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4.

Travis Ingram bounced on his heels as he waited outside Johanna’s office, a few days later. Her door was closed and the little white plastic sign that read ‘Yes, I am in a meeting, thanks.’ was showing. She had, or so she told Travis, been forced to get the sign and use it because of a Production Assistant that didn’t understand what a closed door could mean. It was one of the many things that she obliquely warned him about over the course of his few months working with the Giggly Wigglies. Travis took it all in stride with a wink and a shrug and sometimes the running of a hand through his short blonde crew cut. He wasn’t fazed by the antics of the show. Travis might have been new on this set, but he had worked in children’s for years now and he reckoned that once you’ve seen one of your childhood heroes puking on the carpet while screaming about needing whores you could just wink at everything as if it was a big joke.

The problem was that this time a wink wasn’t really helping. Something was off, and though Travis felt he had an indicator or two, he wasn’t sure exactly what they meant. Which is how he found himself outside his bosses office bouncing on his heels slowly and trying to will the door to open, trying to mentally force the sign to not be there, something to just get this all over with. He squinted at the sign and muttered ‘come the fuck on already’ under his breath, sliding his hand through his hair.

The door opened and a thin man in a bad suit was suddenly visible. He was smiling, and on reflex Travis glanced at the man’s shoes even as he took a step backwards and to the right to be out of the way of the leaving visitor. Expensive shoes sent a counter message to the suit, and the smile meant only one thing. Travis nodded to himself as he moved, catching sight of the small blonde girl the man rested a hand on. Her face was beaming with joy, even as she struggled under the hand atop her head. Johanna was shaking the man’s other hand when she spotted Travis.

“Mister Harrison, we will be sure to fit little Andrea into ‘Special Time’ as soon as we possibly can,” Johanna told the man with every inch of her Producer’s charm in place. Travis appreciated the way she handled the parents, with their often screaming and incredible demands and offers of money, every one of which it seemed she turned down. Johanna Herbister was untouchable as far as office scandal was concerned. He didn’t know what had made her single out this one kid for ‘Special Time’ – a private, or very small group at the most, meeting with the Giggly Wigglies themselves – but she always had some reason that bordered on the random, from the outside. The parents could have money or be poor, the children could be screamers of beamers, she just had a way to choosing them. Must be, Travis reflected, her experience coming into play.

Mister Harrison and little Andrea left, the girl skipping, and Johanna looked at Travis and smiled, waving him into her office smoothly. He closed the door behind him and sat in the right hand leather seat in front of her desk, as he always did. When she had first noticed his habit she joked that he was well on his way to becoming her right hand man. Travis liked that, he liked Johanna even if he knew she hated the children. Years in the industry could do that to a person and Travis never took it personally.

“What can I do for you, Trav?” Long green nails curled around the handle of a coffee urn, pouring for both of them. Travis loved that, his boss brought him coffee. How many executives in television did that for their P.A.s he wondered to himself, as he watched her.

“The G.W.s, Jo’, I gotta ask you something about them.” He sat up a bit straighter and then checked himself, leaning back into the chair comfortably until he looked utterly uncaring about his own question. Johanna handed him a mug of coffee and sat behind her desk, setting her own mug down softly. She settled into her chair and watched him, her face open and relaxed.

“Bobble Wobble isn’t gay,” she said as she cracked a smile, laughing with the old joke. Travis laughed along, remembering the media scandal a preacher had caused when he randomly declared Bobble Wobble’s supposed sexuality to the world. It was even funnier because he meant the character, not the actor.

“Thanks Reverend,” Travis grinned at her, following it with a wink, “I was really just wondering… Jesus this sounds stupid when I just say it. Jo’ are they stable? I mean the actors, huh? I’ve been here months and I’ve never seen them out of costume in the least. All of their make-up is done in their lounge, and we’ve never been allowed to even meet their costumers.”

“Hey, they’re eccentric. Look you want the truth Trav?” she took a generous sip of her coffee, swirling the black bitter brew on her tongue for a second as she watched her Production Assistant’s face shift from curious to wary and back to curious.

“Yeah, that’s what I want Jo’. I’m your P.A., huh? I need to be able to back your plays.” He smiled at that, it sounded good and he meant it, which was an added bonus.

“They’re all old stage actors. They’re ashamed of doing what they feel is scuttle work, and they demanded absolute privacy. They have their own make-up guys, and their contract specifies secrecy.” She shook her head with an air of disbelief, “They think they’ll end up back on stage at some point and don’t want to be known as guys in foam costumes when they do.” She shrugged and smiled at him, cradling her mug in both hands. Travis nodded and allowed himself a small laugh.

“Talent, huh? Thanks Jo’, I was just too damn curious to not ask eventually, right?” He stood, draining his mug and crossing behind her desk to set it back down near the coffee maker, “Thanks for indulging me and for the trust.”

“Not a problem, Trav. We have to watch out for each other, you’re my right hand around here.”

Travis gave her another wink and left her office, closing the door behind him. Johanna nodded and smiled until the door was closed. After Travis had left, when she could dimly hear the ding of the elevator arriving through the closed door, she set her mug on the desk and shook her head slowly. “Really really eccentric,” she whispered to herself.

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…After These Messages is copyright Adam P. Knave.