What was it about the study of law that made people surround themselves with matching books in forest green and burgundy? If broad generalizations could be made about the theater kids and the AV engineers, then it had to be fair to say that Christine's lawyer friend probably had her diploma on the wall, just out of the shot. Right next to the unsubtle knicknacks meant to humanize her.
Erik thought about his shelves of mismatched binders, scripts, notebooks and music, blossoming with multicolored pastel sticky notes. Then he thought about the time it was scattered across the office when the futon-
"Now that's settled," Christine kicked his foot as her lawyer friend continued. "I can tell you that the arrangement they propose is unusual. It's not unheard of, just sort of new territory. We've seen more of it across digital platforms in the past decade, and the last year has brought a spike of new contracts. My firm has helped advise on several of these so, if you like, I can look over other similar contracts and informal agreements and come up with a few ideas?"
Christine was the first to respond. "That sounds great. Erik?"
"I like it."
The lawyer smiled. "It's great to see groups working together. Taking a little risk can keep a lot of people in work and that just feels good, you know?"
It really felt good to help people. It also felt good to create, and if he could do both, then so much the better. Erik's phone flashed to announce an incoming text.
"It really does," Christine agreed. "We've kept our entire payroll and might expand if we go this direction."
Erik glanced at his message while Christine rattled off a litany of success. The intern was nearly back and was looking forward to seeing more than two rooms and the inside of his suitcase. He'd find the envelope with a little cash advance when he got to his apartment.
"So if that wraps it up, I think we've got a plan." The lawyer set down her pen and looked at her notes. "Anything else?"
Erik handed his phone to Christine to read the texts. "One more thing. How do we go about setting up a scholarship?"
…
The quiet fall had thinned the crowd at the main street market as the news reported more than two or three topics again. Unfortunately, worsening conditions, in every sense of the term, had once more brought skittish shoppers to the barricade of snow-dusted folding tables, phones out to scan codes.
Christine scrolled through the app and made her picks. The shops had made the wise move to consolidate their menus and shopping lists; staff rotated through the pick-and-deliver job so no one froze running between shops for too long.
"How do you feel about kale?"
"You know how I feel about kale," he grimaced. "But if you drown it in bacon I can manage."
"That's fair. Extra cheese. I've got some old tortillas and I'm thinking of nachos tomorrow."
"Now you're talking." Erik shifted the bag he was carrying when his phone vibrated. "It's the food bank coordinator."
"We've got a distribution scheduled for next Tuesday. Has something come up?"
His phone pinged again. "Now the head of the historical society is emailing me… what is this, a script?"
Christine's eyes widened as she peered at the screen. Erik handed it to her and plodded off to pick up butter and eggs.
"Check this out, Erik. They're proposing an outdoor murder mystery and haunted building tour for those who donate twenty five dollars to the food bank. Once a week," she stifled a giggle, "you'll drop 'clues' in designated spots along the main street district for participants to find. This sounds like fun!"
Erik pushed on his eyeballs to keep them in place. "As long as I'm not part of the show." He hiked the bags higher on his shoulder and glared down at a bag of kale. "Let's finish so I can drown myself in a cup of hot coffee."
…
Air moves differently in a large space. It's lazy, heavy, and unhurried; there's nowhere to go when the lights are on and the tidy rows of seats are empty and folded.
Erik's footsteps echoed in the huge space as he paced the boards of the stage, then sat heavily on the edge, his feet dangling in space.
Sound is different, too. Without walls or corners every few feet, sound can spread, draping that rich atmosphere in voices, the patterings of ballet shoes, or the deep inhale of a cello as the player sets the bow to the strings.
Or a heavy sigh. He missed improv nights around the pit where classical violinists jammed alongside metal guitars or jazz musicians breathed new life into Russian operas. Stranger mashups had happened, and he was delighted he'd witnessed a few of those, too.
Erik slid off the stage and the thud of his two-foot drop reverberated. It wouldn't do to begin the meeting with his navel gazing, so Erik folded back the heavy cover and slid back the fallboard.
As his theater team assembled, scattering themselves far apart in the theater, he played pieces from their shows. When the AV guy came in, he played a few bars from Rocky Horror, their technically challenging, distanced performance that had taken a month just to set the shots and design sets. When the stage manager came in, he played from The Nutcracker, in honor of her mastery of the set changes that made the holidays so grueling. She was currently negotiating an outdoor performance and the floor pieces alone would eat much of the budget. The assistants got pop music and the songs from the beloved sing-a-longs they were now in charge of; Christine was too busy coordinating with the food bank and historical society. She'd even helped put together flyers with budget recipes featuring the market and food bank offerings.
When Christine entered, he played Over the Rainbow because somewhere, skies were blue. She sat nearby on the stage and smiled tiredly while she held their notes.
Masks may hide smiles but they don't hide eyes. Not hers, anyway.
Erik took his hands off the keys and turned to face the house.
"Thanks for making it in today. I know it's strange for us all to be here, but I can tell you the first shows had fewer people in it than this and no one was wearing masks." A few polite laughs. Mission accomplished.
