Chapter 88c: All Roads Lead to Rome (14 September 2003, some time around noon in at the Lionheart Theatre)
Speaking is silver, silence is golden. Who came up with that stupid nonsense anyways?
"Hey kid, come here and pay attention!"
I put the planks down in the corner for the machinist to take care of later before heading in the direction of the first voice I've heard that literally invites strangling simply based on its acoustics.
"C'mon, chop chop. The lathe doesn't wait!"
"Yeah, I'm coming."
My response betrays my frustration, but damn that dude. This was the last place I wanted to spend time away from home at.
As I round the corner, Dirk is doing that thing with his eyes to try and 'motivate' me into hurrying. Geez. Isn't he salary? What's with his workaholic-like ethic?
"See, I'm here. What'd you want to show me, old man?"
He ignores my provocation. Typical for him, I guess. Come to think of it: Zoe did mention that the judicial reformation system tosses one or two vandals into this workshop every year.
Why the fuck couldn't I just say no to her? Or pretend I found something to begin with? Nope, I just had to be fucking honest and tell her I failed to find something of my liking.
"See, you clamp this rod in like this, and you need to make sure to tighten it. See? Slowly. Don't worry about leaving scuffs, if it comes loose loosing your teeth is the most beneficial outcome, so take this shit seriously. Tightly like this, see?"
Ugh. He just rambles. I'm not here to learn; I just want some busywork to preserve the peace.
Ah. That's it! I knew it wasn't Zoe's feminine wiles that made me agree to this. There's nothing remotely attractive about those outfits.
A hand slaps against my temple, dragging me out of my newfound peace at not
"Pay attention, kid! These machines can make your pretty face become anything but in a moments worth of inattentiveness."
Rolling my eys, I nod agreeably.
"Yeah yeah. I get it. So that was it?"
His obvious sigh of disappointment isn't hard to miss, but by the fact he returns back to making this pipe thing into something less pipey and more fit to be the rod of a centurions spear.. well, whatever.
They should just make that thing out of wood and be done with it. If anyone has to fight with a spear made from metal, that would be really tiresome.
Whatever. Not my concern. My troupe's full of wussies anyways.
I wander off towards the material stacks again, hoping to dodge as much of their attention as I can behind those tall shelves. Just let me get through the day, dude. You're not paying me, and there's no autographs on any documents of law you need to put down either, so just give me the space we both desire, mmkay?
But there is no such luck for me.
Had things gone a bit better back then, then perhaps I'd have a response from Jenny to look forward to, like a text message or even a call… but she is perhaps the sorest loser I've ever seen. Tch. I really should have listened to Setsuka's warnings about never letting on about her giving me that picture.
Instead, I am faced with the one kindred soul I have in this place, who is already hard at work. That is to say, despite being under the influence of the system and his eagerness towards obtaining his freedom, his nearby future is completely dependent on a stupid little autograph put down on some document at the end of the day. And for another few months, too.
It sucks to be him.
He waves towards me, calling out my name.
It sucks to be me, too.
A quick glance betrays that he is already very busy at work doing an inventory. His clipboard holds at least five pages. Ugh. I don't envy him, but I envy him even less for dragging me into this mess of an assignment.
"Come help me, Cain. Two pairs of eyes will get this done way quicker."
Welcome to the theatre workshop, where absolutely nobody approves of slacking off.
Hell, that's the theatre in a nutshell, right? Even those damn girls are workaholics whenever they aren't gossiping about the size of my dick or my capability to use it.
Whatever; it's not like I don't enjoy acting. So wouldn't that make me one of them? Fuck.
I respond gruffly, responding with a pissy look of chagrin.
"You'll owe me one. Capiche?"
He laughs. "Whatever, mafia maestro. I just want to sit down and have a break, but those guys are a pain in my ass."
My wry expression is taken as a confirmation, and he soon begins to call out what he's looking for while I put in a token worth of effort to find what he needs. It easily beats carrying those beams, planks and other sort of lifting nonsense for the big props those old geezers are working on right now.
This place seems to run on passion and a caffeine-fueled work ethic. Were it not for the minority of the workforce here being either filled with underage troublemakers to compensate for the near-invalids who have already exceeded their expiry date, I don't think anyone would actually get any work done. If these greybeards receive livable wage, I would be very surprised.
But it would still be way better than what the actors are paid for their work.
Seriously, fuck, what is it with ice cream after every performance? Beer? Wine? Or at least something less overdone than caramel icecream would be nice. I'd even take an apple or banana, even if that too would make me feel just as under-appreciated.
Unfortunately, my mental frustrations and expletive-filled rants amount to very little in the real world, and we are done counting paint cans, carpets and other fabrics about forty minutes later.
With little else on my agenda, I end up following Will out towards the door, picking up my very recognisable bunnies lunchbox on the way. He gives me a mocking smirk, but that is nothing new. I have been ridiculed for the mismatch before, but between wussy actors and those who ought to be considered 'peers' in my class at school, this guy has grit. Edge.
Simply put, he does not give a shit about society. If he had a mate or girl to show off to, he'd probably be the least productive individual here. But with only time to waste and a chance in front of him to not end up in jail for several months, even a musclehead like him will try to meet the expectations of the situation handed to him.
His full name is William Andrew Gerard Edmund Rotfield if the carelessly discarded paperwork I stumbled across is anything to go by, but the confrontational glare he gave old Dirk when the geezer called him 'William' is enough to make me think he's definitely got several chips worth of authority issues resting on his shoulder.
To be frank, it made him interesting. Rather than being another extra in a boring life, he could just add a bit of colour to it. Any person ready to call their parents out on their hypocritical bullshit has merit to be acquainted with.
And if a self-proclaimed tough guy like him is going to pick a fight over a lunchbox, I don't mind returning the favor by mocking him over that name of his to show I too have teeth.
But if it were to end there? That would be too disappointing.
Mutual understanding is best achieved through ones fists in a friendly exchange according to Tovi. Obviously shihan was talking about our one-sided spars at the gym, but does it even matter who I practice this with as long as there's no lasting damage?
Whatever. Even if it doesn't end up so friendly, I don't think William would be the type to drag others into his affairs.