an in-process, open-source novel
Read. Play. Create.
Read. Play. Create.
Saturday Afternoon
(Jamie)
(Jamie)
I had a hard time finding Timeless. I got flustered at the transfer and took the wrong bus, then got off and walked pretty far while my phone's GPS prodded me on. The city neighbourhoods felt almost schizophrenic, patches of run-down, scary-looking buildings dotting high-traffic, polished commercial zones. I started feeling the street as a repeating loop background, the same 4-corner Starbucks, Drugstore, Bank, Restaurant over and over. By the time I found my way to the other side of the tracks, I was sweating and puffing and wondering why I had bothered.
The front door to Timeless didn't budge. Frustrated, I walked to the edge of the building. Down the ally, I saw a teenage boy sitting on the ground, leaning against a propped-open side-door. Above him, laundry dangled on taught, thick lines stretched between windows. For a moment, I imagined one of the large-cupped bras falling directly on the boy's head, a minor amusement insufficient to distract my grump.
The kid didn't acknowledge my approach, and I became suddenly overwhelmed by the effort it would take to speak to him, ask about getting in. Drained, about ready to call it quits and go home, I surprised us both by sinking to the ground beside him, bricks solid against my back. For one brief moment, his eyes lit with curiosity, like I presented an unexpected and interesting spectacle. But before that even registered, he stared at his lap again.
"Are you here for a reason?" he asked, without turning his head.
"Trix told me to come."
He laughed and glanced at me briefly - eyes the colour of milk chocolate. They darted like a squirrel's.
"Oh, she TOLD you. No asking for Trix!"
I couldn't figure out whether his tone held admiration or criticism. I had a sudden sense that Trix had recently hurt his feelings. I constantly got flashes like that from the way people said things, a certain turn of the mouth, hunch of the shoulders.
I found something vaguely, disturbingly familiar about this boy, like when you can't place a face but maybe it was a wanted criminal you saw on the back of a bus, or someone's cousin you met at a wedding. A thick black spike through his freckled nose made him seem young and vulnerable. He evoked a tenderness in me that I couldn't explain.
"I'm Christine," I said.
"Jamie," he replied, hauling himself to his feet. He held out a hand, callused and dirty finger nails, and I felt proud to hesitate only a second before taking it. He pulled me up with surprising strength, sinews rising on his mottled arms.
Standing, Jamie only measured maybe four inches higher than me, though his frame held the gangliness of a taller teen. His skinny just escaped gaunt, his cheeks telling the gravely story of past eruptions. Tracks scarring his arms looked old, but I wasn't sure if that meant he wasn't using or he'd moved on to other body parts. He didn't seem high.
As Jamie turned, I noticed a burn scar along his lower left check and the top of his neck. He noticed mine at the same time.
"Hey," he cried, guard down. "We're twins."
"More like mirrors," I replied, cautious.
My own burn isn't something I think about much any more. An accident with hot grease when I was a kid left a reddish, puckered sweep from my jawbone down the right side of my neck. It's the kind of thing people might not notice, depending what I'm wearing, or suddenly notice the second or third time we meet.
I followed Jamie into the building. The shallow landing barely held us both as he reached behind me to slam the door shut. He gave it a rattle to be certain and I thought we would both topple over when his hip bumped against me. He looked down at my body in such close proximity, and a sly grin crossed his face before he turned and bounded down the stairs like a puppy.
The stairs ended in a tunnel, which led to a fork, and Jamie flew down the hall to the right. I followed. The hallway twisted suddenly left into a large, open, low-ceilinged area that probably sat under the stage. I found myself in a semi-chaotic workshop. Every inch of space held something. Tools, paint, material, lights, instrument parts, open circuit boards, lumber...I couldn't take it all in. Several intense, abstract panels of colour lined one wall, so big I didn't know how they would get out the door. A full-sized sheet hung from the ceiling so that it touched the floor, still wet with an intricate design of muted phosphorescent colours.
Something large and heavy fell almost directly over my head - instinctively, I ducked. I glanced quickly at Jamie to see if he'd noticed, but he stood with his back to me. I heard fast, heavy footfalls above, and a muffled, heated conversation.
