Romance in the Rain Read online

  “What are you doing here? Are you on the stage crew?” I asked Ellis.

  He smiled, small lines crinkling at the corners of his blue eyes. Apparently he spent a fair amount of time in the sun. Lucky for him male actors didn’t have to worry about their looks like women did. A woman was over the hill at forty in Hollywood whereas a man could begin his career after sixty and have a twenty-something love interest in a movie to boot. It wasn’t fair. One of my goals as a playwright was to create good roles for older women.

  “No, I’m in the play,” he said. “They had a few small bit parts for undergrads to fill. I’m early; I enjoy helping with setup. Doesn’t hurt to have a backup plan if the acting career doesn’t pan out.”

  “That’s wise,” I mumbled in response. I wiped my right index finger on my jeans then held it up to examine the wound. The cut wasn’t deep and had already stopped bleeding, but it might leave a scar. Well, unless I was shoving it up my nose, most people wouldn’t be looking at my finger anyway.

  Ellis, still holding the ladder, grinned like he’d just won a bet on a horse race. “Want me to kiss that and make it better?”

  “Sure, germs would be great for the healing process.” I didn’t know what else to say. I certainly couldn’t say, “Yeah, plant a big one on me.” Although his lips did look soft and rather sweet—what I could see under that bush of a mustache.

  He laughed good-naturedly.

  Did nothing faze this guy? I was beginning to feel like a jerk for not being interested in him, but I just wasn’t.

  I turned my back on him to stand beneath the next lamp stage right, yet Ellis followed, faithfully dragging the ladder across the floor and down another aisle, while I climbed up and down several times following Gerald’s commands. I had to admit that Ellis did a much better job of holding the ladder still than Rick, and I was able to focus more on turning the lamps to the correct position than on worrying about falling to my death.

  After setting two half-rows of lights along the front beams and several along the aisle facing the stage, I was proud of myself for facing my fear of heights. I was becoming quite the monkey.

  I was dusty and sweaty from spending so much time near the high wattage lamps, so I was reluctant to join all the other undergrads, after our tasks were completed. We sat in the front two rows once again, waiting for our crew assignments for the production. I wondered if Lisa smelled as bad as I imagined I might, but she was sitting far to my right next to a redheaded guy whose hair was brighter than mine.

  Ellis hopped onto the stage, enthusiastically waved good-by to me, and exited right. A bit embarrassed I quickly turned my attention to Gerald who was once again sitting on the edge of the stage. His eyes weren’t lingering on Lisa, as mine would if my lover were in the same room. But he wasn’t exactly gazing admiringly in my direction, either.

  Maybe he was shy? Maybe he was gay?

  He didn’t seem gay.

  Or maybe Gerald just wasn’t attracted to redheads.

  I thought about how considerate Ellis was, spending so much time holding the ladder so that I wouldn’t feel afraid. Yet, even if he was my type, I didn’t want a romantic relationship with a man who aspired to be an actor. Entertainers were very social and partied a lot, but it was difficult for actors to form strong bonds with others, having such a mobile career. So it was easier emotionally for an actor to keep things casual, to avoid the hurt of breaking off another relationship or feeling tied down when a great part became available in a touring company or in another city.

  However, those behind the scenes, literally, could hook-up with a company and stay in town for years. Professor Beyer had plenty of work outside the university, designing sets for local theaters and even the Seattle Opera.

  Ellis remained on the list of potential boyfriends, albeit, admittedly a very short list of one so far, but I was hoping to soon increase that to two. Unfortunately, a disconcertingly high percentage of my classmates were women.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten PM! It was late! Holy cow! I had to get up at six AM!

  A stocky brunette, dressed in torn jeans and a faded black sweatshirt sporting a white skull and cross bones, strode purposely toward us on the stage. She topped off her ensemble with a red bandana, tied at the back of her head. I pictured her in the Blue Moon Tavern arm wrestling bikers in a haze of cigarette smoke on Friday nights while some punk singer screamed incoherently in the background. She introduced herself as Jeanette, the play’s stage manager, and barked out our assignments.

