by Bev Robitai
Body on the Stage
Bev Robitai
Copyright belongs to Bev Robitai
Chapter One
Dennis Dempster reached for the curved bronze door handle in front of him. He paused.
“Excuse me!” A young man brushed past him and entered the building. Dennis turned to walk away. Three paces later he stopped, squared his shoulders, and walked back to the front door of the Regent Theatre.
He suspected he was making a horrible mistake the moment he reached for the elegant handle and heard high-pitched female giggling from inside. As he was about to pull the door open it was pushed towards him and several teenage girls came out. They stared at him, looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“Sorry, just going in...” Dennis edged his bulk past the group of giggling girls and let the door close behind him, mercifully cutting off their shrieks of mirth.
He stood for a moment assessing the scene in the foyer, feeling his already shaky self-esteem drop several more notches at the sight of numerous athletic young men sprawled casually over chairs and sofas, reading through pages of script. Two were doing push-ups on the ornately-patterned red carpet while another had brought along a set of hand weights and was using them to pump up his massive biceps.
Showing up alone and walking into a place full of strangers with no idea what he’d be doing there was probably mad, but he was out of options. Something had to change in his life, and an advert he’d found about auditions and helpers wanted at the Regent Theatre had given him hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find some new friends and get his life back on track. But he hadn’t expected the place to be full of bronzed young muscle-men.
This really was a mistake. He turned to leave, but before he could escape an efficient-looking blonde woman with a clipboard spotted him. She hurried towards him, looked him over and frowned slightly.
“Hi, have you come for the auditions?” He heard the dubious note in her voice and felt a flush rising.
“Er, yes. But not to audition for the stage. I mean, obviously! I’m not a show business kind of guy.” He started to sweat. “I just came to see if I could help out somewhere, that’s all. Some job backstage perhaps?”
Her face cleared. He was glad to see her blue eyes light up in welcome.
“Of course, we’d be very happy to have you on the crew.” She poised with her pen over the clipboard. “What’s your name?”
“Dennis Dempster,” he said.
“What’s your contact number, Dennis?”
He recited the details and she jotted them neatly on her form.
“I should probably ask what the show is.”
She stared at him.
“You’ve come to auditions without knowing what show we’re casting? You’re a rare bird, Dennis. Most people come along so keen to score a lead role they know all the characters and have memorised half the script already.” She looked at him. “You really don’t know?”
“Not a clue,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, does it? I just came along because someone suggested this was a good place to meet new people.”
She laughed. “Oh yes! You’re quite right, Dennis, it’s a great place to socialise. I’m Jessica, by the way. I manage this place, and seem to have let it take over my life for the past few years. See, you’ve met a new person already.” She grinned at him. “OK, here’s a challenge for you. See if you can guess what the show is from the people that are here today.”
Dennis looked around, completely baffled. He’d never been a follower of live theatre and couldn’t think of a single show title. He shrugged helplessly. Jessica put down her clipboard and clapped her hands for attention.
“Hey guys! What show are you auditioning for?”
They leaped to their feet and struck muscular poses, showing off well-tuned bodies to the best advantage.
“LADIES NIGHT!” they chorused.
Dennis turned brick-red and wished the floor would swallow him up. Surely only he could be so dumb as to turn up for auditions of a show about male strippers, especially looking the way he did. A beached whale would bring more credibility to the part.
“Thank you, boys, carry on!” Jessica turned to Dennis and waggled her clipboard. “Don’t mind them – actors are such show-offs. Now, what can we sign you up for? Construction? Props? Front of House? What sort of skills do you have?”
Faced with her expectant smile his mind went blank. He hadn’t really thought this through. Jessica’s eyes narrowed. “I’m betting the person who suggested you come along didn’t know the theatre very well, and didn’t give you any ideas about what to do once you got here.” He nodded in agreement and she gave him a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll find something nice and easy to start you off with. It’ll be weeks before we have you directing the show.” Her wink unlocked his frozen reactions and he smiled back.
“You’re quite right. This was my sister’s idea. She thinks I should get out more, but unfortunately she’s not here to share the experience.” And wouldn’t she be hearing about it when she rang for her next chat. “I can probably help with any computer problems you might have, and I don’t mind doing basic stuff like sweeping or making the tea.”
“Sounds great. I’ll put you down for construction assistant and someone will send you an email when we’re ready to start. Just pop your email address down here, and for God’s sake write clearly so we can find you again, OK?”
As she handed him the clipboard he was briefly tempted to enter a false address. He could tell Janice he’d made the effort but that they’d never got back to him. He sighed. That wouldn’t change his life though. He decided he might as well have a go at doing some socialising, especially now he’d made such an effort to begin. He handed back the clipboard and was rewarded with a brilliant smile.
“Do you want to meet some of the construction crew so you know who to look out for when the day comes?”
He took a breath and steeled himself. “Sure, Jessica, that would be great. If you’re sure you have the time?”
She patted his arm. “Of course. Come on backstage – these hooligans can look after themselves for a few minutes.”