"We've broken our strict density policy because we felt this was too important to online. A few days ago, Christine and I were asked to consider bringing in affiliate theaters." A few gasps, a blank stare or two. "Christine just sent you all the text of a document that sets out the structure of such an affiliation. We would, in effect, be the creative and administrative leads for three more theaters that are struggling in the current environment. Take a moment to read the document."
One hand went up. Erik hesitated. He wasn't exactly taking attendance.
"Yeah?"
An intern from the costume department sat up. "Will you keep playing?"
Erik laughed, then spun back to the keys. "Sure."
The plainspeech document was three pages long, and in the interest of fair play, Erik played softly to encourage them all to digest what they were taking in. After about ten minutes, he looked up and saw a few heads popping up, and sets of roommates in quiet discussion. A few minutes more and he closed the music off and turned back around.
"So, why are we meeting?" one asked. "This looks pretty well thought out, like a lawyer did it and stuff."
"A lawyer did do it."
"Right, so like, why?"
"Why ask my talented, hard working, successful creative team if they're open to increased workloads, outside influences, new collaborators, and the possibility of failure?"
Heads turned. Conversations were muffled by masks and phones pinged relayed messages. A few must have been sent in the group chat because Erik's phone started jangling in his pocket. He waved his hands to quiet the group.
Christine stood. "There's a slight risk that we lose our brand. Our streams and shows have a distinct feel, and there's a chance that the affiliates, or worse, the donors, won't embrace it."
"But," Erik held up a long bony hand, "they're asking to affiliate with us."
God, this was a moment, wasn't it? He hated these moments because they sound good on paper or in movies but the reality was that his back was a little sweaty and he hadn't read the whole document because he hated paperwork.
What a useful thing that they thought he was a cryptid.
"They're in rough shape, but not desperate. They came to us because we did what only a handful of theaters have managed to do: we made this shit show into an opportunity."
Erik paced the pit, pausing by the control panels. He flicked the wooden handle on the house mains switch to make it spin on its metal mount.
"They want to know how we made content people are willing to pay for, and have us host it for them. In return, they'll join in some revenue sharing as they get off the ground. That means we're splitting the ticket with people who will cause more work than they generate."
Mumbles. People shifted in their seats. A hand went up.
"That's a temporary problem, right?"
Erik shrugged. "Relatively. Probably. No guarantees."
The stage manager tapped her pen against the armrest. "You guys, think about the future. This won't last forever, and one way or another we'll need to grow."
A senior tech leaned forward heavily. "Isn't it enough to just keep everything running and think about this later?"
The AV guy shrugged. "Maybe, but if we don't run with this now, someone else will. Those little groups will get chewed up by investors and bye bye, independent theaters."
The intern nodded. "Can confirm. Donors at the university were talking about acquisitions when I was there."
Mumbles rose again. Debates sparked across the rows and a thread of desperation started weaving its way into conversations. Erik looked up at Christine.
"If it helps," Christine piped up, "we've set aside three months worth of operating funds. I mean, we'll have to cut out pizza delivery and Red Bull, but we can make payroll and keep the lights on."
The rumbles lowered and grew thoughtful.
"I'm in," said the costumer. "Masquerades are a moneymaker and easy to set up."
Interns looked at their department heads. The stage manager raised her hand. "We're in. We can show them how we got creative with shots, set ups, and design."
The AV guy pressed his forehead with his palm. "I'm going to regret this." he pulled out a notebook and started jotting down notes. "This guy learned a lot about digital editing at the university and I wrote procedures on how to set up the best software and sites to run smooth shows. That should get the ball rolling on content. Heck, they might be good at music editing, too. Might be a good collaboration there."
A few other group leaders chimed in, and a few rough numbers and budgets were thrown around. As the company deliberated, Erik edged nearer to Christine and leaned his head on her thigh.
"I can't decide if I'm excited or terrified," he said softly.
"How did you feel when you bought the place?" She ran her fingers over his scalp and down the back of his neck. The syrupy air, now suddenly cool and dancing over the tracks her fingers left, provided an electric prompt.
"Same."
...
In the end, they voted to accept a role as teachers, hosts, and ultimately, a partnership of creative directors to help three other independent theaters scattered in neighboring states. Erik's insides coiled and rolled as they returned to their office to pack up and head home. They paused on the stairs to kiss, and again in the hallway outside the office. As Christine opened the door, Erik looked up and saw that a nearby camera, one of more than he cared to count scattered in the theater, had a feather wedged near the mount. He reached up and flicked it away, then grabbed his things and locked up.
It was a few hours later, after texts and emails with the lawyer, after a dinner of kale made tolerable by sausage, a shower that warmed and softened his aching shoulders and a little smile that had them hurrying down the hall, that Erik made the connection.
"That little-" He started to lean up.
Christine tightened her grip on his hips. "What?" When she pulled him back down, he went willingly, but was off his rhythm nonetheless.
"I can't believe-" she cut him off with a kiss and a twist of her hips that slackened his jaw.
The arch of her back left a gap against the mattress just big enough for his hand to slip beneath, then he pressed down. Gravity may order the universe but Christine's sighs, tuneful and polished, was the center of his universe. She leaned her lips next to his ear and whispered.
"You have ten seconds, then I'm going to get grumpy."
Erik gasped at what she did next, barely squeezing out the words. "I have a bad feeling about that codpiece."
...