Chapter Text
Roach
I’m deposited at the kitchens by Lucius, who darts off, waving a clipboard about. “Gotta go.” He cries. “New guests in soon. Talk later.”
I’m still a little stunned by my previous realisation that I take a moment to examine my surroundings. The kitchen is industrial but small. Everything is neatly labelled. I wander over to a shelf of spices, taller than me.
“Hey.” I’m interrupted by a man behind me, who has a chef’s cap pressed in tightly over his curls. He doesn’t seem annoyed - just curious. “What are you doing in here?”
Roach is a good sort. He shows me around the kitchen, points out equipment I’ve never even seen before, and even shows me the elaborate orange cake nearly finished decorating.
“Forty oranges.” He says, proudly. “It’ll be the most orangey thing you’ve ever tasted.”
“Really?”
“Nah. Not forty. But lots. Captain’s real into oranges. Says it’s historically accurate or something. I personally just think he likes the taste. Are you going to say that in your article?”
I promise him I won’t.
[EDITOR: well you obviously can’t use this.]
[RAMONA: I just wanted to give you context, babe.]
Roach hasn’t always been a chef. In fact, it’s come to him quite recently. “I was actually training to be a doctor.”
He seems to note my incredulous look.
“Yeah. I gave up four years at medical school to get into hospo. My parents nearly killed me. I like this much better, though.”
His medical training does come in handy - he tells me. “We’ve had a few issues.” He shrugs. “Even in only three months worth of business. Had to resuscitate an old guy once.”
Oh, so he’s a hero.
He shrugs again. “Nah. Just doing my job. You’d do the same.”
And now he bakes cakes for a living. It’s quite the change. “I bake cakes and I act for a living. It’s a whole different world.”
I ask him about the cooking, about the rest of the meals on the restaurant’s quite extensive menu. He taps the side of his nose and winks. “Most of them come from the freezer. Anything else - it’s catered. People don’t come here for the food. It’s about the experience.”
[EDITOR: u sure u really want to tell people that the restaurant theyre going to doesnt cook from scratch?]
[RAMONA: Most restaurants don’t cook from scratch. He was right anyway. This place - it’s not about the food.]
I snag some chips from a communal side platter and usher myself onwards as Roach’s headset buzzes. “Kid’s birthday party.” He whispers, “They need their cake.”
High-fiving him, I wander out into the corridor. Several catering staff rush past, in uniforms from a company I don’t recognise. Makes sense, really.
Jim, Oluwande & Black Pete
Up two staircases and around a corner takes me to a door marked Rehearsal Room. It’s quite the space, this. Whoever bought the place - who’ve the mysterious ‘Blackbeard’ is - and I think I have an inkling of an idea by this point - must be loaded. I’ve spent my time at Circa, done my part at other theatre venues in town, and most of them don’t exactly have permanent rehearsal space.
I’m jealous, actually, but then again, I do think Blackbeard’s does deserve it.
I knock on the door before entering. Although I apparently have the run of the place, it is better to be polite, after all.
The door is opened by the same balding man I saw on the stage earlier. He’s dripping with sweat, towel flung around his neck, with half a face of stage makeup on. Lucius’s boyfriend… uh- Pete, something? “You’re the reporter, yeah?”
I explain who I am and who I’m working for. He doesn’t seem all that interested but lets me in anyway.
In the corner, two people are sparring, using fake knives and pulling their punches, like they’re on stage. I vaguely recognise the shorter and slighter one from the deck of the ship, though their black wig is nowhere to be seen, replaced instead with a bright blue pixie cut that I absolutely love.
“There is a reporter.” Pete announces, sort of to the room at large. “Talk to her so I don’t have to.”
He slumps off towards a side dressing room, rubbing his towel over his face and head.
The couple sparring put their weapons down and join me on the other side of the room where there’s a series of seats laid out. I introduce myself, explain the situation, explain why I’m here.
“Jim.” The blue-haired person says. They don’t seem especially pleased to see me, though a lot of people in this place probably aren’t, which is honestly fair enough.