She led him out of the foyer and along a shabby corridor towards the back of the building. It was lined with electrical cables on one side and coils of rope on the other, giving it the smell of an old sailing ship. They passed through a doorway and up two steps into a black-painted area which he realised was the side of the stage itself, and Jessica turned with a finger to her lips in warning. In the centre of the stage a red-haired woman read from a page of script, stridently reciting lines that had Dennis wincing as he tiptoed after his guide.
“You can shave, or you can pluck ‘em, but I DON’T want to see them curling round yer G-string!”
He hurried after Jessica and was relieved when the padded stage door closed behind them. They entered a wide, low-ceilinged room painted an institutional shade of green, where a group of people in jeans and sweatshirts sprawled casually on ancient chairs, nursing glass coffee mugs.
“This is the Green Room where everyone hangs out backstage. Guys, this is Dennis. He’s a real newbie to theatre so break him in gently, OK? Gazza, try not to frighten him off in the first ten minutes.” She winked at a leathery-faced guy with a hat pulled down over his eyes, and grinned as he grunted in protest. “Tony,” she said, addressing a stocky curly-haired man, “can you introduce Dennis to the gang and show him around a bit while I get back to auditions? God knows what those muscle-bound hoons will do to the foyer if I’m not there to keep an eye on them.” She rolled her eyes. “Dennis, I look forward to seeing you in a couple of weeks when we get started with construction. Bye for now!” She whirled on the spot and disappeared through the stage door
, leaving Dennis standing in the Green Room.
“Hi Dennis,” said Tony, standing up and offering his hand. “Don’t mind our Jessica – you’ll get used to her dashing around if you spend any time here. Come and meet the guys.”
“Oh, er, OK then. If it’s no hassle.” Dennis looked round the group seeing polite smiles and nods of welcome.
“Gazza’s our head of lighting.” Gazza peered from under his hat and growled a greeting. “That’s Nick, he does most of our promotions,” continued Tony. Dennis thought Nick looked a bit of a smooth charmer. “Clara-Jane is head of wardrobe, and Fenton is the theatre secretary.” A plump woman and rail-thin youth looked up and smiled. “Do you want the free 50-cent tour while you’re here?” asked Tony.
“No, that’s all right, I’d better be heading off. But thanks anyway.” Dennis was ready to leave. “Very nice to meet you all. I guess I’ll see you when, er, once things start happening here. When I get the email. Thanks again. Bye.”
He escaped down the side corridor and out onto the street with a feeling of relief, glad not to encounter any more giggling girls. He unlocked his car and headed back to his small apartment.
That night his sister Janice phoned for her regular chat.
“So, did you go to the auditions like I suggested? Were the people nice?”
“Yes, I went, and yes, they were very nice. But…”
“But what? You’re not going to chicken out of this too, are you? Come on, Den, you know you have to make an effort to get out and meet people. It’s been nearly a year since Louise left and you’ve just been stewing all by yourself.” She sighed. “If I was in the same country I’d drag you out by the hair and make you, but I can only nag you from here.”
“And you’re very good at that. If it wasn’t for you I’d be quivering in a dark wardrobe popping anti-depressants like breath mints, so don’t feel your skills are slipping. I just need more time to get myself together, OK?”
“So, are you going to get involved in a show or not? What did they say when you went in there?”
He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, for starters it probably wasn’t the best choice of shows to go along for. The place was full of studly young blokes all looking very buff and muscular because they were auditioning for Ladies Night.”
“What, that play about the unemployed guys that become male strippers? Ouch. No wonder you felt bad. Sorry, Den, I didn’t see that one coming. Never mind,” she continued cheerfully, “on the upside there’s bound to be heaps of girls hanging round for a show like that so you might get to meet someone nice!”
He shuddered. “No chance. I’m off the market, thanks. Never again. One failed marriage is more than enough for this lifetime. Besides, who’d want a pale, podgy mess like me anyway?”
“Dennis David Dempster, don’t you dare say such things! You’ve got all the rest of your life ahead of you and I’m damned if I’ll see you give up on love. Just because Louise was an A-grade bitch it’s no reason to swear off women altogether. And you know very well that pale and podgy isn’t your usual state.” Her voice softened. “Just give it time, bro. Start looking after yourself. You’ll be OK.”
“All right, I believe you. Thanks for the pep talk, as always. Get back to your delightful husband and 2.1 children now, I’ll be fine.”
He hung up, smiling. Maybe he would go back to the theatre when they contacted him. The rest of his life was apparently in his own hands and he’d have to start somewhere.
His life ticked along uneventfully for a couple of weeks. He went to work, he came home, and spent most of his free time sitting on the couch with his laptop, surfing online with the TV on for company. If he kept his head down and didn’t think too much, life was bearable. He could go for days without thinking about his ex-wife, until a stray piece of mail or a random memory ambushed him in his secure little hide-away. It was unnerving how a simple bank statement with her name on it was enough to tear his heart out, standing by the mailbox with the scent of roses on the breeze. But he figured time would heal the wounds eventually and things would get better.
