by G L Rockey
Finished serving the drink to the female, Carl said to Seth “Whataya drinking?”
“I'm okay.”
“You don't have a drink. You're not okay.”
“I don't drink.”
“What?”
“I don't drink.”
“Never trust a guy who doesn't drink.”
“So sorry.”
“Have a drink.”
“Okay, ginger ale.”
“`En what?”
“`En what?”
“What kind of booze you want in it?”
“None.”
“What?”
“None.”
Shaking his head, sucking his gums, Carl said, “So you're a student of Z's, huh?”
“Yep.”
Handing him a ginger ale, Carl looked down at him. “So, what position you play?”
“I'm sorry.”
“What position you play, football?”
“I don't play football.”
“Ya don't play football!”
“Nope, nor basketball, baseball, golf, none, don't have time.”
“Where ya been, boy?”
“In the desert looking for the right ball.” What does an intelligent vixen like Rachelle see in this narcissistic jackass?
Carl said, “You have big cajones?”
“Two, how 'bout you?”
Carl squinted his eyes, thought, then said, “You ever see me play?”
“With your cajones?”
“Wise ass. Football! Ever see me play football?”
“Can't say that I have.”
“Jesus Christ, who is this guy?”
A couple arrived, Carl shook his head and filled their drink order.
In awe, Seth stayed. Others arrived at the bar and Carl, filling drink orders, pointed out to a newly arrived couple a picture of himself throwing a pass. “That was the touchdown throw, when we beat the piss out of the University of Michigan, National Championship. Kicked their ass. I threw two touchdowns, ran for sixty yards.”
Listening, Seth noted that Carl never passed a chance to view himself in the mirror behind the bar. Seth also noted that he wore tan alligator loafers and red, green, and gray Argyle socks.
Sure the feeling was mutual, Seth didn't like this slab of meat.
As the evening progressed it became evident to Seth that Carl thought of Rachelle as his personal property. When he wasn't behind the bar, eyeing himself, his hair, serving cocktails, drinking his drink with little finger raised, his eyes, like beady rat eyes, followed Rachelle's every move. When she spoke to other males, Carl strained to listen.
She should not be around this dross for several reasons. Top of the list, he's an asshole.
Seth, not a social animal, especially at stand-around-lip-flapping events, mostly listened while he made mental notes of people and surroundings. He noticed T.S.Eliot, sitting on the spiral staircase, observed all.
But always Seth's attention drifted back to Rachelle: Posing, talking, smiling, tall, slender, elegant, radiating waves, sipping white merlot, glancing his way.
She's killing me. I can't stand it.
He also noticed, Carl noticed.
At 8:30, Dr. Zannes turned the background music off, tapped her wine glass and invited everyone to gather 'round. Simone Simone was about to confer words of wisdom.
Ahhhs and ohhhs and people sat on the sofa, chairs, some sat on the floor. Carl came from around the bar and sat on a barstool. Seth moved behind the group and stood just inside the sliding glass doors.
Rachelle led Simone to a wing back chair that she had previously positioned in the middle of the great room. She had also placed a floor-stand ashtray next to the chair.
Rachelle spoke to the group: “Ladies and gentlemen, our guest needs no introduction, I give you Simone Simone.”
Light applause as Simone sat.
Rachelle moved to where Seth stood. Seth noticed Carl looking their way.
Simone to the light applause: “Deserved, deserved. Thank you, thank you.
How are you all this evening? I thought I'd jump right out of the shoot by reading a scene from my most recent work, 'Bangles, Bananas, and a Rosary for Monsieur'.”
As she read the cast of characters, the Monsieur in the title being a gorilla, Seth whispered to Rachelle, “I wonder if Monsieur takes Holy Communion?”
Rachelle tapped his hand and Seth noticed Carl get off his barstool and walk toward them.
Towering beside Rachelle, he sipped his drink and eyeballed Seth.
Simone finished scene one to light applause, said: “So my dears, work goes on. Work work work, furor scribendi! And now, what would you like to talk about?”
