Chapter 4: Dressed to Impress
The Grapel Duke’s Burnt Straw Knickers ran for many more nights, and was always performed before a packed house. Every moment he was on stage, Timmy would scan the gallery of human silhouettes lined up before him, wary of one matching John Smith and hopeful of seeing the pleasing curvature of Genny. Neither appeared, and the growing success of The Royal Perfects simply continued.
One night, Timmy sat by candlelight at an empty table in the empty tavern. The show had concluded a few hours prior, and Bugs was currently attending to private matters in their shared apartment, entertaining one of a growing number of female admirers. Timmy paid no mind though, for it allowed him some quiet time to think and write on his own. Scrawling down an idea for a play involving a pair of twins acting as ushers, Timmy could hear the creak of footsteps approaching from across the room. It was Gabriel Goldhand, sporting his ever-present smile.
“Timmy, my boy,” the elder Goldhand gurgled, “another fine show tonight. You and Bugs just knock ‘em dead every time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Goldhand,” Timmy said while tipping an invisible hat.
“I was thinking, it’s about time we give the people something different,” Goldhand proposed.
Timmy couldn’t agree more. He and Bugs had been developing several more plays that could really be special.
Sliding his stack of paper to Gabriel, Timmy pointed to several ideas. “Bugs and I have been working on some other things we think could be just as crowd pleasing.”
Timmy circled a passage on the parchment. “Here, this one’s about a hairdresser for the Queen who is in love with a soldier in Her Majesty’s Royal Guard. And this one I’ve just about completed. It’s about a woman who is looking to escape from her mean spouse by dressing as a man. The twist is, she ends up being pregnant.”
Goldhand chuckled at the ideas written down before him. Many held promise in his eyes.
“Mr. Goldhand, there is one issue. Several of the concepts would call for a larger group to adequately perform them,” Timmy mentioned with concern.
Mr. Goldhand looked up from the notes. “You boys have brought in a boatload of money. If you think hiring more Perfects will help you, then by all means, let’s hire more Perfects!”
Timmy’s pearly whites sparkled at the thought.
“You and Bugs set up auditions, or whatever you want to do. You can use the Rat’s Tail during off hours. By month’s end, I hope you’ll have your expanded cast and a new play worthy of your reputations.”
Timmy was delighted to get Gabriel’s full support.
“Will do, Sir. Will do.”
Gabriel stood and straightened his coat. “Well, I’m headed home, Timmy. Sleep well and let your dreams be that of inspiration.”
Goldhand hobbled off into the shadows, leaving Timmy to digest the new possibilities of a larger troupe and a new work. He couldn’t wait to share the news with Bugs. Come sunrise, they would put the word out. The Royal Perfects were holding auditions.
It was morning when Timmy finally woke. He had fallen asleep writing at the table. When pale rays of the light passed over his chair, he lazily opened his eyes. Stirring to consciousness, he strained and flexed his crimped neck, doing his best to work out kinks left from dozing off in an awkward position.
“Morning sweetheart,” Bugs coughed while taking a sip of warm tea. “You didn’t come to bed last night.”
Timmy snickered, “Sorry, I had a feeling it would’ve been a bit hard to sleep. Besides, you know how it is when inspiration strikes.”
“Yes, I too was besieged by inspiration last night,” Bugs laughed, recalling his wild night while at the same time pouring Timmy a cup of tea.
“Hey, Bugs, great news. I talked to Goldhand, and he wants us to perform a new play.”
Bugs face lit up at the idea. “That’s phenomenal. What are you thinking? The Nursing Spirit? The Rectangle that Went That Way? How about that one where the butcher makes a deal with the devil? Wait, how are we going to play all the roles? Every single one has scenes involving three or more actors on stage at once.”
“Goldhand has given us the okay to hire more help.”
“Seriously? Hold auditions? Man, oh man, Timmy. We're hitting the big time here. You and I are going to hire people? Well la-de-da, aren’t we just the cocks of the roost?” Bugs and Timmy shared a hearty chuckle between sips of fresh brewed.
