Opera Garnier [1]

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

The morning was grey and wet as heavy morning mist drenched Bill’s face and hair as he zipped down the Parisian streets, taking the routes that had once upon a time been familiar to him.

He parked just far enough away to give him room to breathe, room to take in the backdrop of the opera house, looming like an abandoned fort in the grey dawn.

He approached it’s hallowed door with reverence, as if he were walking into a nun’s sleeping quarters; hushed, gently, respectfully, careful not to make a sound or leave behind a speck of the outside world on the glossy marble floors. His foot falls were slow and gingerly placed as he took in the look of the place. He hadn’t been here in months. And the lavish walls were porous, oozing out memories from when he worked here, reeking both of sweet nostalgia and bitter reminders, creating some sour combination Bill tasted as he walked and decidedly liked.

When he did reach the rooftop, he hesitated to enter. Out there was Ortiz. Ortiz, who made his time here a living hell, but a fascinating power play. Though Bill had been recovering well from his time in rehab, he had not the mental, nor the emotional strength to deal with Ortiz’s sharply barbed tongue.

But it was now or never, and he had thirty seconds until the long hand passed the time he was told to be there.

He pushed open the doors, his leather work boots clicking as he approached the older man.

“Ortiz.” He said, professionally, offering a civil hand. “You wanted to see me?”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago lit a cigarette. He didn’t want to regret this, choosing Bill MaCarthy as his substitute. After all, it seemed like madness. The rash amendments made by a dying man or one who was leaving the country. You wouldn’t guess that Santiago was just packing up shop and setting up a few blocks away. You’d think he was terminal. Suicidal. On the run.

And maybe he was on the run. But he usually was.

No. Choosing MaCarthy wasn’t as rash a decision as it seemed. Santiago knew there was no one else in the world to entrust his opera house to. His. Santiago had taken the dance and opera programs and brought them into the twenty-first century. He’d updated the hardware as well as the repertoire. He’d spent hours—sometimes days—living in the walls of the Opera Garnier, breathing his own life force into it. It was here he had met his best friends. Here he’d fallen in love. Here he’d killed two men. Here he’d made a safe haven for Paris’ artistically inclined rabble. And there was only one other person who would understand a modicum of that.

Bill MaCarthy was surly. He was sarcastic, mouthy, and cocky. He was disobedient.

He was also the only other person who’d lay aside his life for this place. When Santiago turned up at the crack of dawn, he always knew it would be a matter of five or ten minutes before MaCarthy showed up, if he hadn’t already. When Santiago was nitpicking about set design flaws, MaCarthy was the one who talked people into meeting specifications.

And when Santiago would disappear, MaCarthy took up the baton and kept on running.

This would be no different than all those times before when Santiago would go away for a few days at a time, except that MaCarthy wouldn’t be caught up in a relay race anymore. He could keep on going to that finish line, while Santiago slipped off to the sidelines and slunk away from the stadium.

Still, Santiago would miss the f*ck out of this place.

For a long time, the Opera Garnier was more like a home than any house, apartment, or open road Santiago had ever lived on. He lived for it as well as in it. And the people he was surrounded with in the Garnier had been like family.

But as troupes were wont to do, the Garnier’s had split up. Some went to the United States to tour Broadway stages and big city concert halls. Others migrated to bigger, more famous opera houses in the Old World. Still others left to raise families or try their luck in other careers. Some had even died over the years. The demographic was new, younger, and unfamiliar to Santiago. His torch burned low, it was time to pass it on.

Santiago took a drag off his cigarette. He looked out at the city sprawl before him. The wind picked up just a bit, tousling his hair and nibbling his ears. As a lover begging him not to go. Santiago gripped the handrail. The Garnier would be better off in Bill’s capable hands. And Santiago would move on to the next thing. As he always did.

The metallic creak of the door drew in Santiago’s attention. He released the handrail and looked to see Bill MaCarthy walking towards him. MaCarthy looked considerably more pulled together than Santiago. Just another sign this was the right thing to do. Fresh blood.

“Ortiz,” MaCarthy said, holding out a hand. “You wanted to see me?”

It was the first time Santiago had taken MaCarthy’s handshake. Their calluses matched up in all the right places. Santiago smiled.

“Yeah,” he said, releasing MaCarthy. “Sorry for the short notice.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Bill had worked in theatres across Europe for years, and from everything he learned, he never knew exactly why a theatre was called a “house”. But having been here at the Garnier, having slept here, loved here, lost here; having left this sanctuary, he now knew. This place was more of a house than his apartment, it was a home, a family.

