Twinkle star, p.1
Twinkle Star, page 1
TWINKLE STAR
By, Nicky James
Twinkle Star
Copyright © 2017 by Nicky James
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Artist:
Nicky James
Editing:
Undivided Editing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Epilogue
Other Titles by Nicky James
About the Author
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my husband, Jamie, and all his old crew back at the PSAM. Although one hundred percent inspired by all of you amazing folks and the hard work and dedication that went into every performance, Jamie wants me to assure everyone, this is completely a work of fiction. Ha, ha, I love you Julian… err… Jamie. <3
Tuesday, December 5th
If my box knife wasn’t secured in its pouch on my belt, I’d have sworn someone had stolen it and was stabbing it into my temple. Twisting and angling it in just such a way that it simultaneously hit the back of my eyeball on my right-hand side. I could hardly open my eyes past halfway for the headache I was sporting. Thank God the backstage of the theater was dark and empty.
If I didn’t have a load in that morning for our upcoming Christmas show, I’d have called in sick. Of course, that being said, if I didn’t have a load in for yet another obnoxious Christmas show, I wouldn’t have drunk so much the previous night either. It was a vicious cycle. One I would have thought I was immune to. Based on the intensity of the ache in my brain and the sandpaper dryness in my mouth and down my throat, I guessed I was wrong.
I wandered blindly through the main dressing room and turned on a light above the small kitchenette in the corner. Squinting into the bright light reflecting off the scuffed white counter top, I worked at setting the coffee pot to brew. I wasn’t expecting any actors to show up until the following day, so the room would remain a break room for my crew while they spent the next eight to ten hours—God, please not more—building the set.
I routinely arrived at work a good thirty minutes or so before my crew. It was my time to get things cleaned and organized before the truck pulled in and we unloaded and built set. The backstage was my space and I’d taken claim to it many years before. Everyone knew that and followed my unspoken rules.
The men under me got their orders and we ran at top efficiency. Timing was everything. The shows rarely left room between load in and opening night for actors and directors to become familiar with our stage. We barely had time to ensure the walls of the set didn’t topple and tech was sorted out. I was not going to be the reason things got pushed to the limits. It was why I’d been given the job of chief stagehand, and also why I needed a damn cup of coffee.
I leaned against the counter and waited while the machine gurgled and bubbled. It’d seen better days, but it still made decent enough coffee, so I hadn’t replaced it.
Closing my eyes, I imagined my bed with its cool silk sheets and extra plush pillows. How many hours until I got to crawl back in it again?
Too fucking many.
Just as the smell of the rich Colombian brew hit my nose, a heavy door slammed on the other side of the stage. It was the door that led to the courtyard. One only accessible by staff. So much for those few minutes of peace and quiet.
A far too cheery whistle approached along with muffled footfalls. It was one whose tone I’d recognize anywhere; my theater manager, Reggie Monroe.
“Julian?”
There was no point responding. By the sound of his echoing footsteps, he was headed my way and would find me soon enough.
“Jules?” His head popped around the corner. “You are here.” Joining me in the dressing room, Reggie gave me a once over, assessing my barely thrown together appearance.
I hadn’t shaved in three days and the dark stubble covering my face was growing thick and course. My dark brown hair rarely saw more than a finger combing and was the reason I wore it cropped short with only a bit of length on top. It was easy to style. That morning, I’d adorned tattered work jeans with permanent paint stains, and a plain black t-shirt.
“You look like shit. Are you hungover? You know we’re building set all day, right?”
“You think I’m here at seven in the fucking morning for my health?”
Not waiting for the machine to finish, I yanked a cup out of the cupboard and poured a mugful. The machine stopped its progress momentarily, but a few random drips fell and sizzled on the hot burner.
Closing my eyes, I brought the steaming brew to my nose and inhaled deeply before taking that first beautiful sip of the morning. Nothing on God’s green Earth was more wonderful than that first mouthful of coffee. It electrified my blood and woke all the dormant, misfiring synapses in my brain, helping them align and function properly. With luck, it might even simmer my bite. On a day where I had to get up before the ass-crack of dawn and with a hangover, I needed it.
“God that’s good,” I moaned into my cup after the hot liquid made its way down my throat, coating my belly and warming me from the inside out.
“You are the only person I know that makes erotic sex noises when they drink coffee.” Reggie pushed around me to get his own mug and poured himself a cup as well.
“That’s because coffee is the equivalent to sex on a rough morning. It’s a rough morning, therefore, it warrants the noises.”
Reggie rooted through the small bar fridge in pursuit of milk. “Anyone who compares coffee as an equivalent to sex, clearly isn’t getting any. Don’t we have milk?”
“Nope, and fuck off, you don’t know shit. We can’t all roll out of bed perky and looking like we just stepped out of GQ magazine. I can’t deal with your bubbly ass today so please knock it down a few notches, will ya?”
“Yup, definitely not getting any. Jules, you need to get laid.”
