"Of course," Naminé agreed easily. She could listen and sketch at the same time, and she was used to Valentine's frequent rants. "Daft, and thoroughly incompetent. One wonders how he was hired to be the director at all."
If there was the very slightest hint of teasing to her voice, Naminé was certainly unaware of where that might have come from.
"One does," Valentine insisted, nodding at a generous American who was more than happy to give him a few coins. Possibly just to shut him up. That would never really surprise Valentine, melodious though his voice might be. "He can't make up his mind about any single thing. The stage manager is the only one who can tolerate him, I think, and I have my suspicious as to how she got that job in the first place."
"She likely employed her feminine wiles," Naminé said, glancing up at Valentine from over her sketchpad. "Winked, and teased, and flirted. You know how we young ladies can be. The director incompetent, and the stage manager a cheap floozy: who else is unsuited for their position?"
"We have no props manager," Valentine continued. "He stormed off in a fit. The director wouldn't give him a props list. Or keep the script the same, for that matter. Even if he had gone through the script page-by-page to see what he needs to round up, it would be different again by this time tomorrow. The man's a lunatic, Naminé, plain and simple."
Clearly, if Valentine thought someone was insane, they would have to be good and batshit.
Naminé set her pencil down and wiggled her toes further into the sand.
"You know," she said, "an impartial observer might note that several of your bosses, co-workers, and fellow actors have been called everything from 'bloody incompetent' to 'thoroughly unqualified.' You seem to have singular luck, in your associates."
"But of course," he agreed, flashing a group of young tourists his most winning grin. If there was anything Valentine could do quite well indeed with his new face (or lack thereof), it was grin. "And you'd have to agree, if you knew what I dealt with day in and out. We had a group of tourists in just yesterday, at the restaurant. Three dozen, at least. And do you think anybody had the presence of mind to pull out the dessert menu until I passed by their tables?"
And a one-two-three, and catch, and turn, and bow.
"Of course not! It's dessert, Naminé. Nothing that goes on those tables in front of those people is more important than dessert."
And bow again. And start another routine.
"But that isn't my point! My point is, this director is absolutely bloody useless."
"If dessert is so essential, one wonders that the tourists did not think to ask for the menu," she said lightly. "I was merely suggesting that when you are surrounded by these incompetents, it's hard for the rest of us to know exactly where they rank on the scale of relative failure."
"Usually," Valentine noted, "at the bottom. In the worst way. This director, however, is on a scale of his own. They've made one up with him in mind. It's called 'the scale of positively imbecilic,' and he takes up every position on the scale, which goes from one to ten. Every position from about negative eleven to about three hundred and twenty two."
"Just out of curiosity," Naminé said, "and I don't mean to doubt your sincerity, but if you were currently upset about another individual, would that person have his or her own scale of failure? You see, this is the difficulty with using hyperbole. Had you merely said your co-workers were mildly frustrating, I might properly understand your current rage."
Valentine looked at Naminé somewhat dubiously for a moment, catching the balls that he was juggling and quirking his head to the side.
"Then perhaps I ought to put it this way. On a sanity scale which measures from one to ten, this particular man ranks a Jerry. Or perhaps fish. No, no, this man is too decisive for 'fish.' He ranks 'Jerry.' Or maybe donkey. Although I'm afraid the donkeys are dead..."
See, Valentine had absolutely been paying attention in... Spleen Carrot Fruit Loop Coconut class. Or whatever it had been.
"He's changed the script on us five times this month."
Valentine grunted and started to juggle once more.
Naminé was going to stare at Valentine for a few moments.
"You're joking," she said finally. "This month, as in November? Do you mean large, sweeping changes, or has he told you to remove that line of dialogue and someone else to enter earlier in scene four and that's what you would count as two changes?"
"I put three scripts into the bin just this week," Valentine informed her. "After putting two whole pages in at the start of the week. One actress left in tears. Her role had been completely written out. But it was alright. The next day, it had been written back in. With twice as many lines as before."
