|
|
Duncan had just stepped out of one of the strangest productions of Macbeth he had ever seen: a blank stage, two actors, four props and most of the plot taking place offstage. Nary a ghost or a battle in sight, he thought to himself with a sigh, this is The Scottish Play? He didn’t have much time to ponder minimalist theatre as he caught the sense of a Buzz nearby. He was so intent on following the sensation that he didn’t notice when he committed an unpardonable festival sin: walking in front of an outdoor stage during a show.
An odd noise broke Duncan’s concentration, stopping him in his tracks; it was a high, squeaky sound, but there were also words in it. *You sit down! * It took a couple of seconds for him to recognise a mouth-whistle; it took a few more before he realised he had found the source of the Buzz. MacLeod spun around, but all he saw was a clown in a little red hat. All eyes upon him, Mac gave an innocent "who, me?" gesture. The clown rolled his eyes and came down off the stage. The little man pointed accusingly, imitating someone walking obliviously through his territory. *My show, * said the tiny little squeak, amplified by a mike, *Not your show, mine! * The audience giggled a bit; some of them had seen this routine before.
MacLeod tried to get out of the limelight as quickly as possible, but it was not to be. The clown strode forward, grabbing hold of his coat; and at that moment, the performer’s eyes went wide. "Oh shit," the shocked whisper was in normal voice, and just low enough not to be picked up by the microphone. The man’s entire demeanour changed in an instant; he straightened Mac’s crumpled coat, brushing off imaginary bits of dust; after a quick, "wait here" gesture, he rushed back to the stage, returning with a plump, royal purple cushion. There was great pomp and circumstance as he laid the pillow on one of the wooden benches, guiding Duncan to his seat like an honoured guest.
From somewhere in the audience he heard an insistent stage-whisper; the voice was familiar, "Please sit down; he won’t finish the show if you don’t." He spun around to find the source, another Immortal; "Patricia? I haven’t seen you since vaudeville died!" Confused, he let himself be led to his seat; an old friend settled down beside him with a smile, "Please, it’s Patti now, Patti Stiles; and besides, vaudeville never died, it just took to the road."
"Pat, it always was on the road."
She gave him a glare that said this was an old argument; "Shut up and watch the show."
§ § §
All this commotion did not go unnoticed by the festival’s small army of volunteers; within moments, a radio crackled, "Opus to the Cat, what’s your 20?" A bored Access Team volunteer answered the call, "Cat here. I’m at Knox station."
"There’s a disturbance down at Badass Jack’s Stage, can you go check it out?" She kept a sigh off the radio; it was one thing to name sites and stages after the sponsors, but it was something else entirely when one of those sponsors had a name like Badass Jack’s Subs and Wraps. She leaned into her mike, "Isn’t that more Crowd Control’s responsibility?" The team leader answered quickly, "You’re closer, Cat."
Deb left her radio at the site with her partner, jogging quickly toward the stage. She nearly staggered as she was assaulted by the combined power of at least three Immortals. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could hide a full-sized sword in the middle of an August heat wave, and so she was unarmed. She felt a burst of panic: she had just left the safety of Knox church, and was heading straight into who knows what. She only hesitated for a moment: as a festival volunteer, she had a duty to perform.
She stumbled into the middle of the confrontation, amazed. Even if she hadn’t been half out of breath, the situation would still have stopped her dead in her tracks. Duncan she had already recognised by feel alone, but Patti? And Christoff?!? Not only was she without a weapon, she didn’t even have her radio. She made a split-second decision and acted on it. "You!" she said, pointing to the clown. "You’ve got an audience, and a show to do; now get out there and perform." She turned to Mac and Patti without hesitation; "Both of you: Casa Radio Active, stay there until I finish my shift." Even Duncan was surprised by the authority and determination in her voice. Without waiting to see if her words were obeyed, she strode briskly back toward her station—and Holy Ground.
Duncan turned to Patti with a puzzled frown; "What’s Casa Radio Active?" The flash of a familiar smile; "It’s a Beer Tent." Confusion became astonishment; "A Beer Tent?!" She leaned closer and whispered, "It just happens to be the only Beer Tent on site that’s set up on Holy Ground."
Deb reported in the moment she arrived back at her station, "Opus, this is Knox station; the Cat is back on site, situation is under control." There was a pause, "Acknowledged. What happened?" There was only so much that could be said over the radio; "HL situation, minor. No incidents."
Ron Ferguson, known among volunteers as Opus, knew exactly what to do; as a team leader, he had enough authority to do it, too. "Opus to Falcon, you are officially off-duty as of now. Take a break, do some people watching; Casa Radio Active is nice this time of day. You might want to bring your notebook, too. The special one."
§ § §
When they weren’t down the street at The Next Act, most of the performers like to hang out at Casa Radio Active, the Beer Tent next to the CBC radio booth. No one was really sure why: maybe it was the CBC, maybe it was because it was less crowded; maybe it was just tradition. Surely the fact that it was set up in the back parking lot of Knox church every year was just a coincidence; or was it?
Now that he had regained his composure a bit, MacLeod was curious. "Are you sure it’s a good idea, performing in public? I mean, he’s a clown."
"Don’t say clown as if it’s a dirty word;" Patti frowned, disappointed with her old friend’s change in attitude. "Christoff is a street performer; besides, I’ve done a few roving characters myself in my day. He’s got one of the least dangerous, least offensive routines there is; he doesn’t use his real name, he doesn’t even use his own voice."
