Nine

The dust finally seemed settled in Alison’s mind as she entered Leeds for the first post-disaster meeting of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men. The oversized theatre door creaked as she shouldered through, allowing a flood of hazy afternoon sunlight to momentarily illuminate the dark chamber. She was feeling calm again, albeit embarrassed about her leading role in depleting her faction’s position to practically nil and generally ruining everything. At least the damage was done. It was time to move forward, broken pieces in tow, and figure out how to traverse the rough road ahead. Not exactly an easy task– considering she had just lost them a leader– but a clear one.

Perhaps that was the source of Alison’s sense of resolution. Being directly responsible for the most dramatic one-night losses the faction had ever endured, she knew exactly where she stood. Which was most assuredly on the bench from here on. Maybe they’d let her play operator for a low-stakes mission after a month or two of cooldown. But she wasn’t going to be in the field or planning any missions. And she certainly wasn’t going to be calling audibles over the coms or making split-second decisions in any darkened Danish-modern frat houses. And, while that was by far the best part, she knew it was time to let go.

Ten minutes early, and with the stalwart absolution of a Spartan phalanx captain whose shield had been mysteriously replaced with an oversized slice of toast, Alison sat cross-legged in a spot-lit easy chair and mulled her fate. She was, in fact, so lost in thought that she was visibly startled by a sudden realization that she had brought no music to her pity party. That needed immediate medical intervention, and she knew just the medicine. Earbuds already secured in place by deeply-rooted ritual, she conjured a phone and flicked about wildly until Miike Snow’s dreamy pop synthesizers and pounding electric drums were floating in her brain.

I know there’s no form
And no labels to put on
To this thing we keep
And dip into when we need
And I don’t have the right
To ask where you go at night
But the waves hit my head
To think someone’s in your bed

Sometimes Alison felt a strong aversion to well-known and properly-appreciated music. As though her role in loving music was that of a rescue mom to beautiful and exotic shelter cats. She was reluctant to admit to enjoying songs that were popular or artists that had their fair share of attention. She also had a weird hang-up about enjoying any artist’s top hit or most critically acclaimed track. For Miike Snow, however, she made an exception, because Genghis Khan was just an absolute treasure.

I get a little bit Genghis Khan
I don’t want you to get it on
With nobody else but me
With nobody else but me
I get a little bit Genghis Khan
Don’t want you to get it on
With nobody else but me
With nobody else but me

She was in fine spirits when a burst of errant sunlight ushered in a small crop of compatriots. She straightened her posture a little and folded her hands in her lap in an effort to appear ready to face the music. Alison’s expectation of disappointed expressions from the group was vehemently denied in the entrance. In fact, they seemed downright jovial. Although Miike Snow was still do-do-do-ing a bouncy staccato interlude in her earbuds, she could see from the body language that her fellow assets were recounting the events of the previous sortie with tremendous mirth. Paige in particular was incited into bursts of nearly uncontrollable laughter by Teddy Dalton, who was making dramatic gestures of what could only be the vigorous spattering of blood. She then went on to mimic the sliding of a phone beneath a doorway and booking it a few steps in the other direction. Perhaps Alison had denied herself a little due credit after all.

The team shared a few bright hellos as they settled into their easy chairs. Sir Andy gave a courtly bow while extending a hand in Alison’s direction, triggering a hearty applause and a handful of jaunty interjections. She smiled and gave a familiar little tug on the cord of her earbuds, who gently popped out of position and into her lap. She couldn’t help but hide the confusion on her face. You simply don’t get a ticker tape parade for screwing everything up. Nevertheless, she shifted to a pose of graceful acceptance, because that’s show business. The party was however abruptly shuttered by the entrance of Control, whose air of sobriety immediately captured the attention of the assets. Now that was the irritated dad face Alison was looking for. Fussbudget Prime.

Peters made good theatrical use of the elongated silence as he slowly paced the gangway, the sound of brown, patent leather shoes echoing the proscenium in his wake. He traversed the steps to the high-crested stage and slid into his chair with a grave dose of pith and moment. The floor was all his; silent, eager eyes awaited his address. Slightly shocked at the gravity he’d apparently unwittingly induced, he finally spoke.

“Bally ho, dorks!” he rejoiced, and Alison’s anxiety melted as the snow under a chorus of swiftly-beaten armchairs.

