Getting Real

by Ainslie Paton

  “Jake, I get to do this don’t I?” asked Lizard, eagerness sending his eyebrows sailing up his forehead. “Man, I’d pay money to do this.”

  Jake was trying so hard not to lose it he could hardly answer. His voice came out all uneven. “Liz, if Tef has a brain explosion up there, you’ll have to do it every second night.”

  Lizard bounced on the balls of his feet. “I’m ready, Reedy, I’m ready.”

  Rielle had turned to face Teflon. She pushed him back to a seated position and stood between his legs. She put her hands on either side of his face and kissed him. Tef’s arms shot out and around her waist and Jake, Bodge, Bunk and Lizard groaned as she held that kiss far longer than they expected. Far longer than Tef would ever have dreamed possible.

  “It’s a two minute kiss,” said Jonas, still prone on the stage floor, “everything is timed.”

  Rielle released Teflon, who reeled as though he’d been hit in the head by something hard and signalled to Bodge. “Let’s do it with the cage extended.”

  Rielle and Teflon went through the routine with the cage extended several times, and then used a recording of the sound track to get the timing right. Tef was looking almost blasé about his part by the time Rielle called for a break. Jake felt like lying down beside Jonas and closing his eyes. They had to live through this two more times.

  “That’s how it’s done, Bunk,” Tef said, when he climbed out of the cage and swaggered over to the ground crew. He gave Bodge a high-five and got a slow clap from Jonas.

  “Next!” Rielle called from the cage, sounding like an impatient bank teller with a queue of customers on a Friday afternoon. She waited while Bunk climbed the rigging. “I hope you were watching.” She looked him up and down, making Bunk blush to the roots of his buzz cut.

  “Nicely does it,” called Teflon, proprietarily. “Be gentle, ya big mug.”

  “No fear. You’re in the hands of a master,” said Bunk to Rielle, puffing his chest out.

  “Oh yeah,” she said, hands on her hips. “Show me.”

  In the end, it was Rielle who showed Bunk how it was done. She moved him around like he was a plastic GI Joe doll, positioning him where she wanted him, placing his hands on her body and admonishing him to relax and concentrate at the same time. The more she worked with him the more wooden and anxious Bunk became, the more his confidence evaporated.

  On the ground, Jake shared a grimace with Bodge as Bunk became increasingly awkward, and Rielle got obviously annoyed. Meanwhile Tef wore a self-satisfied expression and Lizard a look of anxious expectation—if Bunk failed to deliver, he was a sure start.

  “No, no, no!” yelled Rielle, grabbing the railing and pretending to beat her head against it, her hair flying. She spun around, and centimetres from Bunk’s face shouted, “Jesus, I feel sorry for the women you fuck.”

  There was a collective wince, as every man in the near vicinity felt shorter, fatter, uglier and more outstandingly inept. The sounds of working got louder and more intense, and anyone who’d been loitering to watch drifted away. Jake only wished he could too. Somewhere there was a sandwich with his name on it begging to be eaten.

  Lizard looked at Tef. “Mate, she’s all yours.” But before he could slink off, Jake grabbed his t-shirt. “No, you don’t. Half an hour ago you were ready to sell your soul for this. Take it like a man, Liz.”

  Back in the cage, Bunk looked miserable. “I’m sorry.” He sat down hard on the bench making the cage bounce on its hydraulics.

  “Hopeless,” said Rielle. But then she surprised them all by climbing into Bunk’s lap, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him, first on the forehead and then on the lips.

  Bunk’s face registered some whacked out emotion beyond surprise, when she pulled back. “Was that so bad?” she said, kissing him softly again. “Now, let’s start at the beginning.”

  Jake shook his head in amazement. Rielle had flayed Bunk’s ego, then built him back up again. She could be a hellcat and a pussycat. Ex-army vet, Bunk had been putty in her hands from the moment he climbed in the cage.

  It was skinny, awkward, Lizard who got it right from the start, earning a friendly head rub from Rielle and a sigh of relief from Jake who wasn’t sure he could watch anymore of the choreographed mauling without it affecting his digestion—permanently.

