by Dolly Dennis
Some nights Loddy and Fury dined out at their favourite Hungarian restaurant, the Pam Pam on Stanley Street. Their best dates, however, were in old Montreal where they parked themselves at their usual seat by the fountain in Place Jacques Cartier, soaking in the area’s history, meandering along the cobblestone streets. Those evenings always ended with a night cap and jazz at a nearby club.
If Dewey was in town, they would include Ulu and make a foursome. Since his Gallery Den photo exhibition, Dewey’s photographs attracted both national and international attention and his assignments now took him overseas to work for magazines like Life and National Geographic. He still couldn’t enter the States and continued to keep in touch with his mother via letters or telephone. No word about Aaron, but Dewey accepted the idea he was dead, resting at the bottom of some swamp, or buried somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam. His mother still believed her youngest son would eventually materialize, return home as though he had just gone on a foreign camping trip with the Boy Scouts and decided to stay longer because he was having so much fun. Dewey humoured her as best he could.
Other nights Loddy and Fury strolled arm-in-arm along trendy Crescent Street, bumping into students from nearby Sir George Williams University or observing visitors to the city, Americans mostly, as they ate and drank their way through all the outdoor patios.
Or there would be a movie at the Loews, or a play at The Centaur. But the night wouldn’t be complete without a beer at the Swiss Hut where Fury would inevitably run into some of his students, past and present.
Most nights, however, Fury and Loddy preferred their own company, cuddled on the couch like two teenagers on a date. They would toast each other with a glass of his grandfather’s homemade wine and find each other again and again before they fell asleep, their arms in protective custody around each other.
SCENE 26:
The Sinking Ship
Montreal had tasted her first success with EXPO 67, and she liked it. Now she was pumped up again with ambition and wanted more. “Here’s my credit card,” she said and made a bid for the 1976 Olympics. Party first and worry later. Live in the moment, the city’s mantra.
The Garage Theatre Company, in the meantime, was not in a celebratory mood. Both Rita and Marvel had attempted to salvage its reputation as an alternative form of theatre. But the quality of the productions and performances had deteriorated to the point where audiences stayed away. One or one thousand, give it your all, no longer applied. What do you say to zero? Even Erica made excuses and parted company with Rita who filed their relationship under false friendship. “Darlink, you can’t count on anyone nowadays.”
Samuel disappeared for days at a time in a well of deep depression, drowning himself in pity and whiskey. The theatre owed money to the Athletic Club next door for rent and utilities, and a wage to its company of players. All the cheques bounced. If anyone had the chutzpah to complain, Marvel would again laugh in that haughty condescending how dare you tone while Samuel barked: “We gave you a start, trained you, put you on stage, and that’s the kind of thanks we get?”
“Yes, but I gave you my time, my talent and my belief in you,” Stanley said one day, confronting Samuel.
“Talent is one of many things you’re lacking, kid. Go work for your dad.”
“I’ll sue you.”
“Go ahead.”
Later the troupe had gathered at their favourite corner table in the back of Ben’s Deli and Stanley had presented his case like a politician seeking re-election.
“I’m taking Samuel and The Garage to small claims court.”
“Why bother? It’s what, $200 they owe you?” Percy said, as he clipped a cigar and chomped on it, regressing to his former habit.
“It’s the principle of the thing. How many times has he told us we’d get paid and then it never happens and everyone just complains and broods and does nothing? Well, I’m sick of all the lies and games. I’d rather he just say upfront: Look, we have no money. But this lying doesn’t work for me. And I’m sick of all of you always talking behind his back, complaining instead of doing something about it. At least I have some integrity.”
“If you don’t like it, Stanley,” Percy said, “maybe you should just take Samuel’s advice and go work for your dad on Chabanel.”
“Who’s with me?” Stanley asked. “Loddy?”
“No, like, I don’t have any complaints. You go ahead, like, save your integrity and do what you have to do.”
“Anyone?” Stanley fixed his attention on Aretha and Percy. They half heartedly raised their hands, never believing Stanley would follow through on his threat.
