by Anthology
I could feel my cheeks warm. Maybe it’s because I’m a redhead, but I blush readily. I struggled for a witty comeback to deflect the unexpected compliment. Writing plays, I can take my time to ponder wonderfully witty interactions between my characters before committing their words to paper. In real life, you don’t always have that luxury.
“I’m such a klutz,” the guy who tripped over the stanchion interrupted, rescuing me from a comeback.
The teacher’s assistant grabbed one end of the scenery drop and shook it. The canvas wobbled but didn’t tip over. “It’s roped to the ceiling,” he explained and pointed upward. The backdrop was secured with ropes bound through several metal rings drilled into its top. “Can’t have things falling over on top of the students now, can we?” he added with a wry grin.
I felt silly for overreacting. Wondering if the handsome student thought I was ditzy, I scooted off before he had a chance to comment any further on the incident.
At the next station a red-bearded guy dressed in dungarees held up a piece of wood and was explaining how to connect wooden joints so that the set didn’t fall apart.
“So what happened over there?” a slim brunette asked as I joined the group.
“Uh, nothing really,” I replied, trying to be nonchalant. The class couldn’t end soon enough! “So what’s he doing?” I asked, pointing toward Mr. Dungarees in an attempt to redirect the conversation.
“I’m really sorry.” The curly-headed blonde had followed me and was speaking into my left ear. “Is there some way I can make it up to you?” His tone was strained, as if he was in great distress.
I was tempted to make him suffer a little, but it clearly was an accident and I wanted to drop it as soon as possible and get on with the day.
The brunette turned to observe our interaction. “What’s he talking about?”
“I think he’s mistaken me for somebody else,” I responded nervously and wandered off again before she could comment further. As I expected, the blonde guy tailed me, since the situation was apparently not yet resolved to his satisfaction. I wanted to continue the conversation out of the earshot of onlookers.
I spun around to address him.
“Look,” I whispered loudly. “It’s okay. Accidents happen. I’d prefer you just drop it.”
He looked truly concerned and worried. “I’m Ellis. Figured you should at least know my name before I ask you to dinner.” I must’ve appeared stunned by the invitation, because he quickly added, “Sometime at your convenience, of course. Nothing fancy. Say pizza at Shakey’s?”
During his soliloquy I took a moment to look him over. Some women would’ve considered him attractive. Chest and arm muscles strained at his white IZOD polo shirt and he was a little taller than myself, at five foot six inches. His features were even: his nose straight and not too long, his lips full with a slight upward turn at each end, giving him an impish appearance with his curly cap of white blonde hair. But, darn it, although I felt superficial, I just wasn’t attracted to guys with facial hair. Perhaps it was because my dad was a hippie, concealing himself in copious mounds of light brown hair for nearly two decades. Many women find muscular men attractive, but at that time I preferred men with a slender build, someone who didn’t threaten to overpower me. The fact was, he just wasn’t my type physically.
“My name’s Kara,” I replied, at a loss of what to say. The guy was full of surprises.
His face brightened in a wide smile. “It’s a pretty name. I’ve never met a Kara before.”
Good grief! I wasn’t sure how to interpret his compliments: overly aggressive or overly nice. I was trying to think of a way to refuse his offer without hurting his feelings, when I was rescued by authoritative handclapping.
A balding, middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard strode into the warehouse. Apparently he was our professor because, waving a packet of papers in his right hand, he announced, “Everybody grab a syllabus as you walk out the door. See you in the classroom tomorrow.”
I waved goodbye to Ellis and wound my way through the throng crowding near Professor Beyer, grabbed my syllabus, and darted off before I attracted any more unwanted attention.
Weirdly, I was disappointed not to encounter Ellis in my Beginning Acting II or Playwriting classes. Perhaps he’d already taken his required first year of acting to meet his program requirements or maybe wasn’t taking classes in the Department of English, where Thomas Mitchell, a poet, taught the only playwriting class at the university. I didn’t have a steady boyfriend, but was I really so pathetic that I needed the attention of a guy I wasn’t even attracted to?