“You need to shut up and let me enjoy this coffee before I physically remove you from my space. And get your head out of there, there’s no milk.”
Reggie was one of those people who had everything in their life in order, and everything about it was Brady Bunch perfect. Not only was the man trim and good looking with a sandy blond, brush cut hair do and dark brown eyes, but he had the wife, two point five children, and an upscale home in Rancho Mirage to go with it. He always smiled as though nothing in his life was ever out of place. He was happy with everything, and I couldn’t remember a time when I didn’t see him with a grin on his face and a hop in his step.
Surrendering his search for milk, Reggie closed the fridge and sipped his own coffee. “Well, I hate to break the news to you, but if you can’t put up with me in your space, you’re going to hang yourself today when you meet this guy from the show.”
“An actor?”
“Yup. Director brought his cast in last night after you split, wanted to tour the stage—”
“Fuck! Tell me you didn’t let them. I fucking hate it when—”
“Cool your jets. I know you hate people on your stage when you’re not here. I told them to come back today.”
“Brilliant move, dumbass, we’re building today.”
“They can look around, Jules. Their show; their space. Chill out. Anyhow, this guy… Man, seriously, he’s going to bug the shit out of you. I mean we’ve had some doozies through here all high on themselves, but this guy. I mean, he’s super friendly and sweet, but wow, wait until you meet him.”
“They can’t be in my way today, Reg. If they want their fucking set built they need to stay away from me and my crew. It’s going to be a mess and I’m not having anyone getting hurt because they can’t wait one fucking day to get on stage. I don’t care what they pay to rent this place—”
“Jules. Shut up about the set. Did you hear me about this guy?”
“Whatever. He’s a prima donna. I’ve dealt with hundreds. Keep them off my stage today. I’m serious.”
Reggie laughed and singsonged into his coffee mug, “Oh, you are gonna hate him.”
“More than I hate you? Because I’m hating on you pretty bad right now.”
“Oh, baby, I’m gonna look like a dream compared to him.”
With a newly topped up cup of coffee, I made my way out of the dressing room to turn on the lights backstage along with the front of house. The rest of my crew would be there soon and the truck wouldn’t be too far behind.
Let the day begin…
…so it can end and I can go back to bed.
In under twenty minutes, the six men from my crew were busying themselves clearing the remaining bits and pieces from the stage so we could start again with a new show. The work was automatic and every one of us could do it in our sleep.
I was winding electrical cords when I heard the telltale sound of a large truck backing up outside the loading dock.
Zebastian Blake, one of my primary stagehands, or Zeb as we’d come to know him, poked his head around the curtain from a wing on stage left. “Truck’s here, Jules.”
“Yup. Get the doors open, I’ll be there in a sec.”
“On it, boss.”
Zeb was one of those people with a rather deceiving appearance. His black hair hung in dreads down the middle of his back, tied in a low ponytail. His face was never clean shaven and every inch of his skin was littered in tattoos. Both ears had large gauges and his eyes never opened more than halfway. He looked stoned most of the time—he was stoned most of the time. But he was also one of the hardest working people I knew. The guy may have shown up to work higher than a kite more days than not and talked endlessly of how he’d screwed half the girls in southern California while out partying and drinking, but he always pulled his weight and then some. I never had a problem with him, but due to his outward appearance, I needed to keep him backstage so he wouldn’t frighten theater goers. I could never fault him for his lifestyle, especially when mine was so far in the shitter I didn’t even know what a good time looked like anymore.
By the time I wandered out to meet the opened back end of the box truck, the show’s stage manager was already giving my men a rundown of what needed to go where. Set pieces, props, wardrobe, you named it, it was all stuffed into the back of the truck, ready for us to unload.
The stage manager was a heavyset man in his mid-forties with silvering dark hair, styled and gelled to perfection. He wore a crisp white golf shirt paired with khaki chinos. I’d have bet money that he didn’t plan on lifting a finger to help us either. Those men were often the uppity type who preferred the power of ordering a crew around over getting their hands dirty.
He caught my eye as I examined him and smiled stiffly.
“Julian,” I said, offering him my hand. “I’m in charge of this lot. We’ll get this all set up as quickly as we can. If you need anything, just ask.”
He extended his hand and shook mine, his expression unchanging. “Jerry.”
Jerry instructed me where all the pieces would need to go, and without wasting time, my crew and I unloaded the truck while he stood by with his arms crossed over his chest and watched.
An hour later, the truck was empty and the once vacant stage was a mess. To an outsider it might have looked like a disaster, but to me and my men, it was piles of materials precisely set out and ready for assembly.
By the time we were ready to lay down the set, the assistant stage manager and wardrobe lady had arrived, introducing themselves as Philip and Carla. I was terrible with names and recited them over and over again in my head, trying to commit them to memory.
On my performance review in September, Reggie had made note that I wasn’t personable enough with the production crews. He felt the constant need to remind me that those people paid a pretty penny to bring their shows into our theater, and technically, when they rented the space, they rented me as well. I worked for them as much as I worked for Desert Dreams.