But he did and, when they were called before the judge as witnesses, things didn’t quite go as Stanley hoped.
“Did he promise his actors $100 a week?” The judge asked Percy, who looked tense and nervous and rattled the change in his pants pocket.
Samuel did business with a handshake; nothing was ever committed to paper. Signed contracts were not part of the deal. “A verbal agreement is just as legally binding,” he would snap at anyone who dared question him. “Trust me.”
“Unless, I misunderstood,” Percy said, clearing his throat, “I was led to believe we would get $100 a week.”
“Led to believe?” Stanley, jumping out of his seat, shouted at Percy. “You know there was no doubt. That’s what he had promised us.”
Stanley knew he couldn’t win if there was any doubt in the judge’s mind. When it was Aretha’s turn, she too lost her nerve.
“I’m not sure, sir, I mean, Your Honour.”
Samuel was the last one to face the judge.
“Your Honour, there are some missing facts here. I told them they would get $100 a week if, and that’s the operative word here, if the Garage Theatre Company showed a profit. I can prove to you, Your Honour, that hasn’t been the case.”
Samuel unlocked his briefcase and handed the judge several legal-sized folders.
“As you can see, Your Honour, The Garage has been breaking even or operating at a net loss for the last two years and, therefore, could not afford to pay anyone.”
That was it. Stanley knew he had lost. “I was led to believe ...,” he repeated as he left the courthouse. “How definite is that?” He scowled at Percy. “Chicken shit!”
Samuel, in the meantime, pulled up his sagging trousers and strutted down the halls of justice as though he had just won the world wrestling match and was about to receive his golden buckle.
Stanley was banned from The Garage Theatre and no one defended him. Not even Loddy. That’s showbiz.
“I’m disappointed in you,” Stanley had said to her as they left the courthouse. “I thought you had some integrity.”
xxx
The Garage Theatre, a sinking ship, Fury sketched a caricature of a patched up wooden tug boat with The Garage building as its mast, tilting to one side, descending, inch-by-inch into the ocean. A white flag of defeat with the words Hare Krishna flew from the rooftop, and the caption read: Knock wood before it goes under. Shark fins surrounded the doomed vessel with the dialogue bubble above their jaws: Now Remember Kiddies. One or One thousand, Give It Your All.
But Marvel, Samuel, and Rita had other plans for the doomed theatre. The trio summoned the entire company to a meeting. Even Jacob and Conrad received an invitation. Dewey, who happened to be in town that week, appeared out of courtesy, if not curiosity. Loddy requested Fury to accompany her or else she threatened not to show up.
“This better be good,” Ulu said, sighing with the world-weariness of someone who had better things to do than revisit her past.
“What’s this all about, Rita?” Dewey asked as they waited for Marvel and Samuel to arrive. “You shutting her down?”
“Can’t say, Dewey, darlink, until Marvel and Samuel get here. Wonder what’s keeping them.”
Rita, legs crossed, sat on the lip of the stage and filed
her nails, the emery board taking on the life of a violin bow as she intermittently hummed the alphabet to relieve the tedium. Loddy occupied herself with her transistor, changing the stations back and forth, until she hit on the Beatles singing The Long and Winding Road from their just released Let It Be album.
“They are such an amazing band.”
“Yeah, Dewey, but I hear they’re breaking up,” Jacob said.
“Like, no way!”
“Hear it’s their last album,” Ulu said.
“Everyone is blaming Yoko but I saw her, like, at the bed-in at the Queen E and she seemed very much in tune with John.”
“Or maybe things just change,” Fury said. “Change can be good.”
Rita snapped her fingers.
“Loddy, that reminds me, darlink. I have something that came in the mail here for you.” She slithered off the stage like a snake onto the cement floor, her knit dress riding high above her cellulite thighs. She walked in that brisk manner typical of older women with short legs who wear high heels and are in a hurry. Unbeknown to her, a loose stitch from her purple sheath had latched onto a protruding nail from the edge of the stage and the hem was coming undone. With each movement of her legs, the yarn unravelled further and further. She headed to the box office in a tangle of wool and absentmindedness; her thoughts on the whereabouts of Marvel and Samuel. She reappeared with an envelope. Everyone saw, but let the scene play out — and then all convulsed into laughter.