Lounging on my bed in my dormitory room at Lander Hall, I could hear my Gram Charlie Caldwell’s voice as clearly as if she was standing in front of me. “You’ll never soar if you aren’t willing to let your feet leave the ground.” Okay. I’d find some way to get that cutie’s attention from the Scene Design class. At the very least, obtain his name!
I gazed out the window, tear-stained by the near omnipresent wintertime rain, and saw only my own reflection staring back at me in the black pane. Alone again, like the catchy, but sappy, song. Likely my roommate was studying with her boyfriend at Suzzallo Library or the HUB. If only I had my grandmother’s courage. Gram being my best friend, I usually telephoned her every Monday evening, but that night, I didn’t call.
For the next several weeks in Scene Design we sat in a stuffy classroom, listening to Professor Beyer’s lectures on the history of stage design, getting nowhere close to the shop where I’d seen the dark-haired teacher’s assistant. The first few days, after learning that I wanted to write not act, Ellis sat next to me, chattering about his interest in this or that playwright. It wasn’t that he was boring or bad company, but I didn’t want my classmates getting the impression that we were going out together. The following week I timed my entrance into the classroom so that he was seated before I dashed in and sat down.
“So, tell me about that guy you keep sitting with,” Dana, a sassy, dark-haired blonde, said to me. She was a new friend, sharing my writing class with me, also. “Are you two dating?”
I glanced down toward Ellis, who was seated several rows ahead of us. “No, we’re just friends,” I said, then added quickly, “of a sort.” Why did I feel compelled to qualify my statement? After all, we really were just classmates. I had yet to take Ellis up on his offer for dinner at Shakey’s. We’d had no communication outside of our one class we shared.
“You sure?” Dana said, sitting back in her chair and contemplating Ellis from behind. She licked at her lips before adding, “He’s a cutie pie. If you don’t go after him, I just might.”
I must have frowned because Dana poked me in the arm. “Just kidding. I wanted to see your reaction. Life’s short. You gotta go for the gusto.”
“You sound like my grandmother.” I sighed. “Maybe I’m content playing with sparklers instead of setting off the big fireworks. Perhaps I just prefer the quiet sizzle to the big bang.”
Just at that moment Ellis laughed. I realized he was engaged in an animated conversation with the thin Filipino girl on his right.
“Excuse me for interrupting you,” Professor Beyer said, directing his comment toward Ellis. “Perhaps you’re not aware that class has started?”
My classmates chuckled good-naturedly but I was feeling a mixture of embarrassment for him and—was it jealousy? What right did I have to be jealous?
Later, as I left the classroom with Dana, I stole a glance over my shoulder, trying to note whether Ellis was walking out the door with his conversation partner, but I lost him in the crowd pushing out behind me. I didn’t want to be too obvious, so I accompanied Dana to our next class without another backward glance.
And so it continued for several days, me saying a polite hello to Ellis before our class then taking my seat somewhere else in the room next to Dana, yet keeping a nonchalant eye on him when not taking notes.
Yet, finally, the stalemate broke. In order to pass Sce
ne Design class it was a requirement to take a shop practical, to work as stage crew for one of the plays that the MFA students were putting on that quarter. I volunteered for a show called “Sea of Desire.” I had no idea what it was about, but the title promised it wouldn’t be one of those boring, intellectual anti-plays of the Strindberg era, which was important because I’d have to watch the play multiple times during its run.
The following Tuesday evening I walked down to the waterfront from Lander Hall to the Showboat Theater. To my happy surprise, after entering the auditorium, I spotted the black-haired cutie from the set design shop standing on the stage. He wore black jeans and a black sweatshirt, lightly dusted with blue spray paint, and white sneakers. My heart fluttered and my stomach churned, as if he’d already asked me on a first date. How silly! Flustered, I wondered if he noticed I trembled a little as I took one of the seats with the other undergrads in the first two rows. I wanted to be safely ensconced in the anonymity of a larger classroom of students where I could fantasize about a relationship with the guy without attracting his notice. After all, I preferred to imagine reality, not act it out!
