Randy picked out a creamy buttermilk doughnut. “That last guy looked pretty happy about your appraisal.” He bit into the doughnut and closed his eyes to savor it.
Why were there always doughnuts? I stared at a row of chocolate-dipped crullers and almost moaned. If Randy was still talking, I couldn’t hear him over the hubbub those doughnuts were making. They whispered my name, murmured endearments, did all they could to get my attention. Doughnuts loved me in the worst way.
Randy was still talking. “It’s great to see them go away happy.”
I tried to pick up the conversation. “It is, isn’t it? I was so pleased with his reaction. He said he plans to give the book to his son as a wedding gift someday.”
“That’s great,” Randy said, but I could tell he was already distracted. Changing the subject, he said, “I’ve got another half hour before I’m due on the set. Do you think your friend Derek would mind talking to me for a few minutes?”
“Let’s go find out.”
I turned to cross the stage, but Randy grabbed my arm. “Wait. I know a shortcut to the dressing rooms.”
I followed willingly, since Randy was more familiar with the studio than I was. He ducked through a break in the curtains and we walked along the narrow space behind the cyclorama, the secured backdrop that marked the outer perimeter of the staging area. It was fun to be backstage, where you could hear what was happening on the other side of the curtain, but nobody knew you were back here—except for the occasional stagehand or prop guy who passed by.
The lighting was dim where old props and faded stage flats were stored along the walls.
“Watch your step through this area,” Randy warned as he approached a door and led me into the studio adjoining ours. It was a massive space with a ceiling that had to be at least three stories high. It was cavernous, dark, and empty, except for all the props and staging equipment stored against the walls.
This route didn’t seem shorter to me and I had no intention of going this way again. Still, I was fascinated by the dozens of rolls of carpet leaning against one wall.
“Carpets?” I asked.
“No, those are painted canvas backdrops. They roll them up to store them more easily.”
Next to the rolls were a few hundred wooden stage flats painted with various backgrounds. One had a living room scene painted on it. Others showed a kitchen wall, a tropical forest, and a circus tent. Shoved against the far wall were hundreds of fake trees and large plastic shrubbery, all planted in big barrels and crates.
We passed piles of square black metal boxes and I stopped to check them out. “What are these things?”
“They’re light boxes.” Randy picked one up to explain. “You’ve seen them hanging on the lighting grid above the stage, right? You put a bulb inside here, and these flaps can be opened wide or closed slightly in order to light up some specific spot on the stage.”
I took the light box from him and moved the flaps back and forth. “I get it.”
“Those movable flaps are called barn doors.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah, it’s a wonderland,” he said dryly, and waited until I’d set the light box down before he continued our trek.
We tiptoed around more piles of coiled cables and past rows and rows of thick ropes that were hanging down from the rafters three stories above us.
I stared at the ropes. “What are all these for?”
“They pull the various curtains up and down, or raise and lower different backdrops, depending on which show is being taped in the studio.” He pointed up at the ceiling. “Can you see the pipes up there?”
There was a bit of ambient light coming in from outside, so I could just make out the rows of pipes and beams that ran across the ceiling. There weren’t any curtains hanging because the studio wasn’t being used, but I could imagine it.
“How do they get the backdrops onto those pipes?” I wondered aloud.
“The canvas drops have grommets or cloth ties sewn into the edges.”
“Oh. Kind of like a shower curtain.”
“Kind of,” he said, amused.
“Do you have a theatrical background?”
“Yale School of Drama and seven years on Broadway.”
“Wow,” I said.
He chuckled ruefully. “I was going to be the next Richard Burton. Instead, I wound up as the pretty face on This Old Attic.”
“This seems like an awfully good job,” I said. “The show’s so popular.”
“It’s fine for now.”
“Well, look on the bright side. It could be worse, right?”
He smirked. “Yeah, I could be the ugly face on This Old Attic.”
“Oh, come on. You like working here, don’t you?”
“It has its moments,” he allowed, “but my ambitions are a little bigger than this.” He kept walking through the deserted studio, which was dark except for the small wall sconces that beamed weak patches of light every fifteen feet or so. The light was too dim to do much except toss odd shadows onto the walls.
My stomach growled and I realized I was getting hungry. I wished I’d brought some of my doughnut friends along with me on this journey.