Caaaasually juggling.
"I miss Fandom Chicken, you know. Now that was art."
Naminé felt slightly ashamed of herself for assuming that Valentine was kvetching on petty grounds.
"The man's a lunatic," she said. "That's no way to run a play. That's chaos and madness. One can invite chaos into the creative process, now and then, but he's let it take over."
"Rehearsals are half done, and I'm not entirely certain what the name of the character I'm playing actually is, anymore. Last week, it was John. I think this week already, I've been George, Ringo, Paul, Peter, and, in some strange alternative gender-swapped version of the script that was supposed to be chic and dazzling, Mary."
Catch the balls. Bow again. Smile for the punters.
"I've half a mind to walk out, myself. But the show must go on, you know."
"Is this avant-garde?" she asked. "Is he giving some post-modern production on how the author is dead and the play is whatever he chooses for it to be? Or has he simply stopped taking his medications?"
Post-modernism wouldn't forgive him being a loony. It would just explain rather a lot.
"We haven't decided yet," Valentine mused. He decided to take a bit of a break from juggling in order to gather up his coins and pull his jacket on again. The beginning of November just so happened to be a bit on the nippy side, to be standing around outside, juggling without a coat.
... He missed his floppy coat, too.
"We've a betting pool, actually. The actors and the lighting designer and even our producer, who was, in fact, drunk when she agreed to fund this show, and now she's stuck for it. I'll have enough for groceries for half a month if it turns out the man is actually on the run from the local nuthouse, and is hiding amongst the theatrical sorts in the vain hope that nobody will notice."
If there was the very slightest hint of teasing to her voice, Naminé was certainly unaware of where that might have come from.
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Clearly, if Valentine thought someone was insane, they would have to be good and batshit.
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"You know," she said, "an impartial observer might note that several of your bosses, co-workers, and fellow actors have been called everything from 'bloody incompetent' to 'thoroughly unqualified.' You seem to have singular luck, in your associates."
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And a one-two-three, and catch, and turn, and bow.
"Of course not! It's dessert, Naminé. Nothing that goes on those tables in front of those people is more important than dessert."
And bow again. And start another routine.
"But that isn't my point! My point is, this director is absolutely bloody useless."
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She lifted her pencil again and began sketching.
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"Then perhaps I ought to put it this way. On a sanity scale which measures from one to ten, this particular man ranks a Jerry. Or perhaps fish. No, no, this man is too decisive for 'fish.' He ranks 'Jerry.' Or maybe donkey. Although I'm afraid the donkeys are dead..."
See, Valentine had absolutely been paying attention in... Spleen Carrot Fruit Loop Coconut class. Or whatever it had been.
"He's changed the script on us five times this month."
Valentine grunted and started to juggle once more.
"It's the sixth."
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"You're joking," she said finally. "This month, as in November? Do you mean large, sweeping changes, or has he told you to remove that line of dialogue and someone else to enter earlier in scene four and that's what you would count as two changes?"
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Caaaasually juggling.
"I miss Fandom Chicken, you know. Now that was art."
Reply
"The man's a lunatic," she said. "That's no way to run a play. That's chaos and madness. One can invite chaos into the creative process, now and then, but he's let it take over."
Reply
Catch the balls. Bow again. Smile for the punters.
"I've half a mind to walk out, myself. But the show must go on, you know."
Reply
Post-modernism wouldn't forgive him being a loony. It would just explain rather a lot.
Reply
... He missed his floppy coat, too.
"We've a betting pool, actually. The actors and the lighting designer and even our producer, who was, in fact, drunk when she agreed to fund this show, and now she's stuck for it. I'll have enough for groceries for half a month if it turns out the man is actually on the run from the local nuthouse, and is hiding amongst the theatrical sorts in the vain hope that nobody will notice."
Reply
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