Getting Real

5. Cheap Seats



When Rielle Mainline walked on stage wearing tiny, frayed, cut-off denim shorts and a skin-tight white singlet over a red lace bra, all the sounds of labour stopped as every man hammering, taping, climbing, fixing, or just hanging around breathing, paused to check her out. She was bookended by thick rubber soled, lace-up boots and a tumbled, messy bun that showed off the ink behind her ear.

She was well aware of the effect she had, but ignored it. She sat on the front edge of the stage, dangling her legs and looked out at the stadium where in three nights’ time she’d be performing.

Other than trips to the gym, her first official meeting with Jake, and the problem with Jonas, Australia had so far consisted of a long flight, fractured sleep in a darkened hotel room and an afternoon staring out the window at nothing much. Maybe things would be okay.

She hadn’t seen Jonas since the disastrous meeting, but she’d heard him and Rand arguing in the hotel corridor, and she hadn’t seen Rand either. He’d taken off somewhere yesterday and didn’t come back last night. What had he found in Adelaide, of all places, to interest him?

Three things had to happen in the next half hour. Rand had to appear, and she knew he would. No matter what he’d been up to, he always showed up. Jonas had to demonstrate he was seeing straight and she had to prove to the crew she was worth all the fuss.

She assumed Australian crews were much like American ones, loyal to each other before anything else, but ready to break their backs for anyone they thought deserving. A good crew could make poor talent look good and sound better, but an inspired crew would make the Ice Queen concert unforgettable. And that’s what she wanted—for her audience to have the experience of a lifetime. And for that she had to work it.

She got to her feet and grabbed a passing roadie. “Would you get me a live mic please?”

The roadie yelled, “Bodge, live mic on stage,” disappearing to be replaced by a big, silver-haired guy, holding a microphone and sound pack.

“I’m Bodge. I’m your guy on stage. Whatever you need, me and my boys will look after you.”

“Where’d you get that name from?” Rielle studied the heavy-set roadie as openly as he’d assessed her, arms lifted, to let him wire her up.

He grinned at her. “I was always good at, you know, bodging things together.”

When she was all set, she said, “Thanks Bodge,” and went to the front of the stage again. She paused, listened to the sounds of construction and two lighting roadies arguing about gel filters. She took a deep breath, and sang the opening verse to one of their hit songs, Ignorance.

“Step around the trouble, step around the hate, don’t go laying that on me, treating me like bait.”

By the time she hit the end note, there was silence, not a single hammer fall, not a footstep. She sang, “Step around your prejudice, step around your fate, don’t be blaming me for your bad psychological state.”

At the end of that line, the silence was replaced by murmuring and scattered applause. She had them—with two lines of unaccompanied song, she’d opened a door. Now she had to blow the house down.

She belted out the chorus, letting her voice fill the stadium, bounce against chair backs and shear off railings, set a bunch of pigeons into flight, and cancel any doubts the crew had that Rielle Mainline could sing live.

When she got to the second verse, Rand was there with an acoustic guitar and joined her, providing a sound track and a second voice. The crew gathered, holding hammers and bits of scaffold, gaffer tape and paint brushes. There was no pretence of work now, just open admiration. Despite Sydney, this was going to be a good tour.

“That’ll do us,” said Bodge in approval when the song ended and a round of applause and whistles rang out.

“She must have hollow legs,” said Teflon. “Where does that big voice come from?”

“She’s got good legs,” said Lizard. “I wouldn’t mind them wrapped around me.”

“You might want to shower first, you don’t want to give her a disease,” said Teflon.

“Okay, break it up,” said Glen with a grunt, waving the group back to work.

“Where did you go?” Rielle said to Rand. She watched the crew scatter, copping the broad grin on Bodge’s face.

“Nowhere special, just out.”

“All night?”

He shrugged. “It’s not that small a town.”

“Where’s Jonas?” she asked, almost dreading the response.

“He’s here. He’s with the sound and vision guys. He’ll be fine.”

Rielle shook her head. “He’s using, and he’s no good to us messed up.”

Rand sighed. “I know, but what can we do?”

