Elephant

Excitement was in the air. The Little Theatre was mounting its biggest production ever. The crew was erecting the stage for the show called Heaven on Earth. A two-week run, for starters. Sketches in hand, I walked onto the stage amid the whine of a buzzsaw and the scent of freshly sawed pine.

Stuart, the set designer, and Bob, head carpenter, were deep in discussion and didn’t notice me at first. As I approached, Stuart moved away from Bob. When I stopped, Stuart flashed an irritated glance at me. “Looking for Wardrobe?”

I paid no mind to his annoyance, figuring it was due to my lateness or interruption or both. I flashed my Little Theatre badge. “Assistant carpenter. Through the city placement program?”

Bob stepped in. “Oh, right. You got here. Good.” He looked a lot like my dad, right down to the eyeglasses. “I have to run but Stuart will fill you in.”

“Can you decipher this for me?” I held out the “concept” diagram to Stuart, trying to match the plan with the existing structure. No small talk. That’s the way I am at work: I get straight to the point. I had a job to do—and limited time for doing it.

“Ah, Hadovsky’s vision,” Stuart said. “What’s your problem, Max?”

 My problem. The set designer reminded me of my Grade 10 geography teacher, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he tripped me up on a random fact, like, “Do you know Russia spans eleven time zones?” and flunked me again. I ignored my pounding heart. I didn’t even ask who Hadovsky was. “The arch is shown here,” I said, pointing, “but I see that over there is the permanent arch.” As I pointed out the discrepancy to Stuart, I became uncomfortably aware of my dirty fingernails.

He regarded me skeptically. “We don’t need a wooden arch. We’ll do it with balloons,” he said, stepping back and swooshing an imaginary rainbow across the dusty stage.

“Balloons, eh?” I had seen balloon arches at fancy balls and marathon finish lines. Lovely, bubbly looking things, the best ones containing a variety of sizes and colors. I’d helped make one for my high school prom five years earlier. I was a little hazy on how we’d made it—I recalled an electric pump and a clear plastic strip that anchored the biggest balloons. It was obvious to me the balloons wouldn’t last two weeks.

Stuart explained that the director, a rising star named Hadovsky, was working on set in Tunisia. As set designer, Stuart was the on-site expert here, responsible for translating Hadovsky’s “vision” while he was away. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t read the cues correctly: everything felt temporary.

Perhaps I misread them because I was busy taking my own work seriously. This could be the last placement Minerva Education Systems was ever going to send me on, my counsellor warned me, after I messed up the last two. There was no margin for error.

Did Stuart really know what he was doing? Who was I to say? I, the most recent hire, the youngest and most junior on the rungs.

I resolved to do what I could. I paced out the floor plan, preparing to build the columns on either side of the arch. Whether the arch would be balloons or wire or a wooden trellis, we would need endpoints to anchor it.

Hours later, Bob returned. “Does this make sense to you?” I asked him. “Balloons for a two-week run? Will the crew be inflating the balloons every night?” Even a six-year-old knew balloons barely lasted a weekend.

Bob shrugged. “If that’s what Stuart said.” He looked at me closely, sizing me up for the first time. “Your first show?” Almost a sneer—and coming from someone so similar to Dad—very off-putting.

“I’ve worked on construction sites for five summers,” I said, hoping I didn’t come across as defensive. The sites were all houses—permanent structures. I had worked my way up from brick carrier to inside framer.

“Uh huh,” Bob smirked. “Your first show. We do things differently in the theater. Stage structures must be light and very portable. We’re talking fifteen-second scene changes.” To emphasize the point, he pushed a burlap wall panel that moved silently on brass casters. “Hence the balloons.”

“But the diagram—”

Bob called Janine, the assistant set designer, to come over. “Somebody,” he said, “has questions,” his tone of voice making it very clear I was being a nuisance.

Janine looked down her nose at me as I hastened to explain myself. “Balloons are great for movability,” I said, aiming to be diplomatic, “except… I wonder… will they last for a two-week run? We need a high arch, big enough—”

“Yes?” she said haughtily. “Big enough for?”

I blushed. I had only seen the ads for the show, but they were full of music, dancing, and, disconcertingly, an elephant. But, like most stuff I consumed on the internet, it was mixed with lots of other images and impressions. Surely, I thought, I would hear talk about the elephant, or how they’d create the illusion of an elephant, while we were preparing for the show.

Was Bob mindlessly supporting Stuart? Again, who was I to say?

Bob and Janine stared me down, pitying smiles on their faces. “Portability,” Bob whispered.

I didn’t press my point because I decided to seek outside advice. Try to keep an open mind, I reminded myself; at the very least I would build a stronger argument. That evening, I dropped by a party-specialty store. I asked about balloons, both rubber and plastic.

“For optimum lift, they should be helium inflated,” the clerk clarified, “and helium, being a smaller molecule, leaks through the tiny pores of the balloon.”

I studied him. He looked like the typical science geek at the school science fair. What he said made sense, but I wondered how Stuart would take it.

