[Jameson, Quentin]
Scene Started: Wed, 5 Apr 2000
Dateline: 3.30am, Thursday, December 24th, 1998
[ Paul Campbell(PC) ]
These night flights were always a killer. Quentin couldn't see anything for the whole time they were in the air. Excepting sporadic patches of light way below. But most of them were buried deep below the clouds that the pilot was trying to stay above. It doesn't help to fly through clouds heavy with snow.
[ Clay Colwell(CC) ]
"Too much like the clouds in my own head," Quentin thought. His latest show wasn't going as well as he'd planned: attendance was poor, and reviews had panned it with a vengeance. The theatre owner was grousing about "bread and circuses". Hell, Quentin couldn't help it if audiences expected pornographic depictions from "Tangled Web of Flesh". "That isn't Art," he sniffed to himself.
[ PC ]
The sounds of the other passengers on this early morning flight were mutted. Most were managing to sleep. One child was moaning to his father, "Dad, I need to go to the toilet! Daaadd!! I need to gooo." That would be his fifth time since take off.
[ CC ]
Quentin, although annoyed, chuckled to himself; he well remembered the overcrowded bathroom of his youth. He'd learned exquisite bladder control the hard way, although boys had it easier, and, in emergencies, Quentin had used his gifts well to hide himself from prying eyes while taking care of business.
[ PC ]
Looking around him, past the bulk of the overweight business man sleeping in the aisle seat next to him, Quentin noticed a girl looking at him. She didn't look that old, maybe seven of eight. Dressed the way too few girls were those days. A blue silk ribbon in her long dark hair. Wearing a white printed dress with some more blue ribbons around the waist and lace patterns along the hem. She had been walking up the aisle and stopped next to Quentin's row. "Who are you?" she asked. "What happened to your face?" She had a slightly puzzled look in her dark brown eyes. Her head cocked slightly as she looked at him.
[ CC ]
Quentin felt an evil impulse rise within him. He examined it, found it sterling, and let it out: "Plane crash", he said offhandedly. "Actually, 2 of them -- I'm not a lucky man." The girl's eyes widened in fright as she backed away from his seat. Quentin made a mental note to add that to the show.
[ PC ]
"You! Get a move on." A gruff voice ordered, "Get in your seat." A tall, slim man with a bony, rough bloodshot face and bald, scarred head strode back down the aisle and took the girl's hand. He led her roughly back to their seats, somewhere to the rear of the cabin.
[ CC ]
The little girl gesticulated toward Quentin's seat, punctuated with loud sibilant whispers. Quentin paid her scant attention, although he noted the contrast between this sugar-and-spice stereotypical Good Little Girl and this Nosferatan apparition of a guardian. He studied them both to memorize the contrast and did some perfunctory contortions, trying to get the feel of both their forms and manners. Perhaps a completely new scene for the show? He checked back toward them surreptitiously from time to time, noting their body language, feeling out their physical space.
[ PC ]
Some time later, the business man gave a snort and woke with a start. He blinked and looked around till he realised he was still on the plane. He looked at his watch with his small blue eyes buried deep in his face. Dropping his hand he tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling and gave a long drawn out sigh.
Blinking again he looked round at Quentin, who got the impression that blinking was something this man did a lot of. "Morning. My, isn't it great. I love these night flights..." He stopped mid-sentence looking at something in front of Quentin. "Um, um, are you alright? Do, do you want me to call a stewardess?"
Quentin looked to see what the man was looking at and realised that he still have his right leg twisted up with the foot against the window. Flying club didn't really leave him with a lot of leg room, so he had to find his own.
[ CC ]
Quentin turned back to the man. "No, just stretching a bit," he explained as he eased his leg back around his neck and scratched the ankle with his left hand. "I find it relaxing. You might want to give it a shot sometime."
The intercom chimed, and the captain began droning information about Washington weather. Snow. Lots of it. The landing would be delayed for 45 minutes or so. Quentin sighed, pulled out a pad, and began sketching out the blocking for the new scene, adding notes about text to punctuate the evolving physical forms. The businessman acted as if he wanted to ask more questions, but Quentin was fully focused, and he gave up the attempt, covering up his embarrassment by stopping a flight attendant for coffee.