  He was about to leave the stage when Rand appeared. “How long has she been up there?” he asked, looking down at Jonas, now asleep, and then back up at the cage.

  “Nearly two hours,” said Jake.

  Rand nodded. “Has she rehearsed everyone?”

  “Lizard’s the last.”

  “She throw anyone off the squad?”

  Jake laughed. “No.” He could imagine it.

  “Lucky,” said Rand. “Last time we did this she rejected half the potentials in the first fifteen minutes.”

  “Ah,” said Jake. “We are lucky then.” If you discounted the embarrassment Bunk had suffered and still would, with hundreds of opportunities to be ribbed about his lack of sexual prowess over the tour schedule.

  The two men stood and watched Rielle instruct Lizard on precisely where he should place his hands and how long he could leave them there.

  “How does it feel?” asked Jake.

  “What do you mean?” said Rand.

  “If that was my sister up there, rock goddess and all, I’m not sure I’d be able to watch.”

  Rand didn’t respond and Jake kicked himself for the comment. It was too personal, none of his business. And after yesterday’s screw up, so foot in mouth. “Ah, sorry Rand, I meant no offence.”

  “No. Fair question. All I can say is she knows precisely what she’s doing, and she’s wearing her armour.”

  Jake cocked an eyebrow. “Armour?”

  “Yeah. She’s covered in it. Rarely takes it off. Nothing dents her. Come get me when she’s done, will you?”

  “Sure,” Jake responded, but he was distracted by the concept of chain mail and bullet-proof vests. Rielle was wearing flimsy cotton and not much of it. There were the tattoos and piercings, the makeup, lime green nails and all that multicoloured hair, but armour?

  Then he thought about how she used her body, how deliberate her moves were, how cutting her glance was and how her tongue was a weapon of mass humiliation. Rand was right, his sister wore armour, and her tough girl attitude was her greatest defence.

  7. Trapeze

  “Reedy, we’ve got a snafu,” said Teflon. “You’d better come.”

  Jake was sorting through venue booking correspondence and ticket sales information in the crew cafe. He looked up. “How big?”

  “No so much big,” said Tef, scratching his head.

  “What then?”

  “High.”

  Jake groaned. It had to be the trapeze. It had to be another thing to do with heights. “Where’s Bodge?” he asked, already moving.

  Tef came after him at a slow jog. “He’s tried everything. We need a new part.”

  Jake stopped. “Okay, so how’s that a situation that requires me?”

  “Er, it’s stuck.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Rielle.”

  Jake went cold, forgotten lump of meat at the bottom of the freezer cold. “You’re telling me she went up on the trapeze and it got stuck.”

  “Ah. Well, yeah.”

  “Shit, why didn’t you say that?” He took off at a run.

  Jake could hear Rielle before he saw her. She was cursing Bodge, Bunk and anyone else in earshot with language that could make a sailor doing the rounds of Kings Cross strip joints blush. When he pushed through the crowd of roadies and techies on stage, he could see she was strapped in a harness, suspended thirty metres above the stage floor. Like way up there. Shit, shit, shit.

  He moved to stand directly beneath her, sucking up the instant hit of vertigo. “Hi,” he called, “don’t worry, we’ll get you down.”

  “What are you—a fucking magician? They’ve been trying to fucking get me down
for the last fifteen fucking minutes!” she shouted, the trapeze swinging.

  Jake turned to Bodge. “Fifteen minutes?” Blood was pooling in his feet and his hands had started tingling.

  “More like ten Reedy, but feels like hours.” Bodge groaned, wiping his hand across a sweaty forehead.

  “She’s been yelling the whole time?” He glanced up. His arms came out to his sides looking for something to hold onto as his brain sent out the panic signal.

  “Just about.”

  “What do we need?”

  “A new part. The pulley system is stuffed.”

  “How long?”

  “Least another half hour. I’ve got someone on the road to the supplier now.”

  He shook out his hands. “Shit.” At least his voice wasn’t shaking. Though there was time for that.