With the recent turn of events, the phone call from Ortiz (which once upon a time would have been a terrifying phenomenon) was a surprising cushion to catch his fall from grace. He nearly flew to the opera house, answering its warm, beckoning song to come home.

Ortiz didn’t look quite as menacing as he usually did. His stoicism was subdued by an aura of tiredness, and for the first time, Ortiz took his hand, their rough hands meeting at the perfect spots, like teeth on a gear.

“Sorry for the short notice.”

Bill offered a light laugh. “Short notice? Don’t worry about it, Santiago,” Bill almost stopped himself. Did he really just call him Santiago? “I was in the neighbourhood.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

MaCarthy laughed. For just a moment, old hackles went up and Santiago stiffened in the handshake. He’d never taken kindly to being laughed at. Least of all by his assistant. His former assistant. It was time to let go. Santiago released the handshake and relaxed.

“Short notice?” MaCarthy echoed. “Don’t worry about it, Santiago. I was in the neighborhood.”

A whisper of a smile flashed across Santiago’s face. It hurt his lower lip, which had just finished healing from his run-in with Dubois’ new partner. Santiago prodded the place with a quick flick of his tongue. He wondered just how bad he looked to MaCarthy. The bruise down the left side of his face had faded but Santiago would have sworn that if the light caught him just so, he’d look like a broken man.

He didn’t want to slink out of this place. Santiago had come for a triumphant farewell, and ay Dios, he was getting one.

“I’m leaving the opera house,” he told Bill. He turned to look out at the city and take in the view from on high. Savor it. The gleaming roofs of Paris smiled up at him. He sighed. “When I called you, I thought this would be a lot harder. Saying goodbye to this place.”

The Garnier had been his first home in decades. Santiago wanted to feel remorse—the gut-wrenching sort that inspired tears or poetry. But that wasn’t Santiago. He wished he could feel relief—a relaxing, comforting sensation that spread all the way to his toes. That wasn’t Santiago either. He was good at goodbyes. It was always “on to the next”. He looked over at Bill.

“But it’s not,” he said. “This was my home for the last couple years. And it’s not anymore. I have—“ Other prospects. “—another assignment across town. I stayed here longer than I meant to. Got too attached, I guess. Happens to the best of us.”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Management let me name my successor,” he said. “And I guess that’s why I’m not upset. I know you’ll take care of her. “

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Bill had stood on this roof with Ortiz before. The exchanges had been biting, witty, and filled with a toxic cocktail of hatred and great respect. They had been a separate kind of Valium for Bill at the time. They left him feeling terrible, they burned and stung, but they sent a rush to his head, adrenaline pumping through his veins. He egged him on just for the fun of almost violent badinage. The man before him had almost brought Bill to fisticuffs, to quit, to scream. But Bill loved it as if it was some perverse pleasure of his. And to think, here he was again with the same man, with no such desire to argue and challenge coursing through him.

”I’m leaving the opera house. When I called you, I thought this would be a lot harder. Saying goodbye to this place.”

Bill knew the feeling. He had left before, tormented by the drugs from the bottle and by the drugs of Victorine’s lies. They drove him mad, drove him away from the marble walls that stood like a strong, almost hallowed fortress. Leaving had been difficult, like ripping off a layer of skin—it hurt like hell to do, and still throbbed afterwards.

“But it’s not. This was my home for the last couple years. And it’s not anymore. I have another assignment across town. I stayed here longer than I meant to. Got too attached, I guess. Happens to the best of us.”

Bill nodded in understanding. Santiago Ortiz was a human being, after all, a fact Bill had forgotten on occasion while working here.

“Management let me name my successor. And I guess that’s why I’m not upset. I know you’ll take care of her.”

“I will.” Bill said. “Thank you.” And the gratitude came from the bottom of Bill’s heart. Rehab was something that not only branded his conscience, but his reputation as well. It was going to follow him from job to job, making it impossible for employment in the foreseeable future. But Santiago, as much as Bill hated to admit it, was saving him from such a fate. He owed this man more than he knew. “Truly. Thank you.” He reached out a hand again. “I guess I will see you around?”

When Santiago took Bill’s hand, Bill shook it, for the first time, as an equal.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

“I will,” MaCarthy promised. “Thank you.”

Santiago offered a thin smile; the best and most genuine thing he could with a busted lip and a strange pressure building in his sinuses. Santiago didn’t want to say it, but he was going to miss this place, even if it wasn’t home any more. And he was going to miss MaCarthy—something he wanted to admit even less. He slid his hands into his pockets and started to walk away. But MaCarthy’s voice arrested him mid-step.

“Truly. Thank you.”

