Rodney

“Louder! They can’t hear us in the back row!” The Beast on the barrel was bellowing a premiere chant, so Rodney climbed up beside them and bellowed too, pink lanyard swinging, premiere pass flapping like a tiny flag.

The crowd along the Carpet, the long pink stretch where premieres begin, went quiet for half a breath. Someone whispered, “Up-Town.” Three Beasts straightened their collars. A camera swung round as if it had waited all evening.

Then Rodney spotted a Beast alone by the stage door, kneeling in a drift of little white cards.

“Need a hand?”

“I’m Coco Varga. I edit the Reel, the eight-minute film of the year. I just dropped the whole year.” Each card was a moment Coco had cut, labelled in tiny careful writing.

Rodney was already kneeling. “Rodney,” they said, passing one up.

“Rodney,” Coco repeated, and the name settled warm in Rodney’s chest, like a seat saved.

Behind them, the loud Beast hopped down and started gathering too.

Coco Varga held up a fresh stack of little white cards, one face per card, each name pencilled in tiny careful writing.

“Same as last night?”

“Every last one,” said Rodney.

Above the Carpet, the big screen woke. A face filled it, a Beast from a quiet neighbourhood out past the roads that had gone dark this week, the kind of place with nobody to say names back now the paths were cut. Rodney read the name aloud, clear as a bell. The crowd counted: “One!”

Next face. Next name. “Two!”

The popcorn seller stopped scooping to listen. A camera crept closer, then decided to just watch.

Somewhere around ninety, a voice from the back row called a name before Rodney could. Then another. By the last card the whole Carpet was saying them, and Coco filed each one under “keep.”