  “Yeah. Maybe longer than half an hour.”

  “Shit. Okay, clear everyone who isn’t essential from the area, last thing she needs is an audience.”

  Bodge nodded, then roared, “Fuck off all of you. Take a forty minute break.”

  “Forty minutes!” screamed Rielle, as roadies downed tools and fled in all directions. “Fucking get me down now!”

  This was bad. Getting your talent stuck thirty metres above the stage the day before the first show of their global tour was worse than bad—it was career suicide. “Is there no way to bring her down, Bodge?” He knew what he’d have to do, but it wasn’t going to save his job, or his sanity.

  “Not without causing a truckload more damage we don’t have time to fix. It’s a two dollar part, that’s all we need.”

  “And we didn’t have spares?”

  “No. One of Tim’s fairy boys borrowed a part and didn’t replace it. I’m on him like a rash.”

  Jake sighed. There was time for head kicking later. Assuming he was still around to do it. Right now he needed to do something to stop his rock goddess sacking the lot of them from her throne on high. “Is the second trapeze working?”

  “Yeah, up but not down. Same problem with the pulley motor.” Bodge shrugged. “What’re you thinking?”

  “Someone has to go up there with her and wait it out.”

  “That someone is not me, Reedy.” Bodge shook his head. “I’m twice as heavy as it’s rated for.”

  “I know.” Jake swallowed the fleeing brain matter that was lodged in his throat. His hands were completely numb now and he couldn’t feel his toes either. “I’m the guinea pig. I’m the sacrificial lamb. It has to be me.”

  Bodge gasped. “You’re not serious, mate? After what happened in the nose bleeds?”

  He nodded. “Who else is going to satisfy her?”

  “I hope this works out but if not, I’ve enjoyed working with you, Reedy.” Bodge offered his hand to shake, half in jest, half in acknowledgement Jake might find himself looking for a new gig tomorrow.

  He swallowed again and closed his eyes. He tried to steady his stomach, already rioting. “If I don’t make it back, tell my mother I love her very much,” he said, making Bodge roar with laughter. Nice someone still could.

  “Any of you fuckers doing anything to get me down except standing around having a giggle and a cup of fucking tea?” yelled Rielle, kicking her legs, making the trapeze swing.

  She was harnessed by her waist and could pivot three hundred and sixty degrees. She could hang face down, feet up. She could lie horizontal on her back, and her front. She could swing back and forth, but she could not come down without a new part for the pulley motor installed, and she was supposed to be at a radio station interview in thirty minutes.

  The good thing was, he’d probably die up there and not have to deal with it any further.

  When Jake was strapped in the second harness and gripping the cables so hard the muscles in his shoulders and neck went plastic hard, Bodge said formally, as though this was a suicide rescue mission, “Good luck, mate,” and flicked the switch on the pulley mechanism.

  Six seconds later, gut sick and sweating Jake was suspended alongside Rielle and she was still yelling.

  “If you’re the cavalry then I’m truly fucked!” She dropped her legs so they were pointing down to the ground the same as Jake’s.

  “I’m just the lamb.” He locked his eyes on her face. This was way worse than the cheap seats. He barely had spit to speak. His head spun and the crashing sound in his ears he knew wasn’t real almost drowned out any logical thought.

  “You’re a fool, that’s what you are. How is having you here, you of all fuckwits, helping me?”

  Jake didn’t respond. He closed his eyes, and concentrated on slowing his erratic breathing. He wasn’t sure what she’d said; words—angry words—but at least they were directed at him, not a spray at the whole crew.

  She said something else that sounded more like an animal noise than language and then was quiet. All he could hear was the roaring in his ears and the click and twang of her harness revolving in its traces as she moved about.

  Rielle faced the trembling, tense body of her tour manager. He wasn’t laughing now. He had his eyes screwed shut and his skin was a grey colour and slathered in sweat. This was the second time she’d seen him look like this in two days and both times he’d done it to himself. She tried to imagine how that felt—to be scared to the point of shutting down, and yet do the thing that terrified you most, and do it in front of people whose respect you needed.

