A Play Demonic (The Queen's Idle Fancy)

Part 1--A Play Demonic (The Queen's Idle Fancy)

“No, it’s my turn to buy.” Roger said this with a weary frown, a put-upon wince escaping, since, in a drunken state, he’d lost track of how much money he had left in his account, what penalties he’d have to face later in the week.

 “That’s okay, Roger, I think I’ve reached my limit, and Sally here has an early morning with the kids. Can’t stay out so late on a school night all the time.” Morton placed a flat palm on the tabletop, and stood up to leave. "Thank you for the drinks. See you both tomorrow." Sally gathered her coat, and purse, a small strappy thing.

"Yes, thank you, Roger. You're always such a sport. See ya tomorrow night."

"Bye guys." Roger watched them leave, Morton holding the door for Sally, he knowing Morton was interested in asking her on a date without a third wheel like him hanging around—a burgeoning cast-mate romance.

The play. Time grew short for the community theater cast preparations, full dress in seven days, and another late night’s practice. Anything for the stage, Roger thought, right? But, Roger couldn’t begin to fathom why he was so on edge. He loved his role as Stage Manager, and all-around step-and-fetch-it and handyman. Some of his former sets showed off his ingenuity, even if he’d always be too shy to ever take a speaking role. On several occasions over the past twenty years, he could be a lantern bearer, a dancing Shark (or Jet, if someone fell ill and the choreography wasn’t too difficult to pick up—“No one will notice you in the back line, Roger, and I can’t thank you enough for stepping up to the plate whenever we need you!”), or the prompter whenever the more beautiful actors stumbled over their lines.

The play. The play's the thing. Six months ago, he’d never heard of it. The theater board meeting to decide the new season schedule loomed on the calendar. Roger was doing inventory, marking what remained in good condition, the lighting fixtures, how many costumes could be salvaged. He didn’t get paid for this. His day job consisted of sitting in a tollbooth at the San Juan Ferry Terminal five days a week, the early morning shift, taking money, handing out tickets . . . 

Then, Waltzcrop appeared, and introduced himself. The disdained air of self-importance came across in waves. He was a pointy-headed older gentleman with waxy skin. Bundled up in a long black wool coat and a knit cap (that didn’t hide much of the point—Roger couldn’t stop glancing at the top of Waltzcrop’s head), he walked into the theater’s underbelly with a forceful stride.

“I’d like to speak to you about a play,” Waltzcrop said. 

“What? I’m not the right person,” Roger said. He was immediately on edge, defensive, a suspicion born from being startled, frightened in the dim space. He came out of nowhere in the gloom of the back room—an apparition couldn’t do much worse. “In fact, I know I’m probably the wrong person. I’m not in charge of the local theater, or the plays they choose to produce.”

“Ah, I see, you’re a humble servant to the stage. Well, being new to the area, I thought I would try to make your acquaintance. I’m Frederick Waltzcrop.” He stuck out a gloved hand, black leather, and Roger extended his own dust-covered hand to shake.

The name didn’t mean anything to Roger, or the presumptuous manner the older gentleman in front of him used. Roger worked for decades around stage divas, actors who headlined local theater shows did have a singular pecking order that shifted and changed with each play’s cast.

“Roger Compish.”

“My pleasure. Do you think we can retire to a better space? I will only take a moment of your time, and then you can point me in the direction of the theater’s main planning board.”

“Don’t see why not. Besides, this room gives me the creeps. Follow me.”

Roger wound his way along the back hall, behind the main stage, took a right that led to the front lobby, which bypassed the theater itself, all the seats in their empty folded positions. Waltzcrop followed.