No response from the audience, stark silence, Simone, wide-eyed, said, “What, no questions?”
Finally a young female, “What do you do for recreation?”
“Ahhh, recreation, the spot on the dime, the hair in the milk, the dah in the plus. My dear, there is no fiddle fart recreation time in the world of art. You must be prepared to give all....”
Simone, noticing someone whispering, said, “First lesson in the school of reality, dawlings, when I'm talking, shut up!”
“What's it like to be a successful writer, have fame?”
She smiled, took her pack of crumpled Chesterfields from a side pocket, put one in her mouth, struck a safety match, lit up, fanned the match out, dropped the match in the ash tray, and took a deep drag. Exhaling smoke, “Second lesson in reality school, dawlings: fame is a whore.” She took another quick drag, “Don't look so puzzled, dear ones, guano happens. Get used to it. Roar of the critics, smell of the producers. Believe me, I know the difference. (Puffs, inhales deeply, exhales) You see, pets, some of you have chosen to sniff the fame dog's orifice but alas, that hound may or may not sniff you back.” Exhales through her nose slowly and continues, “Some call it luck but luck ain't no lady, dearies. You pay the price before, not after. No refunds, hot, cold, in between, or on top. But, take heart, dear ones, there may be a chosen one among you. A chosen one who shall crave it so bad she shall give her life for it, enrich her mind for it, make ready all her being for it, and yes, if need be, sell her soul for it. Nay, if push comes to shove, get on her knees for it.” She looked over the rapt gathering. “Men not excluded.” She puffed. “Dawlings, despite what you've been told, the oldest profession is not lips-for-sale.”
Chuckles from the group.
“Anybody have an idea what the oldest profession might be?”
Hanging silence.
“Come come dawlings, don't be bashful.”
Chuckles.
A thoughtful pause, Simone looked around. “No thoughts on what this oldest profession might be?”
Male speaks up: “Prostitution.”
Laughter.
Simone: “You're not listening, dearie, what did I just tell you? Love for sale is not the oldest profession.”
Female: “Bartering for goods.”
“Close, but no foie gras.” Simone surveyed the students for another moment. No response. “The original art dearies, unique to the human race, what was it, hummmm?”
There still being no answer she exclaimed, “Acting darlings! The theater! Reality's magic.” She took a puff, tipped her head, and blew smoke in the air. “And who were the first actors?”
Pause, waiting. “Hint … a garden.” Pause. Again no response. “Come come, you must know that one.”
Silence.
“Another hint, fig leaves.” Nothing forthcoming, she shouted, “Adam and Eve for Christ's sake!”
She looked around, studied the puzzled faces, puffed, then prodded. “And who wrote the script?”
A hand went up.
Simone: “This ain't no classroom sweetie. What's your name?”
“Polly Dancer.”
“So who wrote the script?”
“Norman Mailer.”
Laughter.
“God no! I'm talking before the Son … who wrote all this nonsense we'
re so pleased to call reality. The one who painted, fiddled, breathed life into the nostrils of the beast!” She paused, looked around, waiting, finally. “GOD! dear ones. We hope anyway, or is it fear for the other galaxies, someone out there might find us sleeping in the dark. Here we are, not there, clothed or cloned, an audience of one in a sea of nothing. The word, the creation, the beginning, from nothing into something, from dust to dust, nothing into all, the blank page into Hamlet, the white canvas into the Mona Lisa, the ceiling Sistine into the Creation of Man. The word, the script, the playwright, the creator? Or is it all done by ad-libbing dolts, sniveling pap, sucking a hind tit.”
She paused with a superior look to Polly Dancer, “Mailer, dear one, thought he was the Son, but alas he was just a bad boy.” She rolled her eyes and smiled.
Female: “What is art?”
Simone: “Well we know what it ain't.”
“What is that?”
“It's not an elephant dumping on stage.”
Laughter.
Male: “What about Satan?”
Simone pushed fingers through her hair. “Satan, dear one, is the lead in your ass.” She lit a new cigarette. “Anyhuu,” she glanced at Carl, “Don't be one looking in the mirror all the time. It's all an illusion.”