“I see two kinds here,” I said.

“There’s environmental concern over metallized Mylar balloons,” he said, “cause they don’t biodegrade or shred as rubber balloons do.” He waved at a bunch of foil balloons.

“For arches, we’re talking rubber, right?” I said and he nodded.

“Is this for an all-day party?” the clerk asked.

“A two-week event,” I said.

“Ohh… ohh” his eyes widened. “I’ll have to talk to the manager. Could I get your number?”

***

The next day I kept checking my phone, expecting the party-store manager to call.

This irked Bob. “Stop playing with that thing.” Another way he reminded me of Dad, I guess you could say.

The party-store manager would be thinking he was about to make a big sale and I’d have to explain I didn’t make the buying decisions for The Little Theatre, I was just assistant carpenter. Awkward. Hopefully, I could still get the information I needed to argue my case against balloons.

***

Then I got the call that turned my world upside down. Dad had been admitted to the hospital with chest pains—and suddenly, I became super-busy driving family members back and forth. My aunties are too thrifty to take cabs everywhere and too frail to cope with public transport. Plus, we all just wanted to be together in this time of crisis, if you know what I mean.

For the next week, balloon arches and elephant holograms were the last thing on my mind. I just showed up at The Little Theatre, worked my hours, and went to the hospital to spell off Mum or the aunties at Dad’s bedside. In between times, we were trying to balance his books, because he was in the middle of invoicing when the chest pains began.

My family has this wild notion I’m some kind of computer whiz. “Mum,” I said, “There’s a reason I’m working in construction and not at a desk job. Me and computers don’t get along.”

“But you did all your courses online!”

“No-o. I did some—the ones that were only available online. And they had a Helpdesk that I could call.” What a hassle, those online courses! Just thinking about them makes my skin itch.

Mum’s pouty lip stuck out an inch. “The Tile Emporium has kept a roof over our heads since you were a baby. The family business needs a little love and attention. Is it too much to ask?”

I gently gripped her wrist. “Dad’s accounts are in spreadsheets that are so crazy you’ll need a wizard to figure things out.”

“Just tell us who owes us for last month,” she begged. “I’ll make the calls—I only need some names. That’ll keep our lights on.”

***

I got so trapped by the family crisis that I overlooked work memos. The dress rehearsal at The Little Theatre caught me completely by surprise. Oh no, I showed up in my painting coveralls! Normally anyone backstage on performance nights, as I would be, wears all black.

Janine the stage manager took one look at me with my paint roller and drop cloth. She raised her eyes upward, like a Sistine portrait of a saint. “What the hell?” She ordered me to put everything away. “We need you to help us unload Tuffi the elephant.”

 “Elephant?” I squeaked. “I’m an assistant carpenter.”

“You are hereby deputized as an animal tender,” she said.

My jaw fell open. I had owned no pet more demanding than a dwarf rabbit named Fluffy. This woman expected me to help unload a three-ton eight- foot-high moving tank? An elephant’s trunk disturbed me most of all: thick and muscular, with a mind of its own. A scream was about to erupt from my throat, so I shut my mouth tight and frowned instead.

Soon a big white trailer pulled up to the loading dock. After a flurry of uniforms and paperwork, an elephant trudged down the ramp, looking like she had just come off the red-eye flight from St. Louis. Missing her carry-on.

Conversation paused as we all stopped to gawk. There Tuffi stood in the flesh: a creature in impossibly wrinkly skin, faintly pitiable like a child wearing an old man’s very puckered suit, with wiry hair sprouting here and there. My heart hammered as I observed the gigantic feet, the columnar legs, the extra deep wrinkles over the knee joints. The impossibly tiny eyes. And the twisting trunk that unsettled me to the very depth of my stomach. Moving, waving, acting like that boa constrictor that had escaped in middle school and, as far as I knew, was never found.

Close by was Pete, the elephant minder, the human intermediary, the only guarantor of crew safety. Pete was a disheveled man in rumpled shorts—he looked like a dentist who’d run off to live on the savannah among elephants. He did not look like a man who had any truck with theaters creating illusions of grandeur. Or heaven.

 “What are we waiting for?” Janine said. “Saddle him up.”

 “For starters, Tuffi is female,” Pete said. “Furthermore, elephants are proud, intelligent beings who do not kowtow to any other animal.” He refused to permit anyone to climb onto the Tuffi’s back. The symbolism was completely wrong, Pete said, “and moreover, I bet TLT’s insurance doesn’t cover falls from an elephant’s back.”

“Fine, we will have Tuffi walk solo through the archway,” Janine fumed.

Hadovsky the director came out, looking cool and smug in turtleneck and Ray-Bans.

Stuart jumped up and yelled, “Why didn’t you say we were going to have a live animal on stage? I did not design a set to support an elephant’s weight!”

Hadovsky shook his head in disbelief. “Did you not see our posters? Tuffi is most prominent.”