"This is where I live," said Jamie, turning shyly. "I do production. Like, stage, lights, some sound? I work with the mentors and the kids?" His voice rose at the end of his sentences, like I was a teacher come to inspect the premises. I felt a little sad that I couldn't reach across the gap to him. We were so different.
I gestured toward the freshly-painted tapestry. "This is your work, then? Is it a backdrop?"
Excitedly, Jamie scampered to the sheet.
"Big show on Friday! Trix wants something spectacular. I got these paints leftover from a production at the Royal. Guy I know there let me take them. Doesn't look like much now, but when the light hits it, POW!"
He slammed his fist into his hand and did a little jig, one knee and the other, then remembered himself and looked down shyly. I laughed out loud - I couldn't help myself. He peeked up from under his eyebrows like a favourite child who knows he's pre-forgiven for whatever mischief he might conjure. The smile we shared made his pock-marked face dazzling. He was a good looking kid after all.
Jamie suddenly crumpled. "But maybe it's not that good," he said, looking down. He seemed to talk to himself. "I don't think she likes it. She..." He broke off, biting his lip. Abruptly, he bent and started cleaning up newspapers and brushes on the floor. So I was right - Trix had hurt his feelings. I crouched beside him to help clean up. He didn't look at me.
"I think you probably want Trix - she's on the stage." He pointed up.
I realized he had reached his capacity for interaction at the moment, but I still felt a little pang at being so summarily dismissed. I moved to the door.
"Hey," he called. The way the light and shadow cut his upturned face, he looked about six years old. "Good luck!"
"Um, thanks," I laughed. It seemed an odd parting thought.
The front door to Timeless didn't budge. Frustrated, I walked to the edge of the building. Down the ally, I saw a teenage boy sitting on the ground, leaning against a propped-open side-door. Above him, laundry dangled on taught, thick lines stretched between windows. For a moment, I imagined one of the large-cupped bras falling directly on the boy's head, a minor amusement insufficient to distract my grump.
The kid didn't acknowledge my approach, and I became suddenly overwhelmed by the effort it would take to speak to him, ask about getting in. Drained, about ready to call it quits and go home, I surprised us both by sinking to the ground beside him, bricks solid against my back. For one brief moment, his eyes lit with curiosity, like I presented an unexpected and interesting spectacle. But before that even registered, he stared at his lap again.
"Are you here for a reason?" he asked, without turning his head.
"Trix told me to come."
He laughed and glanced at me briefly - eyes the colour of milk chocolate. They darted like a squirrel's.
"Oh, she TOLD you. No asking for Trix!"
I couldn't figure out whether his tone held admiration or criticism. I had a sudden sense that Trix had recently hurt his feelings. I constantly got flashes like that from the way people said things, a certain turn of the mouth, hunch of the shoulders.
I found something vaguely, disturbingly familiar about this boy, like when you can't place a face but maybe it was a wanted criminal you saw on the back of a bus, or someone's cousin you met at a wedding. A thick black spike through his freckled nose made him seem young and vulnerable. He evoked a tenderness in me that I couldn't explain.
"I'm Christine," I said.
"Jamie," he replied, hauling himself to his feet. He held out a hand, callused and dirty finger nails, and I felt proud to hesitate only a second before taking it. He pulled me up with surprising strength, sinews rising on his mottled arms.
Standing, Jamie only measured maybe four inches higher than me, though his frame held the gangliness of a taller teen. His skinny just escaped gaunt, his cheeks telling the gravely story of past eruptions. Tracks scarring his arms looked old, but I wasn't sure if that meant he wasn't using or he'd moved on to other body parts. He didn't seem high.
As Jamie turned, I noticed a burn scar along his lower left check and the top of his neck. He noticed mine at the same time.
"Hey," he cried, guard down. "We're twins."
"More like mirrors," I replied, cautious.
My own burn isn't something I think about much any more. An accident with hot grease when I was a kid left a reddish, puckered sweep from my jawbone down the right side of my neck. It's the kind of thing people might not notice, depending what I'm wearing, or suddenly notice the second or third time we meet.
