On all fours, facing away from you to wire a knotty electrical connection nobody else would stand a hope of understanding, the sight of Tom’s derrière packed an sizeable punch. Nimble fingers prodded, realigned, twisted and fixed fiddly fixtures into position where anybody else, were they to harbour an inkling of what-went-where-and-why would require pliers for dexterity, strength and leverage but not Tom Scott, the touchy tech-geek and guardian of all things mechanical and / or complicated. Sturdy, nerdy and prone to grudges, Mr Scott as he sometimes insisted on being addressed, wasn’t necessarily a barrel of laughs, despite an impressive barrel chest and a formidable mass to bring up the rear.
More approachable and similarly absorbed in the task at hand, stood Johnny, busying himself bolting something cumbersome to something flimsy - such is the nature of backstage politics, graft and theatre-craft. ‘I’m about ready for a brew!’ he bellowed, with his habitual, sunny, bull-in-a-china-shop inability to dial it down. ‘Can I tempt Mister Scott to the-cup-that-cheers?’ Not that Tom insisted on Mister Kline calling him thus; for all his undeniable personable warmth, Johnny wasn't at the beck and call of anybody, harbouring a latent temper of his own, thankfully buried and rarely rearing its ugly head but more terrible, once riled, than the tendency-to-tetchy but bark-worse-than-bite mild-menace of Tom Scott.
‘No, thank you,’ sniffed a huffily startled Tom, who didn’t appreciate being alarmed sans-warning. ‘I will be quite fine without, Mister Kline.’ Beginning again, he unraveled and rewired the tricky point he’d pulled loose at the outset of the bawling regarding yet another beverage. ‘If I later discover an unforeseen need, I will see to myself.’
‘Fair-dinkum, me old chipper! Fair-dinkum!’ called Johnny, too loudly, as he set down his art and headed out to the kitchenette.
‘Noisy twat,’ hissed Tom, under his breath. ‘As you,’ hollered Jonny from the direction of cups clattering, ‘from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set me free!’
‘Why?’ hissed Tom, angrier but just a quietly as before. ‘Why does he have to be so blasted noisy?’
From behind an eighteen-inch, wooden silhouette of a fish inexplicably sporting sunglasses and smoking a pipe, inexplicably two feet tall where you’d previously stood around five-eight (or maybe five-seven) you eyed the prevailing and understandably intimidating soles of Tom’s battered trainers. Something lay crushed across one of their prevailing faces, possibly a plant stalk or maybe an earthworm. Crawling backwards to better sit up straight, Tom stayed pretty much where he was, positioned however, where you might better judge his mood.
A heavy man of about forty, in shorts and an untucked office shirt, Tom gave the impression of being somebody’s authoritarian father at a weekend barbecue which, on account of all the rules he’d set down, would prove anything but fun. With thinning, neatly short but not cropped hair and a goatee, he nevertheless retained a definite suggestion of what easily passed as handsome, if surly, solidity. ‘No,‘ he fumed to himself, rising to his feet. ‘He’s buggered it. Have to start again. Boisterous clot!’
Now standing, a face like thunder and more than three times your compromised height, Tom didn’t inspire expectations of a friendly welcome. Knowing if he wandered off, your task, that of seeking help, would be further complicated. But looking at him, you weren’t convinced this cantankerous mountain was necessarily the best or necessarily even a safe port of call. Never the friendliest coworker, Tom had, at an end-of-production-run get-together drinks-session, made a drunken pass at you. Responding positively, as the man for all his drawbacks wasn’t bad looking, you were shocked when he’d added, ‘it would only be sex, mind you. You’re not bad in this light but I’m not about to chuck it all in, for a slip of a lad, like you.’ Upon reconsideration, you chose to no longer pursue this ‘kind’ ‘offer’, at which change of mind, he took immediate umbrage and, two years later, showed no indication he was ready to ‘forgive.’
Fiddling and fuming with a wire mess he’d already decided wasn’t salvageable, Tom towered, a peevish paunch of midlife manhood, wearing unflattering shorts and slightly mismatched black socks in old, once white and once considerably fresher trainers. ‘No, no, no,’ he muttered in a temper, stamping around on the spot, before finally giving up and abandoning lost labours.
Realising he was about to leave, you knew any approach was an urgent matter of act or delay indefinitely and so, summoning the courage to reveal yourself, you hesitated.
Prone to a kind of kitchen-sink tyranny, Tom wasn’t an attractive choice of champion in a time of such grave circumstance. Pausing, he tutted at all the unnecessary noise Jonny manufactured under the basic task of making a cup of tea.
Slightly shorter than Tom, our unquiet lady of domestic chores, stage left, was by far the more pleasant, if riotous, preference where prerequisite mercy might cast her deciding vote. A little older but more youthful than his colleague, Jonny played ‘fun uncle’ to Tom’s ‘dour dad’. Essentially blokish but disarmingly likable, Jonny leapt in where fools, not quick enough to duck for cover, might get unintentionally trampled. Rectangular and without a mean tone in his palette, Jonny, unlike Tom, damaged only by unchecked enthusiasm and a lack of brakes. A benign juggernaut, he swooped and swerved, occasionally steamrolling with good intention, faster than heavy plant should sensibly manœuvre, he nevertheless cared where Tom sought only his own comfort. Jonny also gave the impression he consulted a mirror before stepping onto the catwalk of social interaction. A rather solidly built fellow, his naturally even features were further enhanced by a benign disposition and the ability to dress well.
Jonny was, however, a streetcar too wired at times and, by popular demand, allowed to believe himself the enigma he wasn’t. Backstage, as much as front-of-house was a stage and all the players exited to words, words, words. And, amidst rats in the arras, broad-chested Jonny with his footballer’s legs and builder’s biceps never guessed everybody had guessed and gossiped to the brink of tedium, a long time ago that Jonny, after-hours was their crossdressing coworker. In point of fact, Tom aside, Jonny was universally liked, and loved. However, nobody dared let him know they knew the outline of his full persona as he was a live wire already and might well deck the tactless messenger.
‘If, by your art my dearest father,’ boiled the screaming kettle, ‘you have set the wild waters in this roar…’
‘Allay them!’ Tom shouted back, his mood worsening.
Raucous laughter erupted from the kitchen. ‘It is foul weather in us all, Mister Scott, when you are cloudy!’ With an angry shrug, Tom moved towards the corridor. Alarmed, you knew further delay was no longer an option and prepared to dash between his feet.
With no warning other than a grunt, Tom turned to launch a sudden, violent kick straight through the next piece of discarded scenery to your own. ‘Stupid, bloody piece of junk,’ he snarled as his foot struck again and again. On a shockwave of unexpected savagery, you fell sidewards, almost falling outside your protective cover as, in a raging fury, Tom attempted to extricate his foot by trampling a papier-mâché shield into its constituent parts. Even with his foot free, he continued to stamp it into tatters, dragging and tearing underfoot at an inoffensive substitute which had, to your knowledge, never rubbed him up the wrong way by turning down an assignation. Petrified at any further deterioration in the humour of this hulking misanthrope, you tried to remain where you couldn’t be seen, in the desperate hope some hint of humanity might spontaneously reemerge.
With a horrible snort, he now turned to face the silhouette behind which you cowered. ‘And, as for that damned pipe-fish,’ he grunted, raising an old but heavy trainer, drawing it back to kick the living daylights out of your flimsy defence and, in all likelihood, you.
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
More by this author