“Olu.” The man is broader, and British, a faint sheen of sweat glistening across his brown skin. His wide grin is generous and charming. “I suppose you’ve seen the whole place now, have you?”
“Most of it.” And what a place it is! I’m beginning to understand the charm of Blackbeard’s - and why it’s become so popular so fast. This place, part theatre, part restaurant, and all adventure, has its charm. “What are your roles here? I saw you on stage earlier, Jim. Incredible stuff.”
“Gracias.” Jim says. “I am the fight captain. Most of the fighting I created.”
No way. That’s genuinely super impressive. I tell them as much. “I did some training for some plays last year, but your work? It looks real.”
Jim shrugs. “It’s nothing.”
“They’re so modest it’s terrifying.” Olu says. “Jim choreos, incredibly. I try to dumb it down enough for those of us who aren’t trained in gymnastics and also have back problems. We make a good pair.”
“Both of your work then. It’s very impressive. Really adds to the whole world of the thing. Why do you reckon that Blackbeard’s has become the hit that it has?”
Jim starts stretching out on the mat-covered floor as we talk. They’re incredibly lithe and flexible, and I suddenly understand how they managed to perform the fights that they did.
Olu looks over at them with a fond smile, one that probably says a little more than he thinks it does, and answers my question. “It’s about escapism, isn’t it? Taking a leap into the unknown. Our shows are mostly improv, and anything could happen. Someone might gain the strength to stand up from the table and fight off some pirates, or propose to the one they love after a battle. It’s a chance to ignore the real world for a while.”
Jim snorts. They roll over and stand up. “Or we just look cool.”
Olu laughs. “That too.”
“Come on, then, reporter.” Jim offers me a hand, and I take it. “Show me what you can do.”
For the first time during this entire media tour, I’m terrified.
It’s been a while since I’ve used prop swords, but the stance and the tricks come back to me as easy as breathing. I’m not good, and I know Jim is holding back, but I manage a few parries and a couple of moments of grappling before I’m pinned back against the mats, panting.
Jim stands over me, sword at my throat. “You could have been worse.” They say, but there’s a tiny hint of warmth under all that, and honestly, I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me that was feeling things from the moment.
[EDITOR: oh so ur big surprise was that ur leaving me for a non-binary pirate actor.]
[RAMONA: Absolutely not, Jess! It was just the moment. Escapism, you know? Like Olu said.]
[EDITOR: sure]
“You’re a good teacher.”
It’s then that the door slams open and a bearded man - short, headsetted, officious - bursts in.
“Ramona Ross?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Good. Captains’ want to see you.”
I barely get to thank Olu and Jim before I’m hustled out of the room, still panting, and much sweatier in my blouse than I had been before I entered.
Izzy
The man I’m walking with definitely doesn’t have time to talk to me. He barks directions into his headset, listing off items seemingly from memory.
“What do you mean Bidfood is here now, Roach? They’re two hours early.” Then, “No, you’ll just have to find someone to help unpack the stock.”
There’s clearly a lot on his mind, but he leads me through the building, never pausing, never losing track of his steps. I hurry on along behind him.
“You’re- who are you?” I huff.
“Israel Hands.” He grunts, and then goes back to his comm, checking his watch. “Five to beginners, Frenchie. For fuck’s sake make sure you’ve pinned your hat on.”
Beginners? He must… run both the production side and the stage side of things? One role is a job, two roles is something akin to hell. “You’re the-”
“Producer.” He’s scrolling through someone on his phone while he’s talking and walking, checking a tiny detail in an image. “Don’t usually need a stage manager but tonight…” He sighs.
The man doesn’t seem angry, really, just exhausted. It’s understandable. He’s doing the work of two, maybe three people. I don’t really know how he managed to keep it all straight in his head.
“The Captains are in there.” He points at a door marked ‘Dressing Room Three’. Someone’s stuck a series of paintings on it, mostly of tentacles, as well as a series of sort of… fabric flags.