“What is the matter with everyone?”
Ulu pointed to the thread of wool hanging like a clothesline in the wind, Rita’s dress now rising higher with every slip of a stitch.
“Oh, my! Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“We just did,” Ulu said, trying to stifle a laugh.
Rita jerked the yarn free from the nail and, started to roll up the wool into a ball.
“Darlinks, I’m going upstairs to change. I’ll be right back.” She stopped. “Oh, before I forget, this is for you.” She tossed Loddy an envelope that carried the scent of a beauty salon. “And please, turn that noise off. I’m getting a migraine.” She tripped up the steps to her dressing room, one hand messaging her creased forehead, the other carrying the rolled-up yarn.
“Who would send me mail here?” Loddy said, looking at the envelope. “Vegas! Bet I know who this is from.” She ripped open the seal, and grains of sand spilled onto the floor. “What the heck? Oh, isn’t she cute.” Loddy fingered the remaining grit in the envelope. “It’s from Miss-Ile,” she said. “Remember her? And she sent a photo. Look at this.”
They all gathered around Loddy to examine a coloured glossy that was Vegas personified.
Miss-Ile posed centre in a chorus line of five showgirls, flesh uncovered from the waist up, a minimalist sparkle of tasselled pasties covered the nipples. A human chain of arms linked over each other’s shoulders as though they were about to perform the Can Can on the count of four. A mask of pancake makeup obliterated all facial lines, giving the girls identical expressions as though they were quintets. Their rhinestone head dresses balanced precariously, forcing them to keep their posture tall and erect, reminiscent of African women transporting vessels of water. The showgirls camped for the camera in seductive cheesy smiles, mouths in a wide ah, upper lips quivering over pink gums and flawlessly bleached teeth, made even more pronounced in their whiteness by the glossy ruby lips.
“Looks like she had her operation,” Percy said.
“Let me see.” Danny snatched the photo, peered at it as though he were memorizing a poem, then flipped it around and read on the back: “Aren’t they gorgeous? Keep well, Loddy. Love to all from your Evening Star. Enjoy the sand. Miss-Ile.”
“Give it here, Danny,” Loddy said. She re-examined the photo. “She is gorgeous. Not fair that a guy can look that good.”
“Hey, love, you’re gorgeous and don’t forget that.” Fury took her hand as though he had just asked her to dance and escorted her back to the seat beside him. Janis Joplin was singing Summertime so Loddy turned up the volume, evoking their summer weekend by the lake.
“We going to St. Emile this summer, Fury, you think?”
“Don’t see why not, love. I’ll talk to my parents’ friends and see if we can arrange something again.”
“That would be, like, so perfect.”
Just as Janis hit the last bluesy note and Dewey rose to leave, Marvel and Samuel slipped through the door, carrying a tray of coffees for everyone. Both had the look of insomniacs on speed, puffy eyes, and sour faces, nervous with anxiety. Samuel’s stained white shirt and torn jeans had the wrinkled appearance of having been rescued from the laundry hamper that morning. Marvel, sans makeup, came across as plain and homely, freckled nose, baggy eyes camouflaged behind huge owl-shaped sunglasses.
“Loddy, turn off that music,” Samuel said, voice booming like a gravel truck.
Both took their familiar spots on the proscenium. Samuel’s legs dangled over the edge taking on a life of their own, while Marvel’s were crossed at the knee accentuating the sharp curves of her dancer’s calves.
“All right, kiddies,” Samuel said. “Here’s the deal. You know I’ve been trying to keep this ship afloat, but it’s not happening.”
Samuel gulped down the rest of his coffee, scrunched the paper cup with one hand and tossed it towards the stand-up ash tray but missed.
“Hey,” Percy said, “what about Small Craft Warnings? Weren’t we going to do that next? That would have been a sell out.”
