Chapter 42 – Heroes

LAPA.
The Playhouse.

One thing Frederick Curon loved about his job was that no one knew who he was. As a midwestern suburban Dad facsimile, he was not good-looking, he didn’t style his hair, and his scalp could never quite wash away the tobacco stink of his young life.

He could be in a private box, in concerts with a million attendees, or he could be in a room with the world’s best divas, singing for a test audience of ten, and still not be recognised unless someone introduced him.

Ergo, there was no danger he would be recognised in a high school theatre production, watching other people’s kids flop like carp on stage.

Curon sat in the fourth row, aisle seat, which he had demanded from Principal Burton’s helpful elf, the blonde lady called Susan Carr. This meant he had room to spare, to manspread, and to have one arm on a guaranteed armrest. On the way in, some damned kid had confiscated his coffee thermos, but Curon was kind enough to live and let live. Maybe one day, the kid will tell his kids about it.

Somewhere down in the pit was Filmore and her photographers. He had expressly instructed them not to bother him, trusting his Maddy to run a tight ship. He didn’t need the programme either. He was only here to watch one thing, then he had to get back to work.

Curon vaguely knew Antigone from when he attended school in the 60s.

Plus, Eppie had already explained the concept to him. He had fallen asleep halfway through her long-winded rant because there was no bassline, but he got the gist of it. LAPA’s play was anti-war, anti-cover-up, and anti-Gore, because their President had kept up the bombing campaigns, while covering up the consequences. Curon usually voted centre-right, or did not vote at all.

The place was packed.
Eppie writing a No.1 was no joke.
Somewhere in front sat the goons from Warner and Universal, whom Curon needn’t care about. After all, was his daughter going to write for a rival company? Not on his watch! As for EMI… Davis had said something about absorbing them sooner or later.

The house lights went down.
It was starting.

On the black box stage was a table, three chairs, and a microphone stand. The whole thing could be cut and changed by using nothing but lighting, hiding one section in darkness, while emphasising another. The props were well-made, given that Eppie said they handcrafted the set from scratch. On the table, there was a glass of water, a name plate, a folded flag, documents, and the trappings of a Secretary of Defence’s desk.

The room grew hush.
His daughter walked on.

Jesus Christ, Curon’s heart skipped. Watching his little girl in that skirt and uniform, he felt a sudden urge to punch Trent Davis in the balls. Twice.

Curon rarely co-worked with Costume, but he knew its effects like the back of his hand. The Culver Academies prep uniform, a midwestern military school for the children of higher-ranked officers, from the looks of it, did three things simultaneously. It made her look young. It made her look prim. And it gave the audience a certain anticipation.

Eppie looked good with straight hair and the hairband. She looked like someone who was used to being privileged. Very, very privileged. Her every movement made it completely convincing. It was downright uncanny how effortlessly Eppie gave off the vibe.

She crossed the table and stood beside it, her gaze against the American flag, the bronze nametag. She was in an invisible liminal space. She was thinking.

The other girl came on. Younger-looking, but taller. She was made up to be prettier, but in Curon’s mind, nothing could be prettier than his daughter.

“Anni,” the timid girl whispered, yet her voice was completely audible. “Why are you here? There are cameras out there! They’re talking to Uncle Creon, now!”

“I know,” Eppie said, turning her body. It was only two words, but Curon felt immense satisfaction. He knew Tony winners, he knew Oscar winners. Eppie wasn’t there yet, but she gave off the same vibe.

“You can’t, Anni… How can we fight? Anni?” The sister’s body acting was good as well, but it was the action of a diamond in the rough, not yet a gemstone. “We’re just girls… we’re girls, Anni. Students. Nobodies. How can you expect us to challenge Uncle Creon? He’s the Secretary of Defence! I… I don’t…”

Eppie’s Antigone shifts her weight; she’s sitting on the table now, and she moved her hand over the bent microphone there, caressing it like a cat. “I am going to bury him.”

Bury Ployneices? Or Creon? Her uncle’s reputation? Or her brother’s corpse?
Curon felt a tingling surge of unexpected excitement. Whoever wrote this thing was pretty damn good!

“You can’t. Anni, please…”

“Emmi,” Eppie’s expression, the love, the disappointment, the resignation, was surprisingly clear even from where Curon sat. It wasn’t her face, because his eyes weren’t 20/20. It was her body, the way she fidgeted, the way she leaned. “It’s too late… Uncle Creon gave the address just now. It’s been filed. It’s official. It has the Ministry’s seal. Polynieces is to remain—“

Eppie paused as if to make firm her resolve.

“—in Syria, among the nation’s enemies. No, he is an enemy now—”

Curon wanted to applaud. Eppie’s voice was an instrument of wonder. Only a few months ago, the girl had struggled to record “Whatever Will Be”, but now, it was as if Muller had taken a comp session to her voice box. She was not projecting exactly, but the sound arrived with full fidelity and with its emotions intact.

The scene played out. Cutting between the settings with the magic of lighting. Creon, Tiresias and the media circus that was the Chorus Ensemble. Curon watched the performance with the rapt attention of a child with a new Saturday morning cartoon.

Stolen story; please report.

“You can be what you want to be. But I will bury him,” Eppie delivered the punchline at long last.

The first act was short, a mere ten minutes. The girl left, leaving her sister standing alone, stunned and cold, shivering in the room alone.

Applause. Not polite applause, but genuine, heartfelt.
A hollering Spaniard stood two rows down, blasting out thunderclaps while his wife tried to pull him down. Curon figured that the guy must be a relative of the other girl.

The lighting shifted. There was a short break between the scenes.

Jesus Christ, who the fuck installed this crap?
The maker of the world’s No.1 Pop hit leaned back in his horribly uncomfortable seat, then realised his ageing spine and overweight body may not survive the next thirty minutes unless he sat while leaning forward.