She took a long drag and raised her eyebrows and studied a young female in the front row. “What is your name?”
“Nelly Snodgrass.”
“Dear dear. Anyhuu, did you have a question?”
“Weren't you an actress once, I mean before you began writing plays?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you switch to writing?”
“Let’s just say, when you're a beginning actress producers are interested in your hips. Then you reach a stage, dear, or should I say age, when, let's say, the producers are only interested in your lips, if you get my drift.” Takes a puff. “Anyhuu, any other questions?”
“Did you ever write for the movies?”
Gushing. “God sake, get real, dearie. You think I'd send you for a skyhook? Movies are forced, phony baloney looking through glass. Truth is on the stage. The play is the thing, theater, the boards, forget that other shtick. You come here, you say your lines, you exit. It ain't no bleeping movie where you can cut and paste. Remember the lines, play the role, smell the guano, write the scene, the scene! Movie acting is for spineless voyeurs, second chance narcissistic runt wishers, five foot two look at me mom, playing with themselves, smelling the director's acetate. Goddamn politicians are all movie actors. Theater is truth, gather 'round the fire, dance and talk, sing to see if Godot is real and pleased to come among us. Satan is here, sups with us, walks with us, in the flesh.” She took a drag. “Anyhuu, get used to it, dawlings. Shit-tong happens under the proscenium arch.”
She took a deep drag, flared her nostrils, and flipped ashes in the stand tray. “The Greeks, read the Greeks, the Romans ... ah, and we can't forget William. Who do you know that played Lady Macbeth at the Pittsburgh Playhouse?”
Blank stares.
“I did, my dears! God, I'd sell my soul to be treading the boards again. Timing is all.” Blows smoke in the air. “Any other questions?”
A young male asked, “I read where you used to do summer stock, acting.”
“God, you remind me of Phil Street. I played next to him in Best Little Whore House in Texas, Park Dinner Theater, San Antonio. Phil Street, ha, had to feed him lines every scene and, well, Mexican food. The hombre broke wind all through the third act.”
Chuckles.
She smiled dreamily. “Anyhuu, let me tell you one thing, if you have a hankering to go home, get rid of it. It's a long watch and the morning never comes and the critics never sleep and the reviewers, hah, the reviewers eat their mother's pie and father's cockatoos.” She looked over the group. “Any other questions?”
Female: “I read where you performed in London, for the Queen.”
“I played Her Majesty’s Theater, Julie in Liliom, made into that awful movie, Carousel. Alas, musicals, Rodgers and Hammerstein, South Pacific, Oklahoma, The King and I … the great ones are gone. Now we have shit-tong and cat nip whatever. Mary Weinstein playing the lead. God. I knew her when she trekked tables, coffee for a hook and a crook, went to her knees on a producer's look.”
“Didn't you do a TV version of that?”
“What?”
“Carousel.”
“God, television, one time, I directed it. The late night King, played a police officer, walk-on, had three lines, muffed them all. Who would have ever known? God, ten million a year, and he can't even pronounce Ferenc. Used to be a disk jockey in Missouri somewhere. Gaawd.”
“Tell us more about your start.”
“It would take a year.”
A chorus of: “Please. Tell us. Yes. Oh yes. Come on, Simone, tell us. Please.”
After a misty pause. “If you insist.” She took a long drag and exhaled smoke, “I felt it from a young age, a distant star shining like some human need. My first coming out, lead in Cain Park's main stage production, Sweet Bird of Youth. I played Alexandra del Largo. So deep. The following year I had top billing in the Allen Playhouse production of Cabaret. Joe Green was the leading man. The way he clutched my hand on stage, other things off stage, God … he fancied me.”
She inhaled, winked, then exhaled. “Off the record, I resisted them all. Marriage was out of the question. A producer, Rosario Ferrante, tall Mediterranean type, looked like Bishop Sheen, tried to get me to genuflect more than once, if you know what I mean. Awful, awful little hands. And then there was Sidney Lake, a Brit, spitting image of Prince Charles, a director. He liked me too, but he never bathed. God awful-est long body hairs and his ... I could go on, but all that messing around, I had a career in front of me and playing doctor was not my cup of tea. I was going to the top and the top is not for the weak of heart. Remember that dawlings.”