“Well, Percy, it’s like this.” Samuel rubbed his thumb and forefinger together denoting money. “Too expensive for the rights and I’m tired of producing idiotic Canadian plays written by idiotic housewives who have nothing better to do than pretend they’re Lillian Hellman.”
“Evening Star was a success,” Loddy said.
“That was a fluke.”
“Oh, I don’t know. People loved David. Too bad he couldn’t stay on. And, hey, look at him now.”
Loddy passed the Vegas photo to Samuel who shook his head while Marvel laughed in her pretentious way.
“Okay, kiddies,” Samuel said, handing back the photo to Loddy. “After too many sleepless nights debating and discussing, Marvel, Rita and I have decided that The Garage Theatre Company needs a makeover, a totally new look, a new identity.”
“Sounds exciting,” Percy said with a slight sneer to his voice. “Renovating?”
“How does The Garage Coffee House sound?”
“A coffee house?”
Everyone was stunned.
“Same name?” Ulu said, definitely not amused she had to drag herself all the way from the Y to listen to this drivel. “What’s the point?”
“I love it just the way it is,” Loddy said, trying to hide her disappointment.
But Samuel disregarded all comments and carried on like a speed demon, fluttering fingers searching for a cigarette, a lighter, shuffling, coughing, and Marvel, unruffled, stoic, reaching over with a lighted joint, a calming effect.
“It’ll be painful, I know. We’re ripping up its guts. Starting over. The seats here will all go and be replaced by small intimate bistro tables and chairs. We’ll enlarge the kitchen upstairs, add more tables, but the stage stays.”
“We’ll, of course, continue showcasing talent along with a light meal, darlinks,” Rita said. “Sandwiches, pastries and beverages. But we’re looking for ... for professional entertainment and, of course, there will be a cover charge.”
“Something like the lunch hour theatre at Place Ville Marie,” Dewey suggested.
“More than that,” Samuel said excitedly. “We’ll be open for lunch and dinner and in-between. I’m looking to book talent like Dylan, Penny Lang, Eric Andersen, Sonny Terry and Brownie McGhee. But we’ll also showcase local talent. It’ll be a first.”
“You’re not serious, Samuel,
” Dewey said. “What does the Athletic Club say to that?”
“They’re giving us until the end of the year to make it work. They don’t care as long as they get their money. That’s always been the bottom line.”
“It’s going to be so exciting, darlinks.” Rita said, hardly able to contain herself.
“What about us, Samuel?” Aretha asked. “What happens to us?”
“If you kids have something, then I’m approachable. Oh, and Jacob, I need to talk to you too.”
There it was. The Garage Theatre Company had sunk, swallowed into an abyss of ocean, and resurfaced, rising like a wet phoenix to become something else. Marvel added that the renovations would begin in a few days, and everyone departed to separate corners of their lives except Jacob who lingered behind with Rita, Samuel and Marvel.
SCENE 27:
Marcel and The Swiss Hut
Ulu, Dewey, Fury and Loddy walked along Sherbrooke Street, trying to make sense of Samuel’s announcement when one of those Montreal spring showers struck and sent everyone into a nearby bus shelter. A truck rumbled by and drenched them with a backwash of slush.
“Shit! You blind or something? Asshole!” Ulu shrieked at the driver, but the vehicle had already swerved onto Peel. “Look at this. My new coat and it’s a mess now.” She daubed at the splotches, which left smears of dirt at the hemline. “Pure virgin wool. It’ll cost me a fortune to get it cleaned.”
As quickly as it had begun, the downpour ended. The four decided to walk the few blocks to the Swiss Hut, their shoes sloshing through neglected depressions in the sidewalks, now flooded with rainwater.
“The city is going to hell,” Dewey said. “You’d think Drapeau would at least fix the holes in the roads and sidewalks first before coming up with another grandiose idea like the Olympics. Look at this one. A kid could drown in one of these.” Dewey used his foot like a broom to sweep water from a cavity the size of a baby’s plastic swimming pool.
“It doesn’t matter,” Ulu said. “It’s all about image anyway. So what if everything caves in and goes to hell later. As long as it looks good going down.”