With Ed Butler dead, there seemed to be an apparent vacuum of leadership. As the pleasantries and chair abuse died down, the assets began looking around nervously at each other, each hoping someone else would step up and facilitate the meeting. Control, who never wasted an opportunity to pontificate, took the reins immediately, to the company’s general relief.

“Before we begin, we should take a moment to honor our fallen leader, Ed Butler, who gave his life so that we could continue on with this inane rubbish. Ed, wherever you are, probably in heaven or at the coin laundry, we will lift your banner and carry on. To Ed!”

And each asset leaned over the right arm of their easy chair, and simultaneously spit on the stage below. It was touching and it was weird. Control continued.

“And now, to business. We must select a new first-in-command. I should like to nominate Alison Ashe.”

Alison jumped as though she’d just realized she’d been sitting on a bed of nails. “You what?”

“Do I have a second?”

“Hold on!”

“I second the motion,” offered Teddy Dalton with gusto.

“What-”

“All in favor?”

“Hold, on, what-”

“Aye!” rang the entire chorus, unanimously, with the exception of an exasperated Alison Ashe.

“The actual-”

“All opposed?”

“Flumph.”

Alison sat in shock, her jaw unfastened, her earbuds dangling like tiny pendulums. Paige took the opportunity to speak up.

“I don’t think we’re counting that. Please vote either ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ in the future, dear. In any case, the ‘ayes’ have it. Cheers, Alison.”

When the inevitable circus faded, all eyes were on Alison. She gave a timid gulp, scratched her head for effect, and, forming a thoughtful pose, spoke. Her actual words were not nearly as humble nor eloquent as her posture suggested.

“So– um, why? I guess.”

“Why what, dear?” said Paige, placing a cooling hand on Alison’s knee.

“Why, um, me? I’m pretty sure I blew it.”

“Oh, rather!” chimed Sir Andy.

“With due expediency,” added Teddy Dalton, doing his best Jeeves.

“And–” Paige jumped in here, “it doesn’t matter. You possess the proper qualities of a leader. Your mind paints in broad strokes; you never get tunnel-vision. You can delegate. You can trust and be trusted. You adapt to changing situations. You’re bold, you’re brave, you embrace gambits, and you take risks. I don’t think any of The Lord Chamberlain’s Men measure a leader by a checklist of wins and losses. Sometimes you do everything right and you still lose. I know for my money, I’d rather lose under your advisement than win under some watered-down Kroger-brand leader. You’re a premium-label boo.”

Control gave a small vocal cue to attain the floor, but took a moment to gather his thoughts before offering his piece. “It is perhaps your course of bold action that awarded us this unfavorable position. But now, we’re here. In the proverbial soup, as it were. And from here, it is unequivocally clear that your particular flavor of bold action is our best shot at getting out.”

“Undeniably,” said Paige.

“Categorically,” Andy McElroy roared.

“Indubitably,” posited Teddy Dalton, a thoughtful gesture in tow.

“Yes,” offered Brian Ward, speaking for the first time this meeting, and quite possibly ever.

The focus once again shifted to Alison Ashe. She took a moment to absorb the group’s tragic application of logic, briefly floated the idea that they were experiencing some sort of mass-induced Stockholm Syndrome, and finally shifted expressions to indicate that she had accepted her fate.

“Alright,” she said, a concoction of cynicism and sass leaking liberally from her tone, “but you asked for it.”

***

Alison eyed the dimly lit corridor with scrutiny as Paige dragged her past its weird, old sconces. Everything was exceedingly dusty and the brick was the wrong color.

“Seriously, Paige. Where are you taking me?”

Paige, ignoring the question, thumbed the inner pocket of her black denim jacket and returned with a long, folding metal device. She dropped to a knee and began to guide its business end into a padlock barring a sizable wooden door, a look of intense concentration on her face.

“Is that a lockpick? Paige, why are you so cool?”

Paige offered a blithe smile over her shoulder when the padlock gave a satisfying click. Alison continued rambling, as though Paige had been answering her questions all along.

“Is this a crypt? Why are there weird passages beneath the theatre building? Is this where they bury dead faculty? Is this–” she gasped, “Was Brown built on an ancient cemetery?”