Izzy knocks me on my elbow as he turns to leave. “Audiences like seeing us connect in this place.” He says, and seems so out of character that it nearly blindsides me. “It’s about the people. The family. That’s why our guests like it.”
He disappears without another word as I stand, staring at the door, wondering if I should knock first.
Stede & Ed
I was never close with most of my family. We didn’t get on that well. It was civil, but ambivalent. None of them ever read my work so they’ll never see this, and I’m sure they also all feel the same. We have big Christmases, but they’re mostly all big business folk, all white-picked fence heteronormativity, and I’m… also there. The professional writer with her wife.
I had this uncle, though. Funny, creative, insanely good at his work. He painted sometimes, but also did comedy, performed on stage, grew weed near-professionally in his back garden, was a bright spark amongst all the stale wealth.
Then he disappeared. Just before my 21st birthday. It was a shame cause I reckon he would have definitely done a yardie with me if I’d asked. I thought he’d died.
The rest of my family didn’t really seem to mind all that much.
I knock on the door.
And after a moment my uncle answers.
[EDITOR: sincerely what the fuck.]
[RAMONA: I know. ]
He’s older, obviously, and more greying. The long beard he had been wearing on the deck is gone, and he’s smooth-shaven underneath, but his eyes are the same and his face is the same and truly, honestly, - what the fuck.
“Been a while, mate.” He grunts, and pulls me in for a hug that I’ve been waiting for for nearly ten years.
Fuck.
I subtly brush back the tear or two that springs to my eyes and look over his shoulder at the room. It’s carefully controlled chaos, fine fabrics and a… ginger man that I’m nearly certain I’ve seen at a couple of Actors Equity meetings in the past.
Ed pats me on the back roughly and then pulls back, looking me over for a second. “You’re married?”
“Sure am.”
“To a woman?”
I mean- I hadn’t even told him- but of course he’d guessed, when the rest of my family hadn’t. “Yeah.”
“Sick.” He fistbumps me. “This is my- husband’s a bit… casual, isn’t it?”
“Co-captain?” I suggest.
“The only person who knows how to make his tea so he’ll actually drink it.” The ginger says, and offers me his hand. “Stede Bonnet.”
I take it. He has nicely manicured nails, and the ring he’s wearing is one unbroken tentacle, wrapped about his finger. “That your real name?”
“About as real as Ed Teach is.” Stede says, with a wry smile. “So. What did you think of our place?”
I still have so many questions. I don’t know how Blackbeard’s is funded. I don’t know how they do their training, or how so many people have so many roles, or how none of them have burned out yet. I have no idea how long the place will last, and if it will poach roles from the rest of Pōneke’s acting scene.
All I know is this:
Blackbeard’s is warm. It’s well-formed and carefully detailed, like time and effort has been put into every little nook and cranny. From the wooden planks of the stage to the rehearsal room full of crash mats - there’s care in it.
It’s a place that feels welcoming, like anyone could walk the halls and discover new things about themselves and their history. Like Oluwande said, it’s about escapism and new possibilities - coming to Blackbeard’s is like taking a step back into a world lost in time; except with twenty-first century ideals - where picking up a sword is as easy as breathing.
Most of all, it feels like a family, and I suppose that’s because it’s built on one.
That, I think, is what matters most.
You too can visit Blackbeard’s, open 3pm-midnight, Tues-Thurs and 5pm-3am, Fri-Sat. Cnr Cuba St & Cable St. Prices vary.
[EDITOR: the Blackbeard is ur uncle?]
[RAMONA: I truly, honestly, thought he had died. I cried way more than I said in the article, Jess, Stede had to lend me a handkerchief.]
[EDITOR: u know his real name tho. blackbeard’s]
[RAMONA: Yeah, and I’ll tell no-one. Sometimes I wish I could step away from my real life and
become a whole new person. They deserve their privacy.]
[EDITOR: uve gotta take me to this place ram i wanna meet your uncle]
[RAMONA: He’s way more fierce on stage. Total pussycat off.]
[EDITOR: still]
[RAMONA: Yeah, next week.]
[EDITOR: its a date <3]