She took a long drag and exhaled slowly. “Anyhuu, The Cleveland Plain Dealer gave me rave reviews, then I got my big chance, Producer Ronnie Blumfield cast me as Desdemona in Othello, off Broadway, understudy to one of the great ones. No names shall pass my lips. But Sir Great was the Moor. So sweet. We had an eight months run. I missed not one curtain call. Sir Great though, missed a few matinees. Tipsy doodle, if you know what I mean. After Othello, I toured Europe in The Little Foxes. I played Regina. Edward Berger, you know him as the famous TV sitcom comedic, played Ben. I could tell you some things about Edward too.”
“Didn't you win an Oscar?”
“Oscar! Gawd. Plated piece of junk in a Cracker Jack box. Forget that masculine shaped bone head. And, if you want an ear full, say Emmy just once. Theater is king. A plank and a passion. Antoinette Perry! Tony!”
Simone stood, looked off magically, hand raised: “'Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time; and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.'”
She looked over the gawking guests. “Macbeth, dawlings.”
“Did you transition to play writing easily?”
“Lips got tired.” She winked, “That's a wrap for today, people, I need a drink and some fresh air. Rachelle dawling, please.”
Applause.
Rachelle moved to Simone's side and said to the group, “Wasn't that exciting?”
More applause amid “yes, wonderful, more.”
Rachelle: “Simone will be around for refreshments out by the pool. You all know the way, out that door by Seth, down the stairs.”
The group moved to the pool area. Carl manned a portable bar and people mingled, ate snacks, got drinks, some went down to the lake.
Seth watched Rachelle circulating easily among the guests, sipping white merlot, talking with her hands, flowing in the night. She
reminded him of delicate sculpted porcelain. Her white slacks, her honey hair, her amber topaz eyes, her pacific face flooded the night. He made an effort to look at other guests, but his attention always came back to her. And, when she looked at him, smiled that smile, it seemed to him, she knew what he was thinking.
If she smiles at me once more like that I'm going to go to her and kiss her on the lips. Carl or no, I don't care.
He looked at Carl who was looking at him. He raised his glass of ginger ale.
Carl dragged on his cigarette.
Creep. Seth deliberately looked at Rachelle. She talked to a small group. He gushed to himself, I shall save you from the clogs of the world, somehow I will do it. He smiled at Carl and felt something maneuvering around his shoes—T.S. Eliot.
He whispered, “You too.”
Glass of ginger ale in hand, Seth, followed by T.S., walked down to the lake, looked at the sail boat. He smiled at the name, Percy Bysshe Shelley. T.S. jumped on board and looked at him as if to say “Let’s go.”
Seth said, “I don't think so. Come on off there.”
T.S. turned and looked out across the lake.
Seth said, “Maybe someday.”
After breathing several lungfuls of heady air coming off the lake, Seth went back to pool side. He didn't see Rachelle, nor did he see Carl behind the bar.
Going to the bar to get some ice for his drink, he heard, behind a thick growth of arborvitae, heavy whispering. He listened. The hushed voices were of Carl and Rachelle. He could partially see them through the boughs. Seth listened: their voices muffled, the heated discussion had do with something about the NFL, an investigation, betting, debts, selling the house. Carl had to go to Washington D.C. Senate hearings. His lawyer was trying to keep it out of the paper.
Rachelle: “How could you be such a stupid ass?”
Carl: “Don't call me stupid, bitch.”
Seth saw him grab her arm and twist.
“Ouch, damn you, ouch … stop that, you're hurting....”
“Bitch.” He released her.
Rubbing her arm, Rachelle walked around the arborvitae away from Carl.
Carl followed, kicked a folding chair in the pool, and walked up the stairs to the deck.
The party paused, awkward glances, then smiled, it must be a joke.