Soon I was directed to the kitchen, which was slightly better lit. I was met by the scene of my father, the jester, making punch while regaling a rapt audience about an accident he had last winter, slipping on ice outside our house. He had made a complete fool of himself and was rushed to the hospital with a bruised coccyx, but he was such the master storyteller that everyone was laughing along with him, rather than at him. Finally his eyes settled on me. He made a show of slowly looking me up and down, his eyes glittering, behind the sad face mask. He ducked into the pantry, fumbled about, then leapt out, hands out in a 'ta-da' kinda way, his mask now the smiling one. People clapped, and so did I, although lightly (I was meant to be my mother). He danced his way over to me and hugged me. "I thought you weren't going to make it!" he said. "I said I would, didn't I?" I replied, keeping my voice deliberately husky. Hopefully he would think I was trying to keep in character. "Indeed you. He figured he couldhide out there for at least a few hours, and then walk home after the rainsdied down. It was not unusual for this particular theatre to have off hourscreenings of films when the international big shots would come into town andthrow a few million here and there for the sole purpose of boosting their ownegos.Sam was often called to be a graveyard technician for these midnightexcursions as others in the biz would have likely quit for similar wages. Assam looked out the window of the uppercase film studio and looked into thesecondary compartment he could see people filing out of the theatre as thecredits were rolling. While Sam was tying back his hair with a red ribbon ofsorts, Tim - the current film technician came out of the bathroom zipping uphis pants and looked from the ground up at Sam. " Sam.. you look like hell."It was about as courteous as Tim had ever been, Timothy didn't like the ideaof Sam getting payed under the table for tax exemption for a job he was.
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