He had little to report when his sister rang next, but enjoyed hearing her cheerful news of kids and happy married life. As always, her sisterly concern for his well-being came perilously close to nagging.
“I’m doing all right,” he told her firmly. “No dramas, no hassles, everything’s fine.”
“But are you looking after yourself, Den? Are you eating properly? I know you – you’ll have a burger for lunch at your desk and a pizza delivered for dinner, and God only knows what you snack on in the evenings.”
He’d been about to reach for a biscuit and snatched his hand back guiltily. “No!” he protested. “I’m doing what – well, most of what you told me to do. I have breakfast.” (Sometimes.) “I keep a water bottle on my desk.” (That’s growing new life forms in its green algae.) “And I do cook my own dinners, you know.” (Of course microwaving a pizza counts as cooking.)
“Yeah, right, Den, I believe you. Anyway, what about social outings? Have you heard back from the theatre people yet? When does the show start?”
“No idea. They haven’t emailed me yet, but they did say it would be a couple of weeks.” His hand strayed across the table.
“Dennis! Is that a biscuit packet I can hear crackling? Are you eating those double-chocolate Timtams again? You know how addictive they are.”
He swallowed hurriedly. “What makes you think you can tell the difference between low-fat vege chips and chocolate biscuit packets just by the sound on a phone-line, eh?” Thank God he didn’t use the webcam on his laptop. Janice had no idea how much weight he’d really put on because he carefully tweaked all his pictures in Photoshop before sending them to her. There’d be time to slim down if she ever decided to visit in person. He pushed the Timtams away.
“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time, bro,” she said drily. “Just promise me you’ll think positive thoughts and be good to yourself, OK? Catch you later.”
After hanging up the phone he took the biscuits into the kitchen and shut them away in a tin on the very top shelf of the cupboard, well out of sight. After he’d taken one last Timtam from the packet. It was a treat, so it counted as being good to himself.
Back at his computer screen, the email icon showed new mail. At last, the theatre had got back to him. Now he’d have something positive to tell Janice. He scanned the text quickly, finding he was invited to turn up at the theatre the following Saturday for a construction meeting. He noted it in his computer’s appointment diary and circled the date on a printed calendar of seascapes that Janice had sent him for Christmas. Done. Now it was official. He had a social event to attend.
On Saturday at the appointed time he parked across the road from the theatre and took a deep breath before getting out of the car. He lifted his head, pulled his shoulders back, and tried to put a positive, friendly look on his face. ‘Here I am, Dennis Dempster, happy to join in and be one of the gang,’ he told himself. ‘I can do this.’
A handwritten note taped to the front door of the theatre invited him to come on backstage to the Green Room, so he followed the same shabby corridor that Jessica had shown him on his first visit. The stage was empty this time, and a large part of the back wall had been opened up into the Green Room where many of the same people he’d already met were gathered round a table.
“Hi,” he began. “I’m Dennis. Is this the right place for the construction meeting?”
Tony looked up. “Hey, Dennis, glad you could join us. Come and have a look at these set designs. Have you done any building work before? Know your way round power-tools?”
“Er, no, not really. I told Jessica I’d be able to help with sweeping up and making coffee, that sort of thing.” He was already regretting letting himself in for this, but the thought of admitting defeat to his sister was a powerful incentive to stay and make the best of it.
“No worries, we’ll find plenty for you to do,” said Tony. “
Pull up a chair – we’re just doing a bit of planning for what needs to be built and when we’ll do it.”
Dennis sat down, nodding a greeting to Gazza, Nick, and the thin, pale guy whose name he couldn’t quite remember. The construction talk washed over him, being full of obscure terms and references that he didn’t understand. He tried to nod intelligently from time to time and waited until he was told what to do.
“All right,” said Tony at last, leaning back from the table and stretching. “We’ve done enough for a Mallowpuff, as they say. Dennis, you suggested you could make the coffee. Come and meet our ancient water heater.” He led the way towards a space enclosed by a shoulder-height wall where an elderly fridge wheezed gently and a tired dishwasher leaked beside the sink. “Turn this knob to fill it, up to about here, then flick the on switch. Mugs are in the cupboard under the bench, coffee, tea and sugar are in these pull-out bins. Go for your life.”
Relieved to have something to do, Dennis assembled a row of battered brown glass mugs and rummaged in several drawers to find teaspoons. While he waited for the water to boil, he took more note of his surroundings. The pattern on the scarred formica benchtop was worn away in places but the counter was clean and tidy. There was an elderly space heater beside the back door, and beyond that a rail attached to the ceiling held a large beige curtain that could separate the space in the corner from the main room. There were several high wooden tables in there with mirrors surrounded by light-bulbs, and Dennis realised, with a minor twinge of excitement, that they were make-up tables. Suddenly it seemed possible that he was getting involved in actual showbusiness.
“Hey Dennis, where’s that coffee then? The water’s boiling.”
He jumped, suddenly aware of the increasing shriek of the water heater’s steam vent announcing its readiness. He carried the coffee mugs to the table, retrieved milk from the fridge, briefly considered looking for a jug for it, but gave up and put the bottle on the table.