Paige offered an expression she typically reserved for injured animals– or boys. The doorway led to a massive, black chamber with rounded walls. Chairs and music stands were strewn about, covered in thick dust.

“This,” Paige finally revealed, “is the Orchestra Pit.” She cut across at a bouncy pace, leading her companion to one last archway. Alison was caught off guard by the ominous majesty and struggled to keep up. Paige continued, “And this– is the rigging room. Our new secret spot.”

The enormous underground hollow was filled with practical accouterments. Anchored ropes lined the eastern and western walls, tapering up through holes in the ceiling toward the lines above. Taught pulleys covered the northern face. A cavalcade of old par cans and furnells sat abandoned on errant shelving. A towering lighting board from the seventies basked under a blue worklight, its antique knobs and sliders crusted shut. In the center of the room was the piece de resistance: a colossal crash pad. Paige suddenly dashed towards it, planting a foot on a nearby black box and vaulting upwards, forming a single, lazy front tuck before landing on her back with a satisfying floof. Post-landing, she continued to slowly sink into its contours.

“What do you think?”

“Dang, Paige. It’s perfect. How did you find this place?”

“I have my methods. Besides, I was motivated. We need a fresh start with pretty much everything now that we’re basically compromised. A place to think, sans testosterone, seemed like a top priority.”

“Seriously. Well, hot tamale, sugar bear. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Me neither. Now gimme a boost.”

Alison sidled onto the tall mat with the grace of a beached manatee and promptly folded her fingers and dropped into classic boost pose. Paige cleared what looked to be double her height, and deftly clasped a horizontal metal bar with both hands. Releasing a little latch to her right, she began to slowly float back down to earth, bringing a utility ladder with her and revealing a thin beam of light from the trap door above.

“Try the lever,” she said, still hanging luxuriously and gesturing to an antiquated arm bar on the south wall. Alison hunkered over and gave it a tug. The ceiling exploded downward, revealing the magnificent ribbed vaults of Leeds, a tangled mass of lines and rigging, and a thousand lighting instruments above. Paige had released herself just in time to miss the wrath of the plummeting trap door and plopped smartly in the center of the mat.

After a moment of posing like she was auditioning for a Mattress Firm commercial, she folded her hands behind her head and beckoned Alison over with a nod. They took a minute to quietly contemplate the universe before Paige finally spoke.

“So how’s all your actual real life going?”

“Oh. Jesus. I forgot about real life for a hot minute, there,” Alison replied. “Well, I never gave Peters an answer about changing over to Theatre Tech. But I did start working as Fight Director, so it’s possible he’ll make an assumption and start flipping all the switches of my life for me. I’m kind of ready to be done with college, so I don’t know about this MFA program nonsense.”

“So what are you gonna do with your theatre BFA? Teach high school, or win a Tony for your one-woman rendition of Death of a Salesman?”

“Oh, dink right off, muffin. You’re in the same boat.”

“Um, no? I can tumble. I’ll be in the chorus of Newsies or whatever else Kenny Ortega cranks out next without batting an eyelash. And I’m not bragging or criticizing, Pooh Bear. I’m just going with the river. It seems like your river is fight directing.”

“Ew,” said Alison, objecting on principle to Paige’s simple but undeniable reasoning.

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just– how can I spend weeks torturing myself over a decision and then you make the path sound so clear and obvious with a single sentence?”

Paige turned her head to face Alison and smiled sweetly. “Hm. Do you think maybe it’s because you’re a dumb trollop?”

Alison let out an indignant huff and took a swipe for Paige’s left sneaker, a Vans Half-Cab. Swiftly removing the aforementioned footwear, she pitched it heartily through the trap door and into the theatre above. It sailed out of sight. All that remained was its memory, etched into Paige’s expression of shock and betrayal. They laughed.

“Point taken,” said Paige as the laughter subsided. “You know who is a dumb trollop? Casey Harrington.” Alison let out a brief, monosyllabic laugh paired with her well-practiced expression of existential panic before Paige continued. “How the crunchberry are you going to teach that nautical nerf to fight?”

Alison sighed. “That seems like a problem that deserves critical reflection and thoughtful action.”

“Mm, hm.”

“So I think I’ll just add it to the pile and sit on my hands until it blows up in my face.”

“Mm, hm.”