Erik had never entertained big college dreams. His record was good, his grades were impressive. Money was the killer. He assumed he’d attend community college at least, or one of the state universities at most. But his grandfather Fiskare had died during Erik’s junior year of high school, leaving an unexpected inheritance for Erik and his brother. The windfall allowed Erik to look beyond the borders of New York to a fine arts university outside Philadelphia. An academic scholarship won through his community service at the Y brought the tuition down to an even more manageable level. And a letter of recommendation from Mrs. Jerome clinched it: fall of 1989, Erik was a business major at Lancaster University, and a technical theater minor in their prestigious conservatory program.
Low on the totem pole again, he was enrolled in Stagecraft 100, Professor Leo Graham’s required introductory course. Leo was a paradox: while he looked and acted like a stoner—some swore he was Jerry Garcia’s twin brother—he ran his shop and his productions with almost military zeal. He was laconic and laid-back, rarely raising his voice unless he was directing someone in the catwalk, yet his soft-spoken words were law. He built manpower from the bottom up and let knowledge cascade from the top down. He shepherded his students through a four-year program that took them from servitude to artist. Freshmen toiled for him, their resentment quickly turning to respect. Sophomores would follow him anywhere. Juniors revered him. Seniors would kill for him.
Erik loved his classwork in the subterranean shops in the basements of Mallory Hall. The first half of the semester he had built sets for the one-act plays in the black box theater. Leo believed in a small task force—you worked harder, but you learned faster. Erik and three other underclassmen took direction from two seniors, for whom the one-acts were a last hurrah, their graduating project. Leo provided guidance from a distance and divine intervention when necessary. Subjects of this unholy trinity, Erik and his mates worked like sled dogs, soon with Erik as their unspoken lead musher. A wartime camaraderie in the warm, windowless shops beneath Mallory. Long hours of philosophical conversation as they painted sets and backdrops. Raucous bonding as they hammered and sawed. And punchy horseplay while sinking countless numbers of screws into crossbeams and struts. Erik drove one comrade to the campus health center for stitches after a slight mishap with the power saw, and another who tripped over a poorly-taped lighting cable and broke his wrist.
When performance week arrived, the sets were brought to the black box via the service elevator. Load-in started at seven in the morning with coffee and bagels, and went into the wee hours with pizza and beers. In the wee-est of those hours, a red-haired ingénue lured Erik into one of the dressing rooms and showed him the meaning of “casting couch.” She never called afterward.
He never had so much fun in his life.
Now, on a Sunday in November, he walked into the vast main auditorium of Mallory Hall, taking on his second assignment for the semester: running lights for the conservatory’s fall dance concert.
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Leo had said the dance division of the conservatory was one of the top programs on the East Coast, but Erik had no frame of reference. Other than musical theater numbers, dance was utterly foreign to him, though he had enough brains to figure out “Born to Hand Jive” from Grease was decidedly not what was going down today.
Nice scenery here, however, especially if one was a leg man. He moved aside as a trio of girls in leotards chattered their way up the aisle. They smiled at him in passing, six eyes sweeping him head to toe in a frank once-over. He smiled back, resisting the urge to turn and keep checking them out.