But there were only about ten students present—no way I could escape notice. One of them was the brunette I met the first day who was questioning me about the incident with the backdrop. I was leery about spending more time with her, wondering if she was the type to gossip or insist on putting her nose into other people’s business. But, at that moment, nothing could distract from the joy of finally running into the handsome grad student once again.
After we were all seated, Mr. Cutie, lithe like a black cat, hopped lightly to the auditorium floor. He was sinewy and taut, no flab.
He introduced himself: Gerald. What was it with the dorky names in the drama department? No wonder actors often changed their names. I suppose most mothers, when naming their children, aren’t considering the fact that their little boy may grow up wanting to be the next Richard Gere.
“So how’s your nose?” he asked me with a wink.
I was horrified. The others turned to stare at me, with questioning looks.
“I… uh…” I stammered. Wanting to redirect attention from myself, I faked a cheery smile. “Great. Just great.” Best to keep it vague. “I’m really excited about working on the play.”
“Love your enthusiasm.” Gerald hopped off the stage and was soon pairing us up with other grad students to assist in setting up the scenery or stage lights.
“I need you to adjust the lamps up there.” Gerald pointed toward me then at the stage lights hanging from the wide white beam facing the stage.
“I’d rather not,” I replied, not admitting to my terror of heights. The lamps were at least fifteen feet in the air above the audience seats. My excited fluttering of lust was replaced with anxiety.
Gerald handed me a large wrench. “It’s safe. I wouldn’t ask you to do anything that’d harm you.”
Now what did he mean by that? Was he flirting or just being reassuring?
He dragged a metal ladder from the side aisle down between rows of seats. He set up the ladder, the top resting a few scant inches above the bottom edge of the beam. He pushed against the ladder, checking its stability. It wobbled a little too much for my comfort. “You’re light. I’d rather one of the heavier guys stayed on the ground and steadied the ladder for you.”
If it’s so safe, why do you need someone light to climb it? I wanted to ask, but decided to can the sarcasm. I wasn’t taking a chance of angering Gerald when I was finally getting my wish to capture his attention in a positive way.
Gerald instructed Rick, a husky guy with a shock of brown hair, to hold the ladder for me. Rick had difficulty wedging himself in the cramped space between the front of the ladder and the seatback behind him. The wrench clutched tightly in my right hand, I grasped at each rung as if climbing out of a burning building, trying not to focus on the fact that if I were to slip, I’d land backwards upon several chairs and crumple up like a broken marionette snipped from its strings. The ladder swayed as I climbed because Rick kept squirming about.
Gram Caldwell came to mind again. In World War II, she risked her life ferrying untested airplanes. In contrast, here I was, shaking like a leaf simply because my feet had left the ground a few yards. Grandma’s saying was catchy, but I was not at all interested in soaring. Get a grip on yourself.
“Did you say something?” Rick asked, wiggling the ladder again.
“Yes, stop shaking the ladder!”
“Just don’t look down.” Gerald called from the stage. “Focus on the lamp!” Great! He probably noticed how nervous I was, which was not attractive.
Across the auditorium opposite me the brunette was scaling her ladder up to the front beam like a capuchin monkey, dainty and fearless. As it was wintertime, I was bundled in a black sweatshirt and jeans, not considering the fact that Gerald might be at the theater, while she, having thrown off a heavy grey sweater, looked petite in her khakis and white, short-sleeved cotton shirt. Had she worked crew before and knew how hot it was under the lights?
The lamp gave off a great deal of heat; I wished I was wearing layers and not my wolf pups sweatshirt so that I could take something off and not sweat like a gorilla in the jungle.
There was a strong smell of dirt near the ceiling, as if decades of dust was clinging to the shallow ledge in the beam, chock full of dead mites and may be even rodent hair. My sinuses stuffed up and I had to stifle a sneeze.
“Now, I need you to turn the lamp toward stage left,” Gerald instructed.