She nodded. They needed Jonas. They needed to get the show design and every on-stage moment perfected and locked down. That was one of the reasons she’d wanted to start in Adelaide, and why they’d allocated extra time to get this first show produced. A small city that often missed out on big name acts was more likely to be forgiving than a place like Sydney. Sydney was experienced. Sydney was sophisticated. She knew her stuff. She’d sniff out a poorly planned set list, or a flat spot in the show as soon as she looked at them. That’s why Sydney was last. Sydney was brutal. Sydney didn’t forgive. And Rielle couldn’t forgive Sydney.

If only.

“What do you think of Jake?” she asked. If Jonas was going to be unreliable, they needed a strong tour manager. If they didn’t think Jake had the goods they’d have him replaced immediately. She knew he looked good with his broad chest and well-worked muscles, his handsome face and short cropped hair that’d stood up in sweaty spikes in the gym, but no one knew better than she did how deceiving looks could be.

“He’s a good guy; he’s got a great rep, crew like him, and that tells you something.”

“I think he’s wet.” He was entirely too ‘boy next door’ and the tattoo, a star maybe, done with red and blue ink on his bicep didn’t make it any less so.

“You think everyone is wet.”

Rielle scuffed her boot heel on a piece of stage riser. “No seriously, he’s a nice guy and that’s the problem. We need a tour manager who’s a goddamn Godzilla, you know, rips into people, has them all afraid to put a foot wrong.” They didn’t need some cute guy she’d almost considered messing around with because he’d looked so deliciously normal, so easy going. Thank f*ck she’d remembered messing around with cute boys was never uncomplicated and never worked in her favour.

“Nope, we don’t. We need a guy the crew respect. Respect is better than fear.”

“Tell that to the oppressed masses. I don’t like him.”

Rand flapped his arms in exasperation. “What’s not to like?”

“Someone whose main recommendation is that other people like him. I’m not other people.”

“Oh, don’t we know that.” Rand eye-rolled. “Get over it. Unless he fouls something up, we’re keeping him.” He gave her a shove. “Come on, let’s go see the view from the cheap seats.”

From the control booth, Jake heard Rielle’s impromptu performance and noted the approval of the crew. It was a good start. Not only had the two stars shown up earlier than most talent did and were interested in the set build, they appeared to appreciate the need to win the crew over. That was smart. Many of the big names scraped in on time for a rehearsal, issued a truckload of demands and then showed up just in time for the main event, barely conscious of the effort it took to get them on stage in the first place.

He watched brother and sister climb the stadium staircase, headed for the seats at the top, the ones with the worst view and the least atmosphere, but sold out like every other seat in the venue. That was smart too. It showed they cared about the punters.

He knew he should join them. The more time he spent with them early on, the easier it would be to interpret their wishes for the whole tour, but he hated those seats. He hated everything about them: the restricted view, the poor sight lines, the long climb, and most of all the long way down.

But it had been a while, so maybe it would be all right this time. He gritted his teeth and started out after them. At first it was fine, and if he kept his head down on the steps, didn’t look left or right and God forbid up, he’d be okay.

Half way up, he knew it was anything but fine. It was a horror story. He’d broken out in a heavy sweat that had nothing to do with the effort and everything to do with his racing heart. He figured Rand and Rielle had hit the top by now, so he knew he couldn’t take his time. Ideally he’d be up those steps two at a time, but the reality was, all he could do was focus on his feet, take one faltering step at a time and try to steady his breathing. It could be worse, much worse; the ground was solid; it wasn’t like he could see a steep drop, but he knew this was high and that’s all it took—just knowing.

He’d had this thing about heights since he was a kid. First it was just dopey stuff like wanting to jump off fences and rooftops pretending to be Superman and then it became this fear he might fall and hurt himself. No, not just hurt himself. Worse. He thought he might stop breathing, fall down and die.

Acrophobia—fear of heights. It was insane. It didn’t make any logical sense, but there it was. His heart raced; his breath got short; his head spun; he sweated buckets, and he could barely think straight when anything to do with heights was involved.

It was the reason he didn’t fly, unless there was really no way around it, and then he drugged up to get through it. It was the reason he quit being a spark fairy himself. There were just too many times when you needed to go up a ladder, or scaffold, or on top of a roof.