"I’ll agree that it’s a safe act, but I’m not too sure about inoffensive." Duncan leaned forward, lowering his voice, "He pulls that 'Hey you' routine on the wrong person and there just might be a little red hat fluttering to the ground…"
"Don’t worry, he’s got a good teacher."
"He’s your apprentice?"
There was a quiet little half-smile on her face, "More than that, he’s my fiancée."
Mac tried to hide his disappointment, "Congratulations, but I never pictured you as the type to go for younger men. Do you even know when he died?"
"Of course, I know the whole story; he wasn’t always a clown, he started out doing stand-up. He learned a little too late that you should be careful what you say in front of a crowd of drunken Aussies." MacLeod cringed in sympathy. "He was found by an aboriginal who was one of our kind, but he was too far into the Dreamtime to have any real interest in the Game. Chris learned the basics and then took to the road; that’s where I found him."
Deb headed for the Beer Tent as soon as she got off shift. The jumble of combined Immortal Q’s, over a background of the distinct feel of Holy Ground was too much for even her skills to sort out right away. The first thing she saw was a tall male figure, with long black hair hanging down his back. "Mac, did something happen? You look a bit scruffier than usual…" Shoulders stiffened as the man slowly turned around; Deb blinked at the sight of an unexpected, yet familiar face. "Mark Meer?" This was getting too weird even for the Fringe: Patti Stiles, Christoff, now this.
She closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep, cleansing breath; I’m on my way to another breakdown; too many shifts, too many midnight shows. I’m going to open my eyes and discover that this is just a dream. She cautiously opened her eyes, but everything was just as she had left it. Patti quickly called from a nearby table, "It’s okay, she’s with me!" Deb stopped to pick up a Mike’s Hard Cranberry; there was no way she was going to get through this without a little fortification.
She settled into a seat by MacLeod with a deep sigh, but one glance at Patti dissolved her why me attitude. Deb broke into a grin in spite of herself; "Patti Stiles." She laughed, "You know, this explains why you’re so good at improv; not to mention your reaction to the Assassin incident."
Duncan spoke up instantly, a little louder than he had intended; "Wait a second, you didn’t mention anything about an assassin."
Deb stifled a giggle, "Stand down, White Knight, it wasn’t that kind of incident." She turned back to Patti, "Will you tell him, or should I?" Patti waved the storyteller ahead, "Be my guest, dear."
"You once made a comment about my friends’ strange names; that’s nothing compared to the Fringe. Every volunteer has a radio name and if they don’t, we’ll give them one. One guy earned the nickname The Saucer Assassin, after he accidentally threw a Frisbee into oncoming traffic. A certain group of volunteers here really enjoy the nightly Die Nasty shows, and most of us are serious Patti Stiles fans." Here she paused to give Patti another smile. "It being a midnight show, we all got a bit rambunctious, and the Assassin was more vocal than most."
Patti slipped into the story smoothly, "Here I am, doing my introduction, and this guy just won’t shut up. So finally I say to him, What’s your name? I never imagined he’d answer Assassin."
Deb picked up the thread as if they did this kind of thing all the time; "She broke character. I think it was the first time I had ever seen you break character. Good recovery though."
Duncan arched one brow at the two grinning girls; "Oh?"
"I asked him," and here Patti’s voice went low and husky as she dropped into character; "Can I call ya Ass for short?"
Mac chuckled a bit, picturing the scene; "Pat, you haven’t changed a bit."
§ § §
Time held little meaning in a Fringe Beer Tent; people came and went; stories were exchanged back and forth. Poor Savage, not sure who was Watching whom, was starting to get cramps trying to scribble everything down. He was as surprised as anyone by all the Immortals coming out of the woodwork, but he somehow managed to stay in the background himself. All except the spit-take during the Assassin story, but that was only because he had been there. Mostly he just sipped his beer and listened. Eventually, a thoroughly relaxed Debra turned to MacLeod and smiled crookedly; "You know, I should thank you. All this started in Scotland." This aroused the Highlander’s curiosity immediately, "Do tell."
Deb squared her shoulders and cleared her throat, preparing to go into full Bardic mode. "In the beginning, there was the Edinburgh Theatre Festival; the Festival begat the Festival Fringe, a haven for the unique, the unusual, the bizarre and the untested. The people saw the Festival Fringe, and it was good. Out of the acceptance of the public, the Festival Fringe was transformed, becoming the first Fringe Festival. Behold, the Fringe went forth and multiplied, creating new festivals all over the world; the first in North America to embrace the idea of Fringe was the city of Edmonton, on the plains of Alberta."
Another voice took up the tale, Ron "Opus" Ferguson, who knew the Fringe intimately. "Edmonton was known as the Festival City, whose loyal citizens volunteered their skills gladly and with enthusiasm. Here the Fringe grew, attracting tourists and performers from all over the world." He lifted his glass high in salute, "And in the summer of 2001, at the start of a new millennium, the Edmonton International Fringe Theatre Festival will celebrate its 20th year." Half the tent broke into applause; some jumped to their feet, even the performers. Duncan leaned over with a long exasperated sigh; "You do realise that you are all completely insane."
He found himself surrounded by toothy grins; "We’re not
crazy; we’re Fringers!"
Oh, and one last thing. The cameo appearance by Mark Meer was an
inside joke. He is also one of Patti's co-performers, and, though he's
no where near as handsome as AP, he does (or did, at the time of writing)
have some of the longest, blackest hair you'll ever see.
| Home | Menu |