Tuffi’s ears moved, and her trunk nuzzled Pete’s hand, as if seeking reassurance.

“I thought it was a virtual elephant,” Bob said. He glanced at Stuart. “This is the 21^st century—holograms are everywhere.”

Stuart said, “Why didn’t we have a pre-rehearsal consultation about special effects?”

“Yes! I need to know, too,” Bob said, “so I can build accordingly.”

“Our previous live animals,” Stuart said, flipping through pages in a binder, “were a donkey for the Christmas pageant and a rabbit for the Easter show.” He looked up and grimaced. “The consults were rubber stamp affairs. To save money, we didn’t even schedule one for Tuffi.” He glared accusingly at Hadovsky, whose Ray-Bans masked any look of shame.

Then Stuart wheeled around and accused Pete: “Nobody requested it—not even the person who knew best what was involved.”

A dozen actors milled around, anxious for the dress rehearsal to proceed. Everyone was dressed for their part, and I could smell grease paint on warm bodies, mingled with deodorant and catered coffee.

“Okay. Final scene without elephant rider,” Janine announced. “Assume positions.” The front stage cleared as people got into position behind the curtains.

I was standing downstage so I could see the elephant and actors as they entered.

“Stop.” Janine held up her hands. “We need to get Pete in costume—in case he has to come on stage.” It made perfect sense—but my stomach twisted because why hadn’t this been thought of?

He drawled, “Well let’s just pretend I’m in costume—”

Janine shook her head. “Dress rehearsal, Pete. Wardrobe, bring Pete some clothes. Company, take five.”

Murmurs arose from the troupe. I could see trickles of sweat at the hairlines and people surreptitiously adjusting their garments and wigs. I changed some borrowed all-blacks then resumed my spot near the proscenium.

Tuffi stamped her feet. The oboe began to trill, the strings were re-tuned, and some actors reached for their phones. I crammed my painting materials back on the shelf.

Peter was dressed in gold lamé with a turban that had ostrich feathers sticking out. His face was immobilized under thick layers of makeup and facial hair. The players repositioned themselves to proceed from backstage through heaven’s gate with its archway of balloons.

Tuffi marched in through the curtains, going from darkness, where Pete’s voice spoke reassuringly to her, to the bright stage lights. The balloons bounced, in the breeze caused by the curtain as it opened and Tuffi’s head jerked. Pete stepped from the shadows to the stage light, his ostrich feathers flapping, his face and flashy garb evidently jarring Tuffi. She gave a great shriek—an ear-shredding sound. She reared back, the better to stomp on—whatever and whoever she could find.

The rest of the elephant rampage is a blur to me. I was in complete panic. That great muscular trunk wrenched the arch from the columns I had so carefully built. Stupidly, I worried about how I’d find time to repair them and paint the damaged wooden sky before tomorrow’s show.

There would be no show the next day, not for a week, when the forensics team finished.

***

Once the caution tape was removed, The Little Theater had an emergency meeting. Not the whole crew, just Stuart, Bob, Janine and Hadovsky. I was on the far side, hastily painting the wooden sky. Dad’s situation had stabilized so my attention was turning back to The Little Theater. I had to rescue my placement, possibly the last placement Minerva Education Systems was ever going to send me on. I had sacrificed too much for my diploma to give up without a fight.

The discussion mumbled on for an hour. It was not my place to interrupt, but I could feel my bile rising.

“Is nobody going to say it?” I cried at last.

They looked uncomfortably at each other.

“I warned you guys the balloon arch was a bad idea. My warning did not get passed on.” I pointed to the brown spot on the floor. I tried to control the tremor in my voice. “Two persons died due to willful ignorance. I feel like I painted a big warning sign: Danger! Yet you totally disregarded me!”

“Warning?” they said to themselves.

“I know I’m new here, and I know I’m younger than everyone else except for the actors. But everyone ignored me because I’m young and the only female carpenter you’ve had.”

“We talked to you,” Stuart protested.

“No no, no,” Bob said. With his hands he rubbed his whole face. “She’s right.” He sighed.

“I find this very interesting.” Janine turned to look at me. “You claim you warned them about the balloons from day one. Why didn’t you come to me?”

I raised my eyebrow. Now I was going to become the fall guy, the scapegoat, the one to blame because their extravagant grand finale was a fiasco. A wave of frustration hit so hard that I felt like quitting on the spot. But that’s why I had bounced around from job to job. Maybe it was time to hold my own ground.

“I was not sure who to go to. Bob and Stuart kept emphasizing I knew so little about stage construction. Even you—that one day—you and Bob belittled me for having questions.”  I put my hands on my hips. “Typical gaslighting.”

Silence filled the room. Everyone was looking at their shoes. Or the ceiling. Except the director.

“An outsider comes in,” Hadovsky said, “and sees things with new eyes.” He tore off his Ray-Bans and gave me an intense look. “I want to re-examine this through the theatre lens. Max, thank you for inspiring my next project.”

The End