TToM AT 2008.11.17 03:28 PM | VIEWED 125 TIMES
CONTENT
(Dedicated to friends in low places.)
?We owe it to each other to tell stories?
Neil Gaiman
?Sometimes where you stand isn?t as important as the way you face?
Granny Weatherwax
This is a story about stories. This is a story about the real story. The behind the scenes story. By that I don?t mean it?s about the origins of a story. I don?t even mean it?s about the original story before they changed it and twisted it and cleaned it up so that they wouldn?t feel embarrassed when reading Sleeping Beauty to their children. Rape is not something parents want to be reading out loud at bed time.
No, none of these is what this story is about. This story is about smoke and mirrors. About guard number 3 who sidles off and becomes peasant with torch only to return, a scant scene later, as the guard again just in time to get a heroes sword through the sternum and who has to sew his own costume.
This is about the rope pullers and the stage dressers and the guy who thinks everything can be fixed if you put enough silvery tape across the two bits. His name is probably Alf. He certainly has acres of butt-crack.
This is a story about the people who make sure the whole thing happens.
Ignore the flashy mummers emoting their way across a brightly lit stage. In the scheme of things they play only a small part in reality. Most of the real work is done by the people you never see. The ones dressed in sensible clothes who have never once used the word ?prithee? in anger and wouldn?t even know what a prithee was if it drank the last beer.
You can be certain they wouldn?t be happy about it though.
It was that time of year when the days were getting longer and warmer. When any normal and sane species is out basking in the sun and looking for a suitably willing individual of the opposite sex to engage in the age-old rituals of procreation with.
Which is why most humans spend this time indoors. Sanity not being that particular species strong point.
The irony then of being in a dingy theatre painting a sunny woodland scene onto a backdrop was not entirely lost on John Harker. Although being of that most foolish of species instead of throwing his paintbrush down and punching someone really hard in the face for wasting his precious life he just got on with it.
At the moment John was entertaining himself with the fact that he had managed to conceal no less than fifteen cunningly disguised penises within the landscape. Just because you?re a member of a race of dullards doesn?t mean you can?t have a sense of humour.
?Hey fangs! Came a cry from the stage to his left. John sometimes wished he associated with people who were a bit more educated so that they didn?t keep making inaccurate Dracula references just because his name was John Harker. Or even more preferably a bit less educated so that they had never even read the damn book.
?Yes Rich?? replied John ?What is it?? he turned to see Richard Drake, fellow peon, halfway out of the trapdoor.
?I?ll bet you we could get Alf to set up a web cam under here. Then we could see right up that bird you fancies skirt!?
Richard grinned like a Chess Grand-Master laying down a long-planned check.
The ?bird? in question was one Lilly Cameron. Actress and leading lady in the performances over the coming nights.
As far as John was concerned she was an unapproachable beauty. A sylphian nymph. Fragile and out of reach.
To everyone else she was a first class bitch with the personality of a glass bottle across the face and about as welcome.
John wanted to voice how disgusted he was that Richard could even think to do such a thing. That his intentions were such that they would never leave room for a thought of that sort. Mostly though he wanted to say that even if such a thing were to be done he wouldn?t let filth mongers like Richard and Alf the electrician to view the woman he held so high.
Of course this kind of thing can never be put into words, especially by someone as shy as John was. So he contented himself by throwing the paint stirring spoon at Richards head, scoring an indirect hit with a deflection off of the right shoulder.
Richard cackled his glee at this reaction and ducked back down into the bowels of the stage.
John stood, knees complaining at having been in the same position for too long, and walked onto the stage. He retrieved the spoon.
It says a lot about John?s character that he did not take the opportunity to blast out a few lines of Hamlet while on the middle of the stage. There are many back stagers who are simply there because they are awful actors who, being unable to let go and just accept their mediocrity, have drifted down to the only part of the stage they are allowed to occupy.
John was not one of those. He had no aspirations to tread the boards. He has simply found a job where no one shouted at you much and that he vaguely enjoyed.
He was just adding the finishing touches to the bottom of the backdrop (some wildflowers and ferns. Cleverly disguised phalluses: two) when Ugly Mick wandered up the stairs.
Ugly Mick had ?earned? his moniker by being one of the ugliest people ever to walk the face of the planet. Richard had once commented that Mick ?Looked as if a bulldog had really pissed off Joe Frazier and come off worst in three rounds?
No one said nicknames ever had to be clever. Or nice.
?All right Nosferatu?? quipped Mick as he reached the top of the steps. He was covered in sawdust, no doubt from some new piece of scenery. John sighed at the ?joke?
?Nearly done?? asked Mick, taking a step back and taking in the backdrop.
?Just finished? answered John standing up again. He was dwarfed by Ugly Mick. John wasn?t particularly short, Mick was particularly tall. ?So that people didn?t have to look right at his face? Richard said.
?Good stuff. Bloody good trees on the left there, bit wonky on the right but who can tell down amongst the scum?
He meant of course the theatre patrons.
?Anyway? he said ?Everything?s pretty much done, so fuck this place, it?s a nice day, lets go down the pub.?
?Did I hear the magic word?? came a muffled voice below their feet. Richard poked his head up from the trapdoor. Dust from a hundred performances raining down into the basement smeared his face.
?You did indeed Richard the Turd, you did indeed? replied Mick ?What are you doing down there anyway??
?Bloody trapdoor?s sticking again. Shoddy carpentry if you ask me? said Richard. ?You just can?t get the staff these days?
?Cheeky sod? said Mick, flipping Richard a rude gesture ?Get out of that pit and get our coats. Course won?t make much difference to your height.?
Richard grinned and hauled himself out just as Alf walked onto the stage. He was the company?s electrician and as such he was covered in plasters and smelly permanently of burnt hair. And, yes, he had acres of butt-crack.
?Goin? t? pub?? he asked as he wandered up. Alf always seemed to magically appear whenever the P word was mentioned.
?Yup? said Mick ?Nice day. Might as well have a few jars. Get away from this depressing hole?
?Aye? replied Alf.
Richard appeared carrying the coats of all four men. They all stood for a second, arms crossed, looking at John?s handiwork. Even Richard was silent for all of a minute and a half. Practically a record.
?Nice trees? said Richard eventually
?Aye? said Alf ?Bit wonky on t? right there mind.?
John shrugged. There was another moments silence.
?Here? said Alf pointing ?Is that a cock??
?No? said John hurriedly ?Come on. Firsts rounds mine.?
And so of they went, trailing paint, dust, wood chips and burnt hair respectively. Moving from one darkened room on a beautiful summers day to another just as dark room where beer was served, as their species was wont to do.
In the scheme of things there are worse ways to spend ones life.
And maybe, on a galactic scale, hell even on a local scale, these people didn?t matter.
Maybe their story isn?t as important as the guy with the spangly tights and the words written down for him.
Maybe its more important.
In the long run it would all be the same anyway, whether you?re the guy in the limelight or the sod in the dirty overalls.
And perhaps that?s not such a bad thing at all.
RATING: 5
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