Santiago turned. Something brimmed in the younger man’s eyes that a poet might call promise or gratitude, but that Santiago could only label as something visceral, something real. When MaCarthy held out hishand, Santiago took it one last time.

“I guess I will see you around?”

“You just might,” Santiago said, his usual smirk twitching back in place. “After all, you never know when management might beg me to come back.”

Laughter flew up into Santiago’s dark eyes, which glinted as he squeezed MaCarthy’s hand.

“Take care, Bill,” he said before turning around and wondering if this really was the last time he’d ever see MaCarthy again. Santiago didn’t stick around for goodbyes and he wasn’t about to start. Today was the first day of the rest of his life, and he didn’t want to start off with farewells.

[Deleted]

00C: Open. Scene. BIC:

Rachel Day

She had decided that she would take her lunch break to old stomping grounds. Rachel had felt a little more perky today than she had in the past. Not because things had changed for the better. Being an assistant to her ex, hiding from gangsters, and she still couldn't break out of this hiding shell and do theater. Yes, things were not looking up, but that did not mean Rachel Day could not enjoy this beautiful sunny day at the Opera House steps.

Rachel nodded as a couple people walked past her, waving slightly. She reached into her New York City skyline lunch pale she had had since she was little, and took out her peanut butter and jelly sandwich that was sliced in four precise squares. It was an original favorite of hers. Poking the hole in her apple juice, she sipped through the straw. Setting it down, she leaned back to the next step up with her forearms and laid back so the sun could hit her arms and chest. She shut her eyes, and let out a sigh, using her hour lunch break for all it was worth.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

Matinees had always seemed to be the most disappointing performance of them all. All evening shows-- even ones where the prima donna falls off the stage, the romantic lead tenor forgets all of his cues, and the conductor dozes off—were better than matinees. Matinees were, in his experience, ill prepared; a hodge-podge of groggy actors and vocally asleep singers. This particular performance of Anna Bolena was no exception. The title role was hardly warmed up, her voice catching somewhere in her larynx. The more minor, but equally important roles came on and off stage at times they were not called, and the lights were behind by several bars. An eternity seemed to stretch on inside that opera house. Aryeh was glad to be out of there, free of that nightmarish circus, thankful only for the paycheck his critique of this particular travesty would provide him. He’d buy Madeleine something nice with the money earned from it. New bracelet? New dress? Leave it for her in his will? The possibilities were endless, but he was sure he would be taking good care of her with the published version of his opinions from this afternoon.

But for now, as he made his slow, careful way down the steps, all he wanted was to eat his lunch and feed the birds.

“Excuse me,” he said to a young woman, who sat there, too, munching away at a sandwich and sipping a juice box. “Is this step taken?” He asked, easing himself into place by cautious way of his cane.

[Deleted]

Rachel Day

She was dreaming of Liza, only the body was replaced with Rachel Day, but she still had Liza's talent and resume. To be in that spotlight, singing those songs, dancing to Fosse- She would kill for that again! Rachel continued to leave her eyes shut, using inspiration from the sun's beams as the warm glow of a spotlight. It didn't seem so long ago that she was at this exact same place at this exact same point in her life. How did she go backwards?

"Excuse me." The spotlight was replaced by the sun as Rachel's eyes flew open in a surprised jolt, the older voice shaking her out of her daydreaming. An older man with a cane began making his way down to where she was sitting. "Is this step taken?" He asked, carefully sitting down next to her. Rachel Day was pleasantly shocked at the visitation. The crowd that began filing out told her that he must have just seen a performance.

"It is now by a handsome gentleman." Rachel chirped with a smile, putting a hand a few inches behind him as he sat, spotting him just in case he lost his balance. She looked at him with amused eyes, not expecting this to happen this afternoon.

With enthusiasm of her guest, she twisted around to her sandwich pieces and plucked it up by the zip lock baggie, going back to offer him some. "Would you like a piece of peanut butter jelly?" She asked, making sure to use diction around him because remembering back to when she visited her grandpa, she remembered his hearing wasn't the best. Not enough to insult him though. He was not deaf.

"It's the crunchy peanut butter, so it's the best."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

"It is now by a handsome gentleman." The young woman chirruped happily, sounding more like a little girl than a full grown woman.

Aryeh, from amidst his papers and satchels, pulled out a brown paper bag. Inside were the kosher delights his stomach had been dreaming of since breakfast. His fingers, gnarled and knotted like tree branches from years of arthritic torture, felt for the food he had carefully packed this morning.

"Would you like a piece of peanut butter jelly?" The girl asked, before Aryeh could grab his elusive food, which kept, with the help of gravity, sliding just out of his reach.