  She rotated in the harness to lie flat on her stomach and reached out to touch his shoulder. He flinched under her hand and his eyes flew open. “Shit.”

  “Yeah,” she said.

  They floated like that for a few minutes. Rielle on her stomach and Jake upright. His eyes never left hers; though she wasn’t sure he was really seeing her, just not seeing anything else. “You’re a mad bastard, Jake Reed. I can’t imagine why you thought coming up here was a good idea.”

  He coughed. It was a desperately unhappy sound from deep in his chest. “You needed someone to make mince meat of.”

  She grinned at him. “But I could’ve minced you from on high you know.”

  “Yep.”

  “So?” He was mad. He was the willing sacrifice to her rage. The lion tamer without a whip and his feet in cement, the bull rider without a glove to hold the rope and no rodeo clown to run interference. No one did that. They all let her growl and claw and maul and buck and no one except Rand got in her way. Who was this guy?

  “I thought it’d be more satisfying for you to do it face to face.”

  “You’re pathetic!” He wasn’t pathetic, but sweating and shaking, jaw clenched and white knuckled, he was something she’d not come across before.

  “I thought of that as well,” he said.

  Rielle barked out a laugh and pushed away from him, making both their trapezes sway backwards.

  Jake yelped and grabbed for her but his motion tipped him backwards in the harness, rotating him until he was head down, legs up. He yelled and gripped the upright cables, but had no idea how to right himself. Rielle’s laughter got caught in her windpipe the second she realised she’d tipped Jake over. She put her hand on his calf and pushed him and when his legs swung down, she was ready to stop him rotating again. She caught him with both hands on his shoulders, and braced against him. She pulled her trapeze and his closer together. Now he couldn’t tip, unless she let go.

  “Jake, I’m sorry.” She felt terrible she’d caused him this additional terror. “You won’t fall. I’ve got you. I’m not falling either. We’re okay.” He was unresponsive, so she said, “Jake, can you hear me?” putting her hand on his forehead. He was burning up and his chest was pumping with quick breaths. He’d fused both hands to the cables.

  “Give me your hand. Jake, I want you to slow down, breathe deeper. Give me your hand.” She pried his right hand off the cable and held tight. His other hand grabbed for her, his fingers digging into her bicep.

  She took his right hand and placed it over her chest. “Jake, breathe with me.”
>
  They stayed like that. Rielle’s arm numbing, bruising from Jake’s grip. His other hand spread across the top of her chest, feeling her steady intake and exhale of breath, until he stopped panting, breathed in time with her, and opened his eyes.

  At least Jake wasn’t a bore. He was a freak, that’s for sure. But he did have crazy courage. Completely useless, foolish courage—something she understood. So she couldn’t sack him now. She was stuck with him, unless he did something truly awful, and if he could put himself willingly through this for the tour, he could probably handle anything.

  “Pathetic,” she said, but she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and held him steady.

  “Totally.” He gasped.

  “You’re no Godzilla, but you’re not sacked, so you’re going to have to recover.” He didn’t look like that would ever be possible. He looked like a candidate for heart surgery, followed by a padded cell. She tucked his head down onto her shoulder. “You’re an idiot, Jake Reed.”

  “That’s now official,” he mumbled into her cotton shirt.

  “I want the person who screwed up.”

  “That’s me. My tour. My screw up.”

  “God, you’re stupid.” Did they think she didn’t know what happened? “I want the guy who took the part and didn’t replace it.”

  “Okay.” Jake wasn’t sure what he’d just agreed to, but he’d give Rielle anything right now, so long as she kept on holding him. She was this tiny fairy girl but she was holding him up, holding him together.

  He had no inkling how long they floated up there; it might’ve been years. He was exhausted, but when the trapezes started moving, he lifted his head and pulled away from Rielle, holding her at arm’s length. She’d long since stopped yelling, but he knew this wasn’t over.

  He opened his mouth to apologise. To say something that would make this mess seem less careless and unprofessional, but she put her hand over his it. “Shut up, Jake.”