Ariel and her Miseries 4

4

Strange Theatre People

 

 

It is strange to think Marbles and Cards in a theatre scene. It just isn’t them. They’re the type of people who populate long DnD sessions or dreary Friday Nights of Magic cards. It’s not that they’re bad people. It’s not even that they are uncultured; they do enjoy classic rock music. It’s just that theatre is not for them. That fact was so apparent as they huddled to each other for comfort, looking quite lost and ignorant, as the eager neonate thespians and hulking tourist groups kept unceremoniously bashing into them for a couple of discount tickets for the night’s show.

“Do we even have tickets?” I asked.

Marbles was darting her eyes left and right, too stuck in her everything-phobic shell that Cards needed to nudge her on the shoulder to bring her back to the there-and-then. “Yes,” she finally whimpered, “I have them right here.” She produced three sheets of paper, harshly torn from a toy catalogue. “These are just pieces of paper! Don’t tell me you dragged me all the way here, thinking we could go in with these.” What a night, I thought to myself, I was better off minding the Kafka-bug’s motorcycle ride against the old Great white between Mobile Discoveries and Moby Dick.

“Hey Art, don’t talk like that to my wife, and besides you didn’t even let her finish, man.”

Marbles was then presently, clutching at Card’s hand so hard that she parted his palm muscles, and, yes embarrassedly I’ll tell the truth, tears were welling up in the crevice between her cheek fat and forehead fat. I then felt a sudden pang of whatever it is you feel when you scream down at small dowdy women. I exhaled, and let my temper run its course and waited for Marbles to continue.

And she did with a squeaky mouse voice. “They’re passes. They’re legit. Look for yourself.” Cards was now failing at hiding his own temper which was obviously running at near boiling point as evidenced by the reddening and swelling of his already thick neck. I was lucky. I’m his friend.

“Look for yourself,” she handed me the papers and with closer examination I saw that at the back of each of the catalogue torn papers  was the word PASS, hastily written and signed by one Hariet. Heart? Heartly? Arian? In horrible penmanship that a five year old would be embarrassed to have. “A woman came to our shop one day, she wanted to have one of the toys in the shelves but didn’t have any money to pay for it so she gave us these. Neat, huh?”

“But—“ I started and ended hastily. Cards’ hand darted to my shoulders in a friendly but noticeably restrained tap. “We’ll just have a night of it, won’t we Arthur?” I wanted to ask how they knew the make-shift tickets were any good, but I stopped when I knew I should. I was Cards’ friend but friendship has its limits too.

“So this girl, she works in the theatre?” I hurriedly changed track. “Uhum,” she nodded, and Marbles was back to her old cheery self, “Come on, I don’t want to miss a second of it! And, I’m sure you won’t too!” So that’s it, a light bulb shone over my head. I’m in for another match-making attempt by the Marbles and Cards, hobby shop dealers and self-proclaimed gurus of love.

“Yehey.” I said in morose enthusiasm.

“See that’s the spirit,” Cards pushed me forward. Obviously, they haven’t figured irony in Magic the Gathering.

The front-of-house, a guy who looked like Rocky but spoke like the faggot queen of faggotdom asked for our tickets and let us in. “So you’re her friends, enjoy the show, lovelies.” I thought I saw him-her smirk for a second.

“Yehey,” I repeated, and even put in some extra effort, “Wohoo.” As the darkness and clamour of the theatre house devoured us all like the Kafka-bug by the great white.

 

© 2012 Jay Crisostomo IV

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