Aryeh’s face twitched with the traces of smile. It was kind gesture, but peanut butter jelly sandwiches weren’t exactly kosher. Still, her proposition had the innocent air of a curious, caring child and it was difficult to hold her any ignorant insensitivities for other peoples’ dietary needs against her.

"It's the crunchy peanut butter, so it's the best."

“Thank you very much, zeeskyte,” Aryeh said with a negative shake of his head. “But, no. I packed my own.” He held up the pastrami on sourdough he finally snatched from the bottom of the bag.

He said a quick, quiet prayer before he took a bite, then, swallowing, turned to his lunch companion. “So,” he said conversationally, “to whom do I owe to honor of being my lovely lunch date?”

[Deleted]

Rachel Day


“Thank you very much, zeeskyte."

Rachel Day tried to keep her friendly smile, but she blinked back her confusion. Did he just call her some form of a zit? She was culture shocked for a moment, but between New York and Paris, she expected it all and would probably hear it all by the end of her life. Rachel was now even a little more enthused with her step guest, which would be the most eventual happening all day for her.

“But, no. I packed my own.” He told her with a shake of his head, taking out a packed sandwich of his own that made Rachel look down and question her own lunch making skills. Maybe it was time to get a little more creative. She returned her zip locked peanut butter and jelly platter onto her lap, looking from the corner of her eye and giving him prayer privacy. Rachel took a dive in for a piece of her sandwich, and then had taken back wanting to change her lunch plans because this was delectable no matter how lackluster it was!

“So, to whom do I owe to honor of being my lovely lunch date?”

Rachel smiled, covering her mouth with a hand as she finished her bite and swallowed. "Rachel Day." She told him, holding out a hand confidently, finding that he was the first person she ever felt comfortable giving her name to without thinking that he was some undercover New York City gangster that worked for her father to shoot her brains out or something. Rachel's life sounded like a melodramatic action movie; where was her television show?

"And what is yours, sir?"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Aryeh Feldman

When the girl looked at him blankly for a moment, Aryeh fought off the smirk that threatened to crawl onto his face. It had been a long day, filled with demanding divas, poor performances, and terrible tenors. He needed a break, he needed a laugh.

"Rachel Day," the young woman said. The name was sweet, and so borderline kosher that Aryeh could have gotten away with spreading her name on his dry pastrami sandwich to make it tad more bearable.

"And what is yours, sir?" Rachel asked, and Aryeh couldn’t tell if she was being polite and that high pitch was the natural frequency of her voice, the wavelengths so short the bats that slept on the gargoyles of the Opera Garnier were probably waking and moving erratically, or if she was being inadvertently patronized. As a child, he heard that tone of voice, a tone that disappeared when he reached the tail end of his adolescence, but slowly returned as he aged, as if the elderly of society needed babysitters and wet nurses. He did not need this now. What he needed was a good meal and a good laugh.

“Aryeh Feldman.” He said simply, kindly, still not entertained. But now that the niceties of introductions were out of the way, Aryeh was free to have fun.

He took another bite of his sandwich and immediately dropped it, stifling a cough that grew and grew until it became a raucous choke. His eyes twinkled mischievously as they watered. “Oh,” he said, feigning left chest pain. “My heart. My heart!”

When he woke up this morning, he hadn’t planned on faking a heart attack, but spontaneity, like The Master of the Universe, worked in mysterious ways. Laughter, like love, was so oft taken from this world, sucked from the sweet, pure marrow of life, that one had to fight and actively seek for a chance meeting with happiness.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

OoC: For Lori. BiC:

William MaCarthy

It had taken seven months, but Bill was finally come to say that he was proud of himself. He balanced the world of work in one, the world of recovery in the other, and some semblance of a social life made a precarious home on his head, but at last, he was stabilized.

A cigarette dangling dangerously from his lips, he made his way outside, the warm summer air hitting his face. It was unwelcomingly humid, the light breeze sticking to and getting entangled in Bill’s chestnut locks. ‘You really shouldn’t smoke,’ his therapist often scolded, to which Bill responded ‘Jesus. I can’t drink, can’t take headache medication, what do you want? For me to die?’ So they came to a compromise that Bill broke often: half a pack a day. This was the first cigarette from a fresh pack, but his therapist wasn’t exactly watching his every move.