[ PC ]
Some time around 4am, Quentin eventually collected his bags at the Terminal and headed out into the night to the taxi ranks. Naturally his bags were practically the last ones to appear on the conveyor. He was one of the last from his flight to leave.
[ CC ]
Quentin whiled away the time reading the various garish advertisements pushing the typical consumer products -- rental cars, overpriced hotels, restaurants catering to the deep-pocketed and corpulent. He took a black magic marker to one of the more obnoxious ones, circling the fine print that proved the advertised bargain was, in fact, no bargain.
With still more time to kill, he began correcting the spelling mistakes on the airport graffiti. Finally, he heard the distinct tinny CLUNK of his old battered aluminum-cased suitcase as it came off the baggage conveyor, accompanied with the large cardboard box in which he'd packed away gifts for the family. It paid to be prepared -- none of the gifts were labelled, so he could hand them out appropriately once he saw which of the siblings would be there. He patted his breast pocket again, where he'd kept the ruby - and - amethyst earrings he'd bought for Mother. She never took the time or spent the money for herself that she deserved, and he cherished these opportunities to repay her for all the love she'd lavished on him.
He gathered his things and made his way toward the end of the terminal where transportation awaited.
[ PC ]
Inside the Terminal building people, individuals mostly and several families, were starting to gather. The children were either asleep or grumpy, not unlike some of the adults. Heading of to visit for Christmas, or heading home.
At this time of the morning there were only a few taxis available, but the two Washington Flyer Dispatchers were busy helping an old lady carefully into the back of a cab. "I was sure my grandson was going to be here to meet me, I do hope he's alright. Thank you very much young man," she said to one as he carefully closed the door while the other was loading her bags in the trunk.
Looking for a taxi Quentin saw that there was one still available at the end of the line.
[ CC ]
He continued his scan and his eyes alighted on the rental car counters. He hoped to find one of them staffed -- at this time of morning, you never knew if someone would be helpfully getting you the car you needed or if the space would be vacant, taunting you with the promise of customer service that wouldn't be due for 2 more hours.
[ PC ]
The first few counters he saw, were indeed closed for a short brake. However there was at least one that was still open at 4 in the morning. In an international airport, planes are arriving 24 hours a day. The concessions have to cater to this.
There was already a business man at the counter filling in forms. As Quentin drew closer he could see that it was the man who had been sitting next to him on the plane. The man behind the counter was busy typing details into his computer, but looked up as Quentin approached, "Can I help you sir?". His eyes seemed to pass over Quentin's face and settle on a point just above his left ear. A typical reaction. His face however retained it's friendly open smile.
[ CC ]
Quentin scratched his ear. "Um, yeah. I'll be needing a car for the next week. Anything will do, but the smaller the better, OK?"
[ PC ]
"Certainly, sir."
[ CC ]
While the clerk took down his pertinent information, Quentin tapped his American Express card against the counter, more of a habit than any sort of attention - getter. He glanced over at Mr. Blinker from the plane. "I bet you're used to this sort of thing," he said, "travelling a lot, selling .... what was it you sell, again? I forgot what you told me you did."
[ PC ]
"Anthony, Brian Anthony. I do Plugs. The electrical kind. Plugs, sockets, all sorts of electrical interconnectivity devices. I represent Pearson Electrical out of Cambridge, England. Here," he offered Alexander a business card that almost just appeared in his hand.
[ CC ]
Quentin read over the card, then placed it within his coat's inner pocket. "Sounds interesting," he said, hoping that he did, in fact, sound interested. No useful source work to glean from it, but he might be able to ferry it to the theatre's lighting manager -- he'd been futzing about in the theatre space trying to set up some new diffuse - lighting effects that he just couldn't get wired properly.
[ PC ]
Once Alexander and Brian completed their respective paper works an assistant led them to the Hire company's car pool, where they were bid a 'Nice Day' and 'Happy Holidays'.
"I do wish they wouldn't do that. Don't you find it annoying? It's 'Merry Christmas'. I can't stand this generic Americanised 'Happy Holidays'," complained Brian once the assistant was away.
[ CC ]
Quentin raised an eyebrow. "I was unaware that Britain had only Christians for denizens. Have you no Jews? No Buddhists? No Wiccans? No atheists?"
[ PC ]
"Well anyway, Merry Christmas, and A Happy New Year," Brian offered holding out his hand.