Therefore, I tried to smile more and at least address people by name when I could. I was their gopher for the length of their show. I did whatever they wanted me to do, be it repairs, set moves, cleaning up messes, and even substituting as a make shift bodyguard when we brought in bigger stars. My size was intimidating, and my stern demeanor earned me respect.
Drilling a set wall into place on stage, I didn’t hear the prop lady come up behind me.
“Excuse me. Julian, is it?”
“Yes.” I stood on creaking legs and pressed a smile to my face. My still pounding head prevented it from reaching my eyes.
“I was told you’re in charge back here.” Her smile was more genuine than mine. “Which dressing room should I use for Star? I was going to set up his wardrobe just the way he likes it so it’s ready for when he arrives.”
“Star?” My brain was a little fuzzy with a hangover still, so I wasn’t sure I’d heard her right.
“Umm. Yes. The main actor in the show. He’s going by Twinkle Star for this production. You know, Christmas show, twinkling lights, he’s the Star. Twinkle Star.”
She said it with such a straight face, I almost took her seriously. I tilted my head with amusement while I failed to contain my growing smile, one that eventually turned into a full-on chuckle.
When she didn’t join in on my humor, and her brows dipped in the middle, my laughter faded and I coughed. “You… You were serious, weren’t you?”
She nodded and gave an understanding shrug. Having worked so long in theater, I should have been used to that kind of thing. We saw all kinds.
“He won’t let anyone use his proper name,” she explained. “He says the stage name helps keep him in character.”
Composing myself, I put my drill down beside my unfinished work. “Let’s put him in dressing room one. I have it set up as a lunch room for my men today, but I’ll move the stuff elsewhere. Does that work?”
“Thank you.”
Luckily the room wasn’t too disorderly. A few dirty mugs, a half a pot of coffee, and stacks of paper plates, waiting for the takeout lunch we had yet to order, were all that covered the counter. I made quick work of rinsing out the mugs, unplugging the coffee pot, and sticking the plates under my arm to bring them elsewhere.
“There you go. It had a thorough cleaning done just yesterday so it should meet his needs. If there is anything you require, let me know.”
“Perfect.” She turned circles, inspecting the space. “He’s kind of… particular. So I may need some things tweaked before he gets here. If that’s all right?”
I paused at the door and turned back. Carla smiled sheepishly and shrugged again in an apologetic manner.
“Not a problem. I’ve worked with all kinds. You know where to find me.” I turned again, about to make my way to another dressing room, but spun back. “Seriously, Twinkle Star?”
She laughed and continued to survey the room. “You’ll find it fitting when you meet him.”
Good Lord, what have I got myself into?
Shortly after enjoying a quick lunch break, we returned to work. The last few flats, which completed the main living room wall for the play, were up and standing. The doors had yet to be attached and the window wasn’t working right with the shutters, but we’d made good progress. Zeb and Joey, another stagehand from my crew, worked on the window while I swept up a pile of debris.
“Julian!” Reggie barreled through the front of house doors with the biggest grin plastered all over his face. He approached the stage, rubbing his hands together enthusiastically. I peeked up but ignored him as I gathered the mess into a dustpan. He was too jovial and I didn’t have time for his shit.
Reggie stopped beside the stage and knocked for emphasis to get my attention. “Julian, get your ass over here.”
Gritting my teeth, I balanced the broom on the newly erected wall and put my dustpan aside. Delaying, I returned a few tools to my belt before approaching. I jumped down from the stage and leaned beside him.
“What?”
Reggie eyed me, the grin on his face glowing. “The Director is here with his actors. They are on their way down. His name is Tobias. I’ll let him introduce the group. There are only three actors in the show and they’re looking to get a feel for the stage and to unload some gear into the dressing rooms.”
I bit back my irritation at having my workspace invaded and forced a stiff smile.
“Fine. But they need to be mindful that I have a team in full construction mode on stage right now, and they can’t be in the way. I don’t want anyone hurt on my watch.”
“They know, Jules. One thing before they get down here. The main actor—”
“Is he seriously going by Twinkle Star? The wardrobe lady, Cindy, said—”
“It’s Carla, and yes. It’s his stage name for the production. I guess he likes to change things up for every show.”
“Yeah, but come on, Twinkle Star? That’s ridiculous, he’s asking to be made fun of.”
“Listen, about him. Before you freak out, I wanted you to know—”
Reggie didn’t get a chance to finish when a squeal erupted from the house doors on the right, bringing my forgotten headache to life and forcing mine and Reggie’s heads to swing in its direction.
And there he was.
“Oh. My. God. It’s HUGE!”
He wore skintight, dark denim capris, rainbow canvas sneakers, and a skintight white t-shirt with a rainbow teddy bear on the front. His wrists were both decorated with countless bracelets, and he wore more makeup than my gramma on church Sunday.