He lit it, looking up at the sky as he took a long drag off of it. He really hoped it didn’t rain tonight—it would really put a damper on an overall lovely day. The production was going as well as hoped, ticket sales were up, negative reviews were down, and Bill was feeling rather fit and happy. Well, relatively. It would be a lie to say that he was 100% “okay”. Temptation was everywhere, and even the cleanest of recovered junkies dreamed of the days when they were blissfully ignorant that they had a problem and went about with their happy pills without a care in the world. At least one a week, Bill wanted to fill his old hiding spots with little peach-coloured pills, but he reminded himself of how awful he felt during withdrawal, how awful he felt sober, how blankly delightful he felt high, how much he missed himself, and he was back on his feet, the thoughts temporarily pushed from his mind.

He exhaled, letting out a clean stream of smoke, feeling it leave his lungs before he filled them again with the sweet toxins of a slow death. If he could get through rehab for prescription drugs, maybe this time next year, he could be smoke free.

Who was he kidding? That was ridiculous. It was his second break now, that beautiful time when the sky was a smoky blue and all of Paris sat on the cusp of day and night. Was there any better way to spend it than with a cigarette? Well, Bill could think of a few, but none that were really available to him at this moment in time. Sometimes, all someone needed was a clear night and a nicotine fix to make it through the day.

[blueeyeddevil]

Wes Harlow

Wes was enjoying the sunshine of the warm Paris summer, just sitting and playing his guitar while he smoked. He recalled a time not too long ago when he hadn't been able to smoke so openly. The manager of the band had made him hide his bad habit as he tried to keep Radio Remedy's image rather clean. His explanation was that parents were the ones with money and they wouldn't buy the album of someone they thought would be a bad influence." Needless to say, when Wes had been hospitalized due to an overdose of something far worse than nicotine, it had been passed off as the typical "exhaustion" story.

But he was here now, smoking in the courtyard without hesitation. Truthfully, he'd been smoking even more lately. He was trying his best to stave off his urge for that same dangerous substance that had nearly killed him just over two years ago. He knew the trouble it would land him in with Amorette if she ever found out....and Logan would never speak to him again if he knew!

He tried his best to concentrate on the music, strumming along to some random song in his head. He closed his eyes and just allowed himself to drift for a bit, fingers absently playing the chords. Soon enough, the urge kicked in again. He reached and slid a cigarette in his mouth, flickering his lighter...but all that came out was a small spurt of sparks before it was dead. He swore under his breath.

Then he suddenly picked up the familiar scent of a cigarette. His last one was put out a while back and the one in his mouth was unlit. Someone else was smoking and that meant they might have a light. Wes slung the guitar to hang behind him as he went to see. He stepped out into the clearing and suddenly he recognized the figure in front of him...the man from the roof...the one he'd later learned was a manager here.

Feeling a bit awkward now, Wes debated just forgetting the whole thing and going inside. Surely he didn't need a cigarette that bad! Instead, he grinned and bared it, moving forward to tap the other man's shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. Could I borrow a light? Mine's dead..." he explained, running a hand through his shaggy blond hair, cigarette between his fingers.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

William MaCarthy

Just when Bill thought he was alone, the familiar sound of a guitar being strummed reached his ears. Looking around for the source, his eyes fell on Wes Harlow, who seemed to be searching for him, too. Bill’s stomach flopped and he feared he was going to vomit. He remembered that day on the roof vividly; it haunted his nightmares. Wes had found Bill high and wanted to know where he could get his fix.

Today had been going so well, too. Bill quickly looked away and focused on his cigarette, but he felt the weight of eyes on him and he turned his head once more for one last masochistic look at the man.

"Excuse me, sir. Could I borrow a light? Mine's dead...” Wes said, apparently jumping at his chance to ask.

“Light up,” he said, tossing his lighter and shoving his hands in his pockets. He waited until Wes had finished to talk. “Tell me, Mr. Harlow, isn’t there somewhere you need to be now? Rehearsal? Costume room? Rehab?” Bill asked, blurring the lines between what was socially acceptable and what wasn’t. Admittedly, it was uncalled for. No one wanted their addiction called out on, and very few people wanted help. But Bill wished that he’d had someone, anyone, to be so blunt with him in his Valium days. Though Damien’s gentle prodding was appreciated, Bill wish he’d had a rude wake up call.

Oh, yes. He knew about Wes’s little appetite for smack, he had told him all about it on the roof just as Bill’s high came crashing back down to lucidity. Bill had half a mind to fire him over it, but the other half was empathetic and ached for him. The very least he could do was get him help. His own sponsor had been a God-send so far, maybe Bill could do that for Wes?

Come to think of it, no. No he couldn’t be. Bill could hardly handle his own recovery, much less someone else’s. He’d let the stakes stay where they were, wouldn’t tamper with them just yet. If there was one thing Bill learned in rehab, it was that you can’t help those who don’t want help.