We’ll Always Have Parrots

Chapter 7

“She’s ruining our convention,” the priestess said, through sobs and hiccups.

“Nonsense,” I said, in the brisk tone I’ve found effective with hysterical people.

“What will we do if she never comes out?” the priestess asked. “What’s a Porfiria convention without at least one appearance by Porfiria?”

A vast improvement, if you asked me.

“Don’t worry,” I said aloud. “You’ve got your special guest: the first convention ever to feature an appearance by Ichabod Dilley!”

“If he appears,” she said, her tears starting again. “He checked into the hotel, but he hasn’t gotten in touch with us yet, and he’s not in his room. What if we can’t find him in time for his panel?”

“I’m sure he’ll show,” I said. “What does he look like? I’ll keep an eye out for him. In fact, why not organize a task force to look for him?”

“We could if we knew what he looks like,” she said, sniffling. “But we’ve never even met him. One of our committee found him through the Internet, and he sent us an e-mail agreeing to come. He didn’t even send a photo for the program.”

“Then let’s all keep an eye out for someone who looks like an Ichabod Dilley,” I said. “I’m sure a name like that leaves a mark on its owner.”

With that, I left. As I turned the corner, I could see one of the junior Amazons steeling her nerves to knock on the QB’s door again. Good; as a drama queen, the priestess left much to be desired. She could use a little more exposure to the techniques of an expert like the QB.

I only got lost twice on my way to the Ruritanian Room. Apart from the predictable difficulties of trying to fence in a room filled with curious monkeys, the rehearsal went well. I wondered if Chris had picked me because I was the best woman fencer available or only because I was the tallest. Harry, the troupe’s other male cast member, was only five two, and half the sight gags in the skit drew on the eight-inch discrepancy in our height. But I did well enough that Chris talked me into rehearsing a second, more difficult show scheduled for Saturday night.

When we’d finished our rehearsal, Chris reminded us to meet him in the green room at eleven forty-five.

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“It’s not actually green,” Chris said. “That’s an old theater term for the room where the performers hang out while waiting to go on, and they keep snacks there and—”

“Chris, I live with an actor, remember?” I said. “I know what a green room is. I meant, what does the hotel call what we call the green room?”

Chris looked blank.

“The Baskerville Room,” Harry said. “Ask around enough and someone can show you where it is.”

Chris nodded and wandered off, looking anxious and distracted. We watched as he pulled out the cell phone for about the twentieth time.

“Wish Andrea would answer her damned phone,” Harry grumbled.

“They have a quarrel?” I asked.

“A stupid quarrel,” Harry said. “Like it’s Chris’s fault the QB fired Andrea.”

“Oops,” I said.

“Yeah.” Harry shook his head. “Only a lousy bit part as an Amazon guard, but Andrea hoped it would lead to better roles. But the QB wants bigger guards.”

“Bigger? Andrea’s my height.”

“Yeah, she’s tall enough, but not burly enough,” Harry said. “She wants guards who make her look petite and demure. I guess Andrea thinks Chris should quit his job in protest or something. But he can’t—the QB owns him.”

“Owns him?”

“Owns his contract,” Harry said. “Same thing. If he quits, she can keep him from working as a blademaster anywhere else for the term of the contract. So even if he wanted to quit, he can’t. Not if he wants to eat.”

“He can’t break the contract?” I asked.

“He could try,” Harry said. “Might work, but it would probably take as long as just waiting out the contract, and do you have any idea how much a good contract lawyer charges?”

We shook our heads in sympathy for Chris and went our separate ways. I headed for the dealers’ room to pull my weight for a while before the show.

On my way through the lobby, I ran across three musicians in scarlet jesters’ costumes, singing familiar songs with the words changed to Amblyopian references. I stopped to listen to their version of the theme song from the Beverly Hillbillies, which began, “Come listen to my story ’bout a wizard named Mephisto.” Unfortunately, before I could learn what they’d found to rhyme with Mephisto, the monkeys overhead drowned them out.

“Damn those things,” I muttered.

“What have you got against monkeys?” asked a nearby tree.

“Nothing,” I said, scanning the foliage for a face. It felt rude, addressing something without a face. “I just don’t think they belong in a hotel lobby.”

“I suppose you’re the one who called the health department,” the tree said, heaving itself up to reveal a pair of dirty white running shoes among its roots.

“No, it wasn’t me,” I said.

But the tree ignored me.

“Spoilsport,” it muttered, and lurched slowly down the hall toward the conference rooms, waving its branches as it went.

Health department? I surveyed the lobby and spotted a middle-aged man whose brown business suit stood out in this costumed crowd. Unlike the civilian I’d talked to in the ballroom, he didn’t seem particularly disturbed by the costumes, but evidently the monkeys and parrots alarmed him.

“Either they go or we’ll close you down,” he said, waving his hand at the ceiling, where a group of monkeys played tag while the nearby parrots practiced hooting and chattering like the monkeys. “I’ll be back in three hours.”

With that, he turned and marched out.

His audience stared after him—a man in a hotel uniform and the short Amazon who’d escorted Michael and me earlier.

“I’ll round up a crew if you will,” the Amazon said.

“It’s your people who caused this,” the hotel staffer replied.

“And it’s your restaurant and hotel the health department will close if we can’t recapture them all in time.”

I nodded with satisfaction. A monkeyless, parrotless hotel sounded excellent to me. Maybe when the health department man returned, I’d introduce him to Salome.

I left the musicians singing “Amblyopia, Here I Come!” and headed for the dealers’ room, though I got lost several times on the way.

I wandered into a room where several earnest-looking young people under the direction of a bearded professorial type were discussing the use of Jungian archetypes in the first season Porfiria scripts—as if Nate had any idea what a Jungian archetype was. A list of upcoming panels posted outside the room featured a comparison between the Iliad and season two of the show, and a debate on whether or not Porfiria was a feminist. A room to avoid unless I needed to hide from someone.

Next door, in a room marked “Fan Lounge,” fifty or so people sat in the dark watching a Porfiria episode on a medium-sized TV. Not an episode I remembered, which probably meant it was from season one. The sign outside confirmed that they were showing all the episodes, in order, throughout the weekend, interspersed with the blooper tape.

A slightly better place to hide. I wouldn’t mind watching the blooper tape, a collection of outtakes from the show. The clips of cheesy scenery falling down or cheap props coming apart in the actors’ hands got old rather quickly, but I loved watching how Michael could ad lib something funny when he or another actor blew a line. Also, the number of outtakes made necessary by Walker tripping, falling, or hitting himself with swords and other props still held a morbid fascination. How had the man survived three seasons of near-fatal klutziness?

On my third try, I found the side entrance to the dealers’ room. Things were so slow I wondered if the customers had as much trouble finding their way here as I had.

I spotted a familiar face. Michael stared back at me from a hundred mugs, T-shirts, posters, 8×10 glossy photos, and dolls. Officially, action figures, but they looked like dolls to me. Some only six inches tall and made entirely of molded plastic; others twelve inches tall with real fabric robes. Not a bad likeness of Michael, either, but I found it disconcerting to see my boyfriend turned into a Ken doll.

But not as disconcerting as the remarkable number of Michael clones gracing the convention. So far I’d seen teenaged Michaels and senior citizen Michaels; authentically tall and lean Michaels, and even more short and pudgy Michaels. I rather liked the Asian and African-American Michaels, along with the Michael who tooled around in an electric wheelchair. But the cumulative effect of seeing ersatz Michaels everywhere got on my nerves.

I would be glad to escape this madhouse, I was thinking, as I reached the booth and found Steele studying the convention program. And frowning. Was something wrong?