It was a 1 and 1/2 purchase fly gallery. An old cinema, renovated. There was four feet of air between the flyrail and the proscenium arch. Thirty five feet to the deck. A gymnastic could swing back and forth without the first care of his body meeting the boards. The correct way to access the proscenium arch was by ladder, but I was invincible.
I heard his shoes as I was swinging back to the flyrail. I looked down to the deck over the rail. There he was. His reputation preceded him in ways I had yet to fully understand. Later, I would come to learn that our families had, in fact, been intertwined much longer than either of us could have ever imagined. I heard James’ big voice greet him like an old friend as he crossed towards center. I heard my name.
“Yeah, he’s around here somewhere.”
“And who is he?” asked a dulcet voice I didn’t recognize.
“The intern who should have lost his hand when you distracted him?” Boss shot back in perfect deadpan.
“His name is Michael. Next time he might be using a saw. Try not to distract the kid.”
“I would like to meet him. To apologize. Where is he?” says the voice.
“Oh?”
James moved left of center, the flyrail is stage side right. I was standing shock still looking down at the deck. I could see James’ face, and his back. James lifted his gaze, meeting mine. As he swept his long neck around to look himself, I took a step back.
It was dark on the rail. Rehearsal was in two hours, I was already wearing my blacks. I could have melted into the ropes if I had just held still and made no noise.
I dropped my spanner. It hit the metal grating of the catwalk with a clangorous rattle. “HEADS RIGHT RAIL!” Instinctively, I shouted. Silence. I looked down at my boots and there was my crescent wrench. Nothing fell off the rail.
Clink went the sound of James’ Zippo. I heard him take a pull on the Marlboro.
“He’s up there.”