[ CC ]
Quentin grasped Brian's hand firmly. "If all goes well. And to you, the very best of holidays," he replied, winking in time with the word "holidays". He then grabbed his luggage, checked the space number where his Hyundai awaited him, and went out into the chill, seeking the bus to take him to the lot.
[ PC ]
The drive from Dulles to Twinbrook at this time of the morning was unsurprisingly quite. Only fools were out at this time of the night. 4.30am it might say on the dashboard, but that's still the middle of the night. Get in get some sleep.
[ CC ]
But not yet for Quentin. Still, he didn't mind -- he loved the glorious peacefulness of the darkness and drifting snow. Sure, he loved New York City also -- how could one not? -- but it had a psychotic energy about it that lay heavy hands on the ramparts of one's inner being and strove to tear down the walls of one's spirit. It fed like a vampire, sucking life to support its poisonous fecundity, and Quentin had to straddle the line, maintaining his artistic integrity while appeasing, to what extent he could, the baser appetites of the audiences that stuttered along Broadway and its side streets, seeking .... what, truth? purity? No, more like a mad sustaining of sensation and feeling, no matter how negative, no matter how demeaning.
Quentin shook his head, a bit surprised at himself. These were questions he'd always had to struggle with, but it's best to leave them There, back in the City, and rejoice in the Family reunion, with its simpler matters and simpler questions.
[ PC ]
Quentin pulled up by the curb outside the parent's. Dead quite, not another soul about. It was nearly 5am by now. Darkness swathed the house. The street lights were shrouded by the trees that had grown up around them. Quentin was able to make out the path to the front door by following the small guide lights by the side of the path, his feet crunching in the gravel.
The door was a huge wooden door. A knocker, and a single, glass panel in the middle.
[ CC ]
He looked about, taking in the sight of his old homestead, laid out under a cottony blanket, small patches glistening in the feeble light. He sighed, wisps of cloudy breath escaping his lips, and wondered if he should knock -- the folks must still be sleeping, and he didn't want to disturb them. His hand stole to the pocket where he'd always kept his performance mask, seeking strength, even though he knew that this was a place where such concealment was unnecessary. Unbidden, tears began to well in the corners of his eyes -- he was Home once again.
[ PC ]
As Quentin stood contemplating the door, a light snowfall began. Thinking back to his time here Quentin remembered how he used to spend a lot of his time on the roof. Caleb tried comming up after him. Once. He seemed to leave Quentin to his own devices when he went up on the roof after his accident. The roof was Quentin's domain.
[ CC ]
Quentin wondered if Mother had ever gotten rid of that old gnarled oak he used to use to reach the roof from the outside (when he wasn't using a drainpipe or the larger shutters or the latticework that supported the ivy growing on the north side of the house). Leaving his things in the gravel way, he walked through the snow around the house. Yes, it was still there -- why Mother didn't take a hatchet to the thing, he'd never know. It had survived pruning, 2 tornadoes, wilt, toilet-papering, carpenter ants, and Scott's abortive practice at a knife-throwing career (the last time the Ringling Bros. had come to town, before he left home), but Lord knew it was a shabby tree. Large, but run-down by time.
Quickly, he wrapped his hands around the lowest branches and scrambled up. His feet remembered all the right spots -- it hadn't grown much since the last time he'd climbed it -- and he soon alit on the roof, stepping softly, not to disturb those inside. He checked out his normal routes of entry and found the attic window that nobody ever seemed to lock. Quickly, yet quietly, he opened the window, crept inside, and shut it behind him. he waited a few minutes to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, then, using the weak rays of the moon just beginning to rise, he crept along the attic floor, let himself down into the upper floor of the house, and tiptoed downstairs to the front door.
Quietly unlocking the door, he brought his things into the front foyer and set them down gently. Taking a pencil from the endtable by the door, he scribbled a few bold notes. One he left with his luggage, another he left on the kitchen counter, and the third he attached to the door of his room as he went inside -- they all announced his arrival and an admonishment not to open the big box, or Santa would bring the would-be thief nothing but coal for Christmas. He then closed the door, sank onto the comfortable bed wearing everything save his damp shoes, and drifted immediately to sleep.
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This Page Last Modified: Sun, 19 Nov 2000
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