There’s a deer head mounted over the doorway to electrical construction, a true testimony to the macho creed behind the place. As I poke my head inside, I hear the sounds of drills buzzing, overlaid by The Who. Roger Daltrey’s rousing “yeeeeaaaaaaah” of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” echoes through the soundstage that serves as home to their department.
Across the vast space, I spy Michael working, unaware of me. He’s tinkering with a piece of equipment on a workbench, and I’m not sure if I should simply walk over to him—call out—or what the right protocol here would be. We’ve met at the commissary a few times, gone off the lot for lunch. But I’ve never dared enter Macho Town, especially not without an invitation.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” a voice calls out, and I turn to see a grizzly old guy, the sort of fellow we used to call an old-timer on the set, wearing his threadbare T-shirt for a show cancelled some twelve seasons back. Most of these old guys know the skinny on a studio like this one; they know where all the bodies are buried, as it were.
When I explain my mission there, the man whistles loudly, “Eh! Warner!” Michael looks up, and instantly his face brightens when he spots me. “There you go.” The gray-haired man moves past me with a conspiratorial smile.
“Hey,” Michael says, beaming at me as he approaches. He rubs off his hands on the hem of his T-shirt, sliding something into the tool belt slung low around his hips. A guy with a tool belt—every girl’s dream. Well, and undoubtedly many guys’ dreams, too.
“I hope this is okay—” I glance at the man, who seems a lot like his boss, but Michael waves me off before I can finish.
“Of course it’s okay.”
“Because I don’t want to get you in trouble at work or anything,” I explain.
His gaze roves the petite length of me, particularly lingering on my expensive suit. “You’re the studio shit, so of course it’s okay.”
“I am not the studio shit.” I smile, shoving my hands in my slacks’ pockets self-consciously.
“Yeah, you’re our consumer, you know,” he explains, bobbing his head amicably. “It’s our job to keep your lights on.” He gives me a wicked, suggestive grin.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“An old electrician’s joke.” Echoing from a tinny radio in the back, The Who becomes the Stones, and I wonder if they listen to anything around here that was released after 1980. We chitchat a while, and then I bring up the real reason for my visit, the fan gathering at the end of August.
“Yes, unbelievably, it’s true. I still have fans, even after all this time,” I explain, then add with a laugh, “I mean, apart from you and my parents.”
I notice that a couple of young guys are watching from the back, whispering and chuckling at our expense. “Looks like we’re generating some gossip,” I warn, cutting my eyes in their direction, and he glances over his shoulder.
“Ah, Lorenzo and Gordon. Ignore ‘em. They can give me hell after you go.”
I think of his long past here, working in the electrical department. I wonder if they ever knew about Alex, and if so, what they’ll make of me. “You’ve worked here seven years, right?” He nods, his dark eyebrows furrowing together, as he tries to follow my thinking.
I look over toward his co-workers again, dropping my voice. “What did they think about—”
“Never met him.” His mouth forms a hard line; the humor and warmth between us vanishes.
Comprehension dawns for me. “They didn’t just not know him,” I press quietly, “they never knew he existed at all, did they?”
He takes off his baseball cap, mopping his brow with the back of his hand, and laughs sadly. “In this place?” He glances over his shoulder again, to the land of classic rock and heavy testosterone. “What do you think, Rebecca?”
“Oh-kay. I’m tracking right with you on that one.”
But what about when Alex died? Did anyone here have a clue what Michael went through, his grief and heartbreak? I imagine not, I think, as a loud drill drones over our conversation. He was forced to put on a pretense as to how he lived his life, to wrestle through his sorrow in utter silence. A wave of loneliness washes over me at the thought of being so closeted.
“Tell me more about this fan thing,” he encourages, glancing sideways at his friends in the back. They seem to have moved on, but we both know the workplace gossip will begin as soon as I go. Interestingly enough, he seems unconcerned about that.
“They call it a gathering,” I explain, rubbing my scarred palm, which aches some today for no apparent reason. “For About The House fans. There’s an auction, a dinner, a bunch of socializing. I’ll have to sign pictures and mix. That kind of thing.”