He hadn’t had this happen for some time and a part of him had hoped he’d grown out of it, but now, feeling the hammer of his heart and the sweat running down his face and stinging his eyes, he knew all he’d managed to do was avoid situations like this. Why else would you drive for fifteen hours from Sydney to Adelaide unless you had to?

Now he was stuck halfway up and not game to turn around, with his employers waiting, probably watching, not that he was prepared to lift his head to check. This really was something he needed to fix. There must be a trick to it: behavioural therapy, shock treatment, a well aimed kick to the head.

Meanwhile he was shaking from a flood of adrenaline and half mad from the insistent voice in his brain urging him to get out of there or die, die, die.

Rielle eyed Jake’s glacially slow progress up the stairs towards them. “Are we going to bother waiting for him? What is he doing?”

She and Rand watched as Jake mopped his brow.

“He didn’t look unfit. Maybe he’s an asthmatic?” said Rand.

“He’s not unfit.”

“He looks like he might expire any second.” Rand leaned forward as though his body posture might support Jake somehow.

“He’s fit as! He was in the gym. I saw him bench press a small elephant.”

“You met him in the gym already?” queried Rand. “Shit, does he know?”

“No, it’s fine. He doesn’t have a clue.”

“He doesn’t have a breath left in his body either. Must be asthma, poor guy.” Rand turned to eyeball her. “Be nice.”

She grinned. “Raised by wolves, remember.”

Rand groaned but not quite as audibly as Jake did when he stepped up beside them and slumped into a seat next to Rielle.

“Are you a smoker, Jake?” she said. “They’ll kill you, you know.”

Jake gave a feeble smile and shook his head. He had his eyes down on his feet, as though looking up was a death defying act. He was finding it hard to draw breath.

He coughed a couple of times and Rielle laughed. “Is that a piece of lung there, Jake?”

He mumbled, “Sorry, I’m scared of heights. I know it’s ridiculous. I know I’m ridiculous. I can’t stop it.”

“Shit man, why did you come up here?” Rand reached across Rielle and clapped Jake on the shoulder.

“‘Cause I’m incredibly stupid,” Jake said in a strangled voice, and then he started to laugh. He was a sweating, shaking mess, but he was laughing. When Rand chuckled too, Jake gave a weak grin.

Rielle looked out at the stage below and folded her arms. “Yeah, goddamn Godzilla.” They had a tour manager who couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without cracking up. They were f*cked.

Jake laughed harder. “I thought coming up here was a good idea. I forgot how bad it can be.”

“I thought you were going to cark it on us,” said Rand.

“Cark it!” Jake made a snorting sound, half gasp for breath, half laugh. Rielle was glad they were so amused. Not.

“Yeah, cark it,” repeated Rand, laughing too. “I thought you might keel over and die. I was getting ready to do mouth to mouth on you.”

That made Jake look up briefly. “I’m really sorry,” he spluttered. “I might have to stay up here now.” He wiped water from his eyes. “Maybe have bedding sent up. I’d be able to see everything from here if I wasn’t too scared to look up or out, anywhere but at my feet.” He groaned, hands on his stomach. “My mum would visit.”

Rand reached around and put a hand on Jake’s back. “We could have catering set up a food station here. Some of the crew could do with the extra exercise.”

Now Rielle saw the humour. “That might give Bodge a heart attack.”

“Bodge is a good man,” Jake choked out between breaths, making her smile, but this time with wonder at the depth of Jake’s vulnerability and his weird ability to laugh in its face.

“Does the crew know about this?” asked Rand.

“Oh, they know.” Jake grimaced. “I worked with Bodge and Glen when I was starting out. I was a sparky, but I used to melt down when I had to climb a scaffold, so yeah, they know. They don’t let me forget it either. We stay up here any longer they might call an ambulance.” His comment triggered a new wave of choking laughter—this time, in all three of them.

Amidst the laughter, Rielle’s curiosity got the better of her. Whatever Jake felt, it was real to him. You only had to see his shaking hands, how his shirt stuck to his skin, to know he was genuinely frightened of a back row, orange coloured plastic stadium seat. “What does it feel like?”

His eyes flickered her way. “Like I’m going to fall and die, but worse—like anyone with me is going to die too. It’s stupid I know, but right now I’m worried all of us are going to fall and die.”

She leaned forward to look at his face. “But you’re laughing?”

