Entertainers

III. Colder Weather

"What were you thinking?  You could've gotten hurt, or broken your arm or something.  We can't- I can't- afford you getting hurt!"

Candace bent her head down.  The bright light overhead glowed across her pale skin.  A hard concrete floor laid beneath her feet.  The twang of Peter's viola played in the distance, practicing a song her quarter scheduled to do that night.

Courage gathered up within her as she looked up at Quentin Fare, her lover and leader.

"I'm sorry."  Her simple words clung to the air.

Quentin's pale eyes ignited with internal fury.  "Sorry is not enough," he said, "you risked so much when you decided to run, Candie.  Your lucky, lucky, girl.  It's amazing you came up with barely a bruise.  You must think before you act, you stupid, stupid little girl."

The verbal piled atop of Candace.  She could not take it anymore.  Tears burned within her eyes, until they fell lose.  All she wanted was one chance.  Once chance to taste freedom.  That chance had been taken away.

Quentin's words struck a chord with in the small violinist.  They set themselves up as truth.  Her desires were selfish.  If something should have happened, the quartet would have been in the position of finding a new second violinist.

Her tears kept falling.  "I'm so sorry," she said, "I promise to never to that again.  I was such a fool.  Please, please, don't cut me from the program."

Quentin pulled her into his arms.  His hand became gentle.  "Darling, it's okay.  It's okay.  I just," he let out a nervous chuckle, "flew off the handle.  Forgive me."

Candace whimpered, but she nodded.

He kissed her forehead.  "Thank God," he breathed, "Just promise me this, okay?  Promise me to never do that again."

A small voice spoke up.  "I promise."

-x-x-x-x-x-

Endless interrogation, Greyson found, was what traveling consisted of.

"You're an Entertainer?"

Greyson rubbed the "E" tattooed upon his neck.  He hoped that the computer on only played dumb.

"Yes."

"What kind are you?"

"A playwright."

Security took down a few notes.

Past artists of his craft traveled around, watching their art jump from theater to theater.  That was Greyson's dream, to see may different audiences from many different cultural spectrums laugh and cry at his work.  He needed to see his stories performed from coast to coast.

He held onto that dream until he came face to face with this nuisance of a security camera.  Sunshine Playhouse and Co. had once been a prison.  It turned into a long lost sanctuary that Greyson wished back crawl back into.  Even the smell of the soiled dressing rooms would have comforted him better than this.

"Sir," said the automated voice, "you are about to undergo a pat down.  Stretch out your arms and please hold still."

X-rays wheeled out and circled around him, taking pictures around every inch of his body.  Greyson swallowed the guile that rose in his throat.  He felt invaded, but there was nothing he could do.

After the last picture had been taken, automated voice said, "Thank you for your patience.  You are all clear to go."

Greyson grabbed his coat, his shoes, and the tie.  He turned to the computer, unsure what the right social gesture would be appropriate to signal goodbye to a computer.