  I got Sound. Great. I’d be stuck in the production booth in the back of the theater with two other undergrads doing lights, and neither of them would be Gerald.

  Scene 2

  The wind howled with bursts of rain as I trudged up the hill from the theater to Lander. I had to clutch my pretty floral pink-and-purple rain hat to my head to keep it from blowing off and regretted not buying the ugly yellow one with the drawstrings instead. During the day the streets surrounding the campus were packed with students lugging large backpacks, but it was quite a different mood late at night. I recalled the serial killer I’d seen on cable last summer who declared, “A woman alone is never safe,” and gritted my teeth. If Ellis really cared, he’d have offered to walk me back to the dorm. I would’ve refused, of course, so as not to make him go out of his way for me, but it would’ve been nice if he had offered.

  Maybe he didn’t realize you’d already left, my conscience chided me. Give him a break for once.

  I glanced back at the Showboat. The narrow windows were still lit. It had a nostalgic charm, built by the federal government WPA in the 1930s to resemble a Mississippi steamboat with the idea it would travel Puget Sound, presenting plays in various communities. But for some reason it stood stationary on pilings instead, anchored at the university. A shadow passed by one of the portholes. I shivered, feeling an attack of the creeps and hurried off.

  I scurried from light pole to light pole, seeking temporary shelter in each large pool of lamplight while the rain drenched my shoes.

  Something pinged, as if a metal rod hit the light post in the darkness to my left. But I hadn’t seen anybody else on the street. I squelched the panic threatening to take control of my emotions and scanned the area around me. I half-expected to see someone on a bicycle, one handlebar resting against the light pole, to account for the metallic clink.

  No one was there.

  I let go of my hat and ran back to the dorm.

  I didn’t feel safe until the lobby door shut behind me.

  The following day I was distressed to return to my dorm room after classes and find a piece of cardboard taped to the door: “Don’t enter” was scrawled across it. Great! My electric typewriter was being held hostage while my roommate made out with her boyfriend. The first act of my play was due in a few days for Professor Mitchell’s class: I needed my machine!

  I looked at my wristwatch: two o’clock. I had to be at the Showboat by five to learn how to operate the sound system.

  I banged on the door. “I need my typewriter!”

  I won’t repeat what her boyfriend said, since I prefer not to use foul language.

  Sighing, I rearranged my backpack on my right shoulder and headed down to the pool at Hec Ed.

  I didn’t usually swim two days in a row, preferring to jog every other day, but once I slipped into the cool water in one of the center lanes, I was glad to be there. It was a happy occasion to have a lane to myself. After readjusting the strap on my rubber swim cap, which I hated wearing but was a requirement to use the pool, I stretched out my arms and swam a modified version of the breaststroke.

  I glanced around to see if I recognized anybody, swimming with my head out of the water, to keep the chlorine out of my eyes and ears. Hitting the other end, I flipped onto my back and did the backstroke, exercising my arms in a different pattern. There’s something about water that washes away my frustrations: When I’m immersed, it’s as if the world outside the pool ceases to exist with its worrie
s and cares.

  I hummed a few bars from the musical, “South Pacific”: “I’m going to wash that man right out of my hair…”

  Gauging my distance by the markings in the ceiling, I reached out behind me, expecting to hit the concrete edge of the pool with the fingers of my right hand.

  I hit flesh instead.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going! You don’t own the pool!” a guy yelled in an unnaturally guttural voice.

  This was really embarrassing.

  I righted myself and spun around in the water.

  There was Ellis, standing in the pool at the end of my lane, grinning ear-to-ear.

  “Thought you were trying to avoid me the past week or so. But you found me.” His voice resumed its natural pitch. “Didn’t recognize you at first with your gorgeous red hair covered.”

  I was mortified. “Oh, it’s just a coincidence. I enjoy swimming.” Drat! I just let Ellis know that he could frequently find me at the pool in my pink bikini. I resisted looking downward to see what type of suit trunks he was wearing.