Lovely. I was perched precariously on the upper rung of a wobbling ladder and I was supposed to grab the light and swing it in the opposite direction. Tentatively I slipped the wrench into my left hand and, gripping the second rung from the top, grabbed at the suspension bar over the lamp. It shook a little. My heart lurched at the sudden movement and my legs trembled. Drat it!
“Hold it there,” Gerald ordered. I heard him walking on the wooden stage and addressing someone else. “Lisa, turn your lamp upstage and fix the beam where I’m standing.”
I frowned. Gerald knew her name, but didn’t bother to ask mine. Maybe he already had a girlfriend and I was barking up the wrong tree.
Maybe Lisa was his tree.
“You, uh…” Gerald paused. “The redhead. I’m sorry, but what’s your name?”
The redhead. A dozen other instances where I was singled out as the redhead in the group came to mind. Jeremy in second grade, who threw mud at me during lunch recess because my hair was flaming orange at that age. Pompous Denise in eighth, mocking me because I was chosen to read my short story in English class instead of her. I didn’t want to stand out because of the color of my hair, but because I was a person worth knowing.
“Kara.” I tried not to sound hurt. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions and they’d worked together before.
“Turn your lamp a bit more to your left and downstage.” My palm was moist from nervousness, making my grip on the metal rung a bit more precarious. Shaking, I turned the lamp toward me and down, fearing my hand would slip off the metal and send me plummeting to the seats below.
“Perfect,” Gerald said. “Kara, now take your wrench and tighten the nut on the top to hold it in place. Try not to move the lamp if you can.”
Great. Somehow I’d have to swing the wrench around the top of the hot lamp and avoid hitting the fragile blue gel fronting it. Professor Beyer warned us in an earlier class how very expensive and fragile the gels were, which altered the color of the light.
When I slid the wrench toward my right, Rick wobbled the ladder again. With a cry of panic, I smacked the top of my other hand with the wrench, cutting my index finger. Blood trickled out, mixing with the perspiration. I yanked my hand back, so as not to get blood on the gel and nearly slipped off the rung. I squeaked, that’s right, squeaked not yelled, in alarm and dropped the wrench. It clattered down the rungs and smacked the top of a seatback before hitting the cement floor. I trembled, ashame
d and in pain and feeling stupid and cowardly all at the same time.
“Kara, are you okay?”
The young masculine voice calling out to me in concern wasn’t Gerald or Rick. It was Ellis.
“Yes, thanks,” I replied in a shaky voice that wasn’t totally convincing.
“She dented the back of one of the chairs,” Rick commented to Ellis. He bent over to examine the damage, causing the ladder to wobble again.
“Don’t think so,” Ellis said to Rick. “That dent was already there. Theater’s been around a long time.”
I exhaled in relief, the tight knot in my chest unwinding. Good. I wouldn’t be held accountable for any damage due to dropping the wrench. Clumsy me. But once again I was drawing the wrong kind of attention to myself.
It must have been obvious that I was clutching the ladder for dear life, because I heard Ellis say to Rick, “You can retrieve the wrench while I hold the ladder for her.”
“Thanks. I was getting bored standing here,” Rick replied. The ladder shook quite a bit while he let go.
“Kara, you can come on down for a few minutes,” Gerald called out. “But don’t run off: You’ll need to climb back up. We’ve got two rows of lamps to get set tonight so the actors can start their dress rehearsals tomorrow tonight.”
“I’ll stay and help out,” I heard Ellis offer. When I neared the bottom, he stepped aside but kept one firm hand on the ladder to keep it secure.
“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help comparing Ellis to Gerald. Gerald was making me do something that obviously frightened me, whereas Ellis was being considerate, ensuring that I’d feel safe. Still, I wasn’t ready to show any particular interest in Ellis. I just didn’t find him attractive and college was a prime time for meeting eligible men. I wasn’t crossing Gerald off the list just yet. Perhaps Gerald was just trying to stretch me a bit, encourage me to take a few risks and grow? I didn’t know him well enough to assume his motivations.