“Well, it is pretty funny.” His eyes shifted towards her again, and he was gripping the edge of the seat, the muscles in his arms rigid. “If I’m coping okay I have both feelings together. I feel like I’m going to die, but I also know how rock dumb that is. Unfortunately knowing it’s dumb doesn’t stop me feeling like I’m knocking on hell’s door.”

If this hot, wet mess was Jake coping, what was he like when he was truly freaked out?

He was a frigging idiot for coming up here, for showing such weakness. Even though there was something oddly poetic, even heroic about it. He was facing up to his greatest fear and losing. Big time. Once Rielle would’ve seen it as admirable, finding inspiration in it for lyrics, maybe a new song, but not now. Now all it made her feel was tired.

Jake was desperately trying to compose himself. He was all right. He wasn’t going to die. He was speaking in full sentences and even if his laughter was verging on hysteria, at least it was laughter. He might’ve been catatonic. It’d happened before. There was worse than this, way worse; it wasn’t a plane or a twenty foot ladder where he was more exposed. Still, he was trying to envisage himself being able to let go of the bottom of the seat and walk back down the stairs when his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen. Glen. “Yeah.”

“Mate, you need a respirator up there?”

“F*ck off.”

Glen laughed. If Jake had been able to look out, he figured he’d see Glen, a miniature action figurine on the stage, shielding his eyes against the January sun.

“You coming down any time soon?”

“No, I thought I might set up shop here for a while, you know, take in the view.”

“Reedy, mate, seriously are you all right?” Glen said, a flicker of real concern in his voice, but then he continued, “The crew want to know who gets your bike if you don’t make it back.”

Jake laughed. “F*ck off the lot of you.” He hung up on a snickering Glen and tilted his chin towards Rand. “I think we’ve established the view from the cheap seats is pretty piss poor.” He was oddly proud he had a cohesive thought about the show in his head.

“Yep,” said Rand. “We have to do something about that. Give the people up here something special.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake saw Rielle nodding, but he had the impression from her folded arms she was less than happy with him. Not good.

“How do we get you down?” asked Rand.

He took a big breath and held it in. “One step at a time. I’ll be all right; you go ahead. I’ll see you down there. Hopefully in time for the first gig.”

Rielle leapfrogged over the back of the seat in front of her and called, “Good luck Jake,” as she started out down the stadium staircase at a trot.

Rand shifted closer. “I thought I could do a solo from up here, maybe opening the second half.”

“That would work,” he said. And when Rand stood, Jake stood with him, keeping his eyes on the ground, and pressing down on the fear in the back of his throat.

They made a slow progression down the stairs side by side, Rand talking about the show and peppering him with a series of technical questions. He knew the guy was doing it to distract him and was grateful. By the time they got to the last set of stairs, his breath had settled and he was feeling almost normal again except for being wet through and having a thumping headache.

When he looked out, he saw the crew clustered around the stage edge. As he took his last step onto the stadium floor, Glen said into a mic, “One small step for man, one giant leap for Reedy,” and there was hearty applause, accompanied by crew members banging on scaffolding or stamping on staging.

Jake took a bow, gave a triumphant wave and then flipped the bird, making the crew laugh. He was still smiling when he noticed Rielle standing in front of them, legs apart, arms folded over her chest, a frown under her red fringe. She was practically vibrating with impatience.

“Rand,” she snapped, “talk.”

Rand gave Jake a pat on the shoulder and left with his sister. Jake watched them go, knowing he’d screwed up. He’d shown himself to be out of control and incompetent. While the crew were happy to have one over him, and give him curry for it, they knew his other strengths. Rielle and Rand had known him for a few hours, and had absolutely no loyalty to him. They could have him replaced in the strum of a single chord.

“What was that?” said Rielle, when she and Rand were out of Jake’s earshot. Whatever it was, it dressed like weakness and danced like trouble, it was risk and they couldn’t have it on tour.

“Ah Rie, leave him alone. It doesn’t make any difference. It’s not like Jake needs to be up in the Hand or on the trapeze; it’s nothing. It had to be mortifying for him and he took it all with good humour. Don’t look at me like that. What do you want me to do?”

“Get me the names of alternative tour managers,” she said, before stalking back towards the stage, leaving Rand standing flat footed.