[38] TOURNELLE DU SOLEIL • BROOKLYN, HOTEL • May 29, BREAKFAST (Patreon)

My alarm is set for 7am. My body wakes me up at 6am. Groan. Perfect.

I slip into the clothes I laid out the night before. Carefully strap the knee brace on. Slide a pair of looser pants over top. Head for the door. I’ll enjoy a slow coffee before the day gets going.

The brass doors of the elevator slide open to the high-ceilinged, hip lobby. I was so distracted by my conversation with Matthew yesterday that I didn’t really notice the space. To the left, a massive mosaic tile installation rises up the wall behind the concierge desk and spills out over onto the ceiling. Abstract up close, at a distance you can make out the proportions of the Brooklyn bridge in deep greens, bruised purples, rich indigo. Huge windows along the street-facing wall of the lobby let the morning light spill over light hardwood floors. Low velvet chairs and couches in mint greens and dusty rose are scattered across the space in dense clusters, mixed in with large oval coworking tables. Some early risers are perched on stools at the long brass bar, sipping espresso drinks or tucking into flaky pastries.

I place an order for a horrifically overpriced cappuccino at the bar and scan the room for a spot to sit. I want to write in my journal a bit. I wander over to the coworking tables. A slim woman with a mane of curls I recognize as one of the Cirque creatives is tapping away at a laptop, coffee cup empty next to her.

“Do you mind if I join you?” What was her name? It was a two-name name. I’d met a lot of these folks at IHQ during the workshop week. And I’d kept track of what I could through the Notes app on my phone. This woman is a blank spot for the moment, though.

“Please.” She gestures to the open seats across from her.

I smile and settle in. She’s not an acrobatic designer. That’s Edesia. She’s not the director, that’s Mathieu. I don’t think she’s one of the coordinators…that Genevieve or Virginie. There wasn’t anyone else around yet for me to pick up any conversational cues. I’ll figure it out.

A waiter brings my coffee. I wrap my hands gladly around the warm, smooth ceramic, bring it close to my face and inhale. It smells heavenly.

“Have you worked with Cirque before?” she asks me.

“No, it’s my first time,” I say, smiling and taking a careful first sip. I can see a few of the other artists and Cirque folks trickling in from the elevators, heading for the bar to order their coffees. One of the trampwall artists. Tyler, the engineer who designed the Tower and is heading up the tech install in the venue later. A couple of the riggers.

Without missing a beat, she follows up with, “What other companies have you worked for?”

Hmm. Some kind of coordinator? Director for a different show?

“Ah– none,” I say, chuckling a little.

The tiniest frown creases her brow. “What school did you graduate from?”

“Ah, none, again.” I try not to squirm in my seat. “I’ve worked independently for the last few years. I started circus quite late and I’ve created a lot of my work through Canada Council for the Arts grant support. I’d be happy to show you my current project sometime later this week, if there’s an appropriate moment.”

“Hm. I see,” she says. Gulp.

My hand drifts to massage my injured knee absently.  Pivot. Pivot this god damn conversation. NOW.

I press on valiantly. “Very happy to be here,” I say. “I wish it had worked out with VACUUM but I’m excited with what we could put together with the plexiglas Tower all the same.”  

“Mm, yes.” She’s stopped glancing down at her computer screen now and has fixed me with a level, unreadable gaze. “That was unfortunate.”

I continue: “What are you working on this morning?”

A sigh. “Oh, something possibly in Scotland next year. Another event.”

“That’s cool. Does that mean that you get to go there?”

It’s Matthew’s first directing gig with the company. Maybe there’s multiple leads on this one? Or maybe she’s some kind of contact-point for the client?

“Yes.” Her face is largely impassive, hard to read. But she chuckles at this. “Quite a few times.”

“Lots of travel for you, then.”

“Yes. Part of the job.”

I take another sip of coffee. Okay, this is silly. Just be honest and ask her. “Sorry, I know you probably told me when we were in Montréal week before last–” (She hadn’t. I remember being just as confused about who she was at IHQ when she’d come over to one of my Tower rehearsals with Matthew) “–but could you remind me what your department is again?”

“I’m the head of Special Events.”

“Lovely!” I say, smiling angelically. Oh. Jesus.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she says. “I have to go to the venue ahead of you all. See you there.”

I wish her a good day and stare down at my coffee cup, brain torturing me with a tight loop of the start of our conversation. What companies have you worked for? What school did you go to?

Welp. On the one hand, I was honest. On the other hand, I feel like an absolute potato.

My anxiety ticks up a notch. Just in time to head to the venue for the start of rehearsals.

Time to go.

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Until then, stay strange and wonderful - XO, ess