Our Pops died at sea when we were kids. Andrew was only four, but I was eight - mind you, that didn't make me more equipped to deal with him being gone but by eight most kids realise this ride ends at some point, though I can't say the same for Andrew he seems to think this all goes on for eternity and that he's got another thousand years to make a good life. He still doesn't get it.
Pops died and the family disbanded. Ma found herself a new man, which all these years later I haven't the heart to blame her for. We all like a warm body to come home to, someone to come home to, even if he don't really love them, it's someone who we know is thinking of us. I don't think it was until I had the same kind of deal happen to me that I understood why she did that. I hated her and I hate Dick (what an apt name I counter, still...) for pretending to be our Da. He wasn't ever going to be. Our Da was a man's man. He knew what it meant to work hard, to sweat. Dick was genteel, too clean, too pretty in all those f*cking designer suits. Part of the appeal for Ma. I know what it's like to be cold and missing sex and sometimes a pretty face is too much gold to pass up. But this isn't about me and my dick or my Mother's pretty Dick in his designer suits. This is about Andrew.
Grief did the crazy dance on his head. I've always said that that was what did it. Da died, Mum was hardly home, Dick was a dick and there was us, just us, playing with toy cars until we realised Ma wasn't going to come back that night and was probably staying at her Dick's place, and we'd make toast and go to bed. Between the abandonment and the death and the sense of displacement my brother started losing touch with what mattered. He started using. Then he started using people. Including me. Then Ma sits us down with this queer glittering thing going on in her eyes and tells us she has some big news. That our Pop's old theatre was being demolished unless we could convert it. It'd been in the will but Ma had neglected to do anything with it, because her Dick had informed her it wasn't worthwhile. The location wasn't viable and it'd be a lot of money poured into an uncertain return if she did commit any dough.
Andrew was at his best when the Orpheum was coming together. We pooled our resources. He made an excellent laborer. He was bright in the eyes. He worked all hours. We both did. We did it. We made our Dad's old dream into a reality. But it all went down hill pretty quickly. But you know, even though things went bad, for a respledant moment in time, we were staring at the same point, the same direction, and it was something else..
Ma was happy for the first year of the theatre being up, she got a hand into the funds and Dick was too, for that first season, even though he was pouring some more coin in. But he also took his cut from Ma, and Andrew and I never forgave him for it. The first year was a blazing success. We had all sorts of local bands booking in months in advance. We had crowds spilling onto the streets. West End was the place to be on a Friday night, and we were where you put your money. But like all things that demand attention, some of that attention ain't good. That's when the Circus walked into our lives. I knew it was bad straight from the get go. They were a queer lot. I didn't like it none. But Andrew welcomed them like brothers. I don't get what kind of voodoo they had on him, but it wasn't my brother anymore. They saw he was a little wild. That something was out of place in his head. Soon enough they were insinuating themselves into every facet of the business. I was distracted by a girl and the money the Docks were giving me. My fault. I let it happen. I thought Andrew would be savvy in my absences, I'd come to rely on him. I didn't really assume he'd gone all the way. I never anticipated the nightmare. I never saw that coming. I never saw Andy's decline for what it was because I thought most of him had changed. By April of the following year our theatre was theirs - a teeming carnie wonderland, month my month, worse by worse. But the crowds kept coming. The money kept coming. I couldn't question it. I hate myself for it. But Andy and I were one in the same. We had grown up poor and didn't want to ever go back to a day when we'd be eating toast for dinner and stuck in some sh*thole. So we let them make changes. We let them make decisions. We let them talk us into a corner.
Ma and Dick said fresh blood was good for business. They had no idea how pertinent that line would come to be.
Pops died and the family disbanded. Ma found herself a new man, which all these years later I haven't the heart to blame her for. We all like a warm body to come home to, someone to come home to, even if he don't really love them, it's someone who we know is thinking of us. I don't think it was until I had the same kind of deal happen to me that I understood why she did that. I hated her and I hate Dick (what an apt name I counter, still...) for pretending to be our Da. He wasn't ever going to be. Our Da was a man's man. He knew what it meant to work hard, to sweat. Dick was genteel, too clean, too pretty in all those f*cking designer suits. Part of the appeal for Ma. I know what it's like to be cold and missing sex and sometimes a pretty face is too much gold to pass up. But this isn't about me and my dick or my Mother's pretty Dick in his designer suits. This is about Andrew.
Grief did the crazy dance on his head. I've always said that that was what did it. Da died, Mum was hardly home, Dick was a dick and there was us, just us, playing with toy cars until we realised Ma wasn't going to come back that night and was probably staying at her Dick's place, and we'd make toast and go to bed. Between the abandonment and the death and the sense of displacement my brother started losing touch with what mattered. He started using. Then he started using people. Including me. Then Ma sits us down with this queer glittering thing going on in her eyes and tells us she has some big news. That our Pop's old theatre was being demolished unless we could convert it. It'd been in the will but Ma had neglected to do anything with it, because her Dick had informed her it wasn't worthwhile. The location wasn't viable and it'd be a lot of money poured into an uncertain return if she did commit any dough.
Andrew was at his best when the Orpheum was coming together. We pooled our resources. He made an excellent laborer. He was bright in the eyes. He worked all hours. We both did. We did it. We made our Dad's old dream into a reality. But it all went down hill pretty quickly. But you know, even though things went bad, for a respledant moment in time, we were staring at the same point, the same direction, and it was something else..
Ma was happy for the first year of the theatre being up, she got a hand into the funds and Dick was too, for that first season, even though he was pouring some more coin in. But he also took his cut from Ma, and Andrew and I never forgave him for it. The first year was a blazing success. We had all sorts of local bands booking in months in advance. We had crowds spilling onto the streets. West End was the place to be on a Friday night, and we were where you put your money. But like all things that demand attention, some of that attention ain't good. That's when the Circus walked into our lives. I knew it was bad straight from the get go. They were a queer lot. I didn't like it none. But Andrew welcomed them like brothers. I don't get what kind of voodoo they had on him, but it wasn't my brother anymore. They saw he was a little wild. That something was out of place in his head. Soon enough they were insinuating themselves into every facet of the business. I was distracted by a girl and the money the Docks were giving me. My fault. I let it happen. I thought Andrew would be savvy in my absences, I'd come to rely on him. I didn't really assume he'd gone all the way. I never anticipated the nightmare. I never saw that coming. I never saw Andy's decline for what it was because I thought most of him had changed. By April of the following year our theatre was theirs - a teeming carnie wonderland, month my month, worse by worse. But the crowds kept coming. The money kept coming. I couldn't question it. I hate myself for it. But Andy and I were one in the same. We had grown up poor and didn't want to ever go back to a day when we'd be eating toast for dinner and stuck in some sh*thole. So we let them make changes. We let them make decisions. We let them talk us into a corner.
Ma and Dick said fresh blood was good for business. They had no idea how pertinent that line would come to be.