  “Other lanes are full, mind if I share yours?” His blonde curls were plastered against his forehead; apparently he’d already been swimming in another lane. It irritated me that men weren’t required to wear swim caps; I’ve always hated the caps because they’re so uncomfortable.

  But what was I to say? It’d be rude to ask him to jump out of my lane.

  I swung my arm toward the other end. “You first.” Even though there was room to swim two abreast, I didn’t want him watching my pink butt bob up and down in the water.

  “I could go first, if you’d prefer to be behind me,” Ellis said.

  The wet, dark blonde hair on his muscular torso was strangely erotic. I preferred men with no chest hair, didn’t I?

  I was embarrassed to realize I was blushing.

  I suddenly felt uncomfortable. Ellis was a nice enough guy, but he was obviously more interested in me than I was in him. I just didn’t have the guts to tell him straight out.

  Or, maybe, I just wasn’t ready to let the fish off the hook quite yet, just in case I couldn’t capture Gerald’s interest?

  I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t want to have to deal with my feelings at that moment when I just wanted to float in the water and relax.

  I grabbed the edge of the pool and leapt out of the water, keeping my legs together to appear as graceful as possible. When I turned around, I was surprised to note a large bruise marring his right shoulder blade.

  “You can have the lane,” I said, unsnapping the band and pulling the cap off. My hair flopped unattractively in wet chunky strands down to my shoulders. Fat great help the cap did me. “I’ve got to get going.” I was taking a chance that Ellis hadn’t noticed that I’d only recently slipped into the lane.

  “See you at the theater?” he called after me.

  I gave him a quick wave and walked back into the locker room.

  I found a book on the plays of Eugene O’Neill at the Odegaard Undergrad library, but with ninety minutes till I had to be at the Showboat, I decided to have an early dinner at the By George cafeteria on the main floor. I know it’s not the healthiest meal, but I bought a cheeseburger and fries and, sitting down at one of the small tables, popped open the book. I was surprised at how effusive and melodramatic the playwright’s language seemed and realized that my tastes had changed since I first discovered O’Neill’s plays in high school. I closed the book, staring aimlessly as I chewed my greasy burger and scratched absentmindedly at my collar. I wore a grey sweater that Grandma Caldwell gave me last Christmas that itched a bit, since it was real wool, but it had a pretty pink Scottish dog pattern woven into it; it was also warm and looked good on me.

  “What a coincidence,” Ellis said, plopping down on the opposite chair before I had a chance to protest. On his tray a large Sprite accompanied a hot dog liberally doused with relish and mustard. He wore blue jeans and a purple and gold U.W. sweatshirt, which nicely complimented his blonde hair.

  I sighed dramatically. Ellis was persistent. Maybe I should give him a chance? He hadn’t leered at me in the pool or touched me inappropriately at any time. He was just, well, very persistent.

  But that mustache! I’ve always found mustaches unattractive, appearing as if a guy shaved off his beard and missed the space above the upper lip.

  “Not much of a coincidence,” I replied without enthusiasm, dipping two fries into ketchup and shoving them into my mouth. “You’re an undergraduate, I’m an undergraduate, and this building’s library was designed for undergraduates.”

  “Well…” Ellis began, clearly trying to come up with a witty comeback but falling short. “I could’ve eaten at the HUB. It’s a lot closer to Hec Ed.”

  I was trying to focus on his eyes but the mustache wiggled up and down when he spoke. I felt superficial, rejecting a guy just because he had unpleasant facial hair. His eyes, though a bit small, were bright blue and sparkled with good humor.

  Maybe it was because I grew up in the hippie era. Heck, my parents were hippies. I wasn’t sure what my father, Edward Caldwell, really looked like till he finally shaved off his lion’s mane of hair and a beard when I was in high school. Before then, there were many times I got up in the middle of the night to use the restroom and thought my father was sleeping on the couch, only to find out at breakfast the next morning that it was one of his friends, similarly cloaked in facial hair and tie-dye clothing.

  I discovered that my father was actually a good-looking man when he finally had the courage to reveal his face to the public.