I followed Jamie into the building. The shallow landing barely held us both as he reached behind me to slam the door shut. He gave it a rattle to be certain and I thought we would both topple over when his hip bumped against me. He looked down at my body in such close proximity, and a sly grin crossed his face before he turned and bounded down the stairs like a puppy.
The stairs ended in a tunnel, which led to a fork, and Jamie flew down the hall to the right. I followed. The hallway twisted suddenly left into a large, open, low-ceilinged area that probably sat under the stage. I found myself in a semi-chaotic workshop. Every inch of space held something. Tools, paint, material, lights, instrument parts, open circuit boards, lumber...I couldn't take it all in. Several intense, abstract panels of colour lined one wall, so big I didn't know how they would get out the door. A full-sized sheet hung from the ceiling so that it touched the floor, still wet with an intricate design of muted phosphorescent colours.
Something large and heavy fell almost directly over my head - instinctively, I ducked. I glanced quickly at Jamie to see if he'd noticed, but he stood with his back to me. I heard fast, heavy footfalls above, and a muffled, heated conversation.
"This is where I live," said Jamie, turning shyly. "I do production. Like, stage, lights, some sound? I work with the mentors and the kids?" His voice rose at the end of his sentences, like I was a teacher come to inspect the premises. I felt a little sad that I couldn't reach across the gap to him. We were so different.
I gestured toward the freshly-painted tapestry. "This is your work, then? Is it a backdrop?"
Excitedly, Jamie scampered to the sheet.
"Big show on Friday! Trix wants something spectacular. I got these paints leftover from a production at the Royal. Guy I know there let me take them. Doesn't look like much now, but when the light hits it, POW!"
He slammed his fist into his hand and did a little jig, one knee and the other, then remembered himself and looked down shyly. I laughed out loud - I couldn't help myself. He peeked up from under his eyebrows like a favourite child who knows he's pre-forgiven for whatever mischief he might conjure. The smile we shared made his pock-marked face dazzling. He was a good looking kid after all.
Jamie suddenly crumpled. "But maybe it's not that good," he said, looking down. He seemed to talk to himself. "I don't think she likes it. She..." He broke off, biting his lip. Abruptly, he bent and started cleaning up newspapers and brushes on the floor. So I was right - Trix had hurt his feelings. I crouched beside him to help clean up. He didn't look at me.
"I think you probably want Trix - she's on the stage." He pointed up.
I realized he had reached his capacity for interaction at the moment, but I still felt a little pang at being so summarily dismissed. I moved to the door.
"Hey," he called. The way the light and shadow cut his upturned face, he looked about six years old. "Good luck!"
"Um, thanks," I laughed. It seemed an odd parting thought.
Preview: And I Was In
In the hallway, half-closed doors revealed small, messy make-up rooms and bursting closets. Peeking instead of watching, I stumbled forward through an open doorway into the theatre, directly in front of the stage.Trix perched on the fourth rung of a ladder downstage left. She wore garish lime and black striped tights and from below her legs looked impossibly long. A worn-thin AC/DC t-shirt rode little too short as she reached, playing peek-a-boo with her belly button. From my angle, I saw more than that. An outfit that either says I'm too cool to care what I look like, or I'm too lame to know better - all depending on personality.
When Trix saw me, her face leaped into a wide, happy grin and she sprang, cat-like, to the stage floor, landing in a crouch to look down at me.
"You're here!" she exclaimed, her voice full of excitement. "You're late," she clipped, standing, with a bite of command. "Where's your guitar?"
"I'm between guitars at the moment."
She grimaced at me; frowned. Re-evaluating.
"And you're okay with that? A little break from playing, maybe?"
I didn't appreciate her scrutiny. It hadn't been that long - my fingers weren't soft. I felt myself disengaging from the conversation. She noticed, and switched tacks.
"But you're here! So use the one over there, for now, and let's play."
She headed towards centre stage, calling out, "Back at it, people!" A wave of her hand brought two boys running to remove the ladder she'd been climbing.
I stepped back to take a good look around...