  Sometimes, when I was in a reflective mood, I wondered what face I was showing to the public. What face did I show to Ellis?

  “Guess I just got lucky,” I said lamely, not sure what else to say.

  “So why do you want to write plays?” he asked, biting into his hotdog.

  “Because I nearly flunked Calculus,” I said, deadpan, hiding my smile behind my cheeseburger.

  Ellis almost choked. He waved melodramatically and took a sip of his Sprite.

  “I wanted to be a veterinarian,” I continued. “Not because I love dogs, as much as wanting to please my father.”

  “Wouldn’t it please your father to be a playwright?” Ellis asked with genuine interest.

  “Not really. I keep wondering why, but he always discouraged me from the arts, which is why I never took Drama in high school. I took a full load of Math, Biology, Physics, you know…”

  “Oh, yeah, the more serious, practical classes,” Ellis emphasized in a spooky tone. “I heard it all from my mom and stepdad too. ‘You can’t make money acting,’” he added, mimicking his mother. “But I’ve always been a big ham.”

  I paused. Talking with Ellis felt natural and easy. “My dad was in his hippie stage, listening to Deep Purple and The Doors and stoning out, before I started school. We drove all over the Northwest in a spray painted van, Mom sitting in the front with Dad, while me and my little brother Hector played “Go Fish” and “Old Maid” for hours in the back. But Dad was really smart. He finally got an engineering job at Boeing and settled down.” The hair was the last to go, I thought to myself. “I suppose he just wanted his kids to have a more stable, secure lifestyle than he had in his youth so that he wouldn’t have to worry about us.” I sipped at my Coke, considering the old van, sitting in the backyard at Dad’s house, filled with tomato plants and lilies, one of his many recycling schemes.

  “I still can’t stand to play card games to this day. Seems like such a waste of time now.”

  “Not a waste. You got to spend time with your brother.” Ellis smiled. At least the guy always seemed to be in a pleasant mood. “My two brothers were much older than me. We never hung out together, except when they were forced to babysit. And now they’re both living across the country. We rarely speak.”

  He bit off a hunk of hotdog, swallowed, and changed the topic. I was glad because the conversation was getting a little too personal. Bright yellow mustard and rel
ish coated the bottom of his mustache. He seemed oblivious to the mess dripping down to his lips.

  “I was reading up on the Showboat Theater. Did you know it’s supposedly haunted by the ghost of Glenn Hughes who used to live in one of the lower level apartments?” Ellis said.

  He bit greedily into his hot dog twice more, chewing rapidly, and swallowing. Bob, bob, bob, up and down went the neon yellow mustache. “And did you know that actors Lillian Gish and Robert Culp performed there?”

  “Um, er…” I struggled with a roundabout way to ask him to wipe his mustache clean. I was really trying to focus on his personality and not on his unattractive facial hair, but it was difficult to ignore the neon yellow mustard. “Not to be rude, but could you please use your napkin?”

  He looked stunned then a little hurt when he wiped his napkin across his face. “Uh, yeah, sure.”

  I felt a pang of guilt. Did he think I was implying he was a slob or unattractive? In an attempt to ignore my confused feelings regarding Ellis, I grabbed my tray and book bag and leapt up from my chair. “My sweater’s itching me. I’d like to change clothes before the show tonight,” I announced and scurried off.

  I spent most of the afternoon ensconced at my desk in my dorm room. Usually I’d take a quick run after class when not swimming, but I was frantically working to complete my assignment for Professor Mitchell’s playwriting class due next Monday. It wasn’t easy to come up with a good plot for a one-act comedy, as I prefer to create longer plays. My heroine, Stephanie, had moved from Seattle to a small, backwoods town and was quickly drawing attention from the men who happily greeted the new arrival. Stephanie deftly skewered or adroitly encouraged a half dozen fellows with witty repartee, setting the town in a tizzy her first month.

  Easy for Stephanie.

  I pushed back my typewriter, contemplated my work, and shoved it into a purple folder. In a way, wasn’t I really Stephanie? It was my words on the paper, not hers.