“So,” Bugs continued, “where do you want to start?”
“Well, I was thinking we place an ad in The Ballyhoo and maybe get a few posters out and about. Mr. Goldhand will probably be spreading the word, too. Whomever we get to audition, we have to make sure they can do it all. Elvin’s going to be heading off to trade school next week, and the barmaid that’s been filling in for that little lump of worthless coal, Leland, would rather get back to her professional duties, no doubt. So, whomever we decide on needs to have both a valued presence and a willingness to do the backstage this-and-that.”
“Agreed.”
“And as far as our next play, I think maybe we go with The Nursing Spirit. It’s almost finished.”
“Besides the need for more thespians, that play will also require a greater range in wardrobe than what we currently have,” added Bugs.
“True. I’ll head down to Madam Ladyfist’s Gorgeous Gowns and Men’s Tweed Suits. I’m sure she’ll have some female attire that will fit the bill with exactitude. In the meantime, you can head over to The Ballyhoo and get our notification placed and then find someone to produce and post some call sheets. Let’s plan on holding auditions over the course of the next week or so. By the start of the month, we can unveil The Nursing Spirit in all its grand pageantry.”
Bugs chugged the last remnants of his mug while Timmy gathered up his papers. After a quick wash and a clean set of clothes, the Royal Perfects headed off on their respective errands.
Sooty Stoops was full of action that morning as people headed here and there. Passing by the Stoops Kitchen for the Unfortunate and Desolate, Timmy noticed a longer line than normal. He had stood in that line many a day, hoping for a handout of moldy fruit or hardened crust. Some days he would get some, some days he wouldn’t. Today, many in line wouldn’t. There were simply too many beggars.
Industry had continued to change in Upper Southrump and the result was an increasing divide between the haves and the have-nots. With the investment of new technology, rich businessmen continued to replace old trades and tradesmen. A shift toward cheaper cost was replacing that of pride in higher quality. It was a sad state of affairs of which Timmy was fully aware. He glanced at the downtrodden whose heads hung low in shame. Their soiled clothes and worn shoes reminded him of the not-too-distant past. The thought also brought him to reflect upon his own garments, a finely tailored suit from Madam Ladyfist.
With a dose of bleeding heart and a smidgen of shame, he removed his jacket and handed it to a shirtless man at the end of the line. The man extended a dirt-blackened hand in thanks, and Timmy shook it without hesitation.
The sound of shouting then captured young Wicketts’ attention. Just beyond the soup kitchen line stood a man more naked than the last. This poor individual wore only tattered, hole-ridden knickers. Luckily for all in viewing distance, the holes had worn in a strategic pattern sparing the man’s humilities from public ogling.
“Place your bet! Place your bet!” the man shouted. “Who thinks I can’t outpace a mouse in a race across the lane?” He continued to bellow holding up a small cage and pointing to a chalk-drawn racetrack scrawled on the sidewalk.
Timmy drew nearer out of curiosity. When he was close enough, he was surprised to see that the small caged rodent, which the man intended to race, was dead, and had been so for some time.
The crazy wager was just that, and so was the man.
“Hey you, fine lad. You with the ageless face of an angel,” the man uttered toward Timmy. “How’s about a bet?”
Timmy knew the man was a bi
t off-kilter and that his proposed bet was preposterous, but he felt bad for the fellow who had obviously fallen on very hard times.
“Okay Sir, I’ll take your wager. A shilling says the mouse beats you to the end of the lane,” Timmy stated boldly.
The man jumped on the offer and positioned the petrified pet at the start line, rushing to get under way before his mark changed his mind. He unlatched the mouse’s cage door and then took up his own starting block next to his furry, decomposing opponent.
“Okay, fine Sir, at your signal, we shall begin,” he uttered with nervous excitement.
“GO!” Timmy shouted.
The man made one lunging leap and then bolted into full stride while the corpse of the rodent didn’t budge, not to anyone’s surprise. After passing the finish line, the winner danced a crazy jig, as if celebrating a hard fought victory.
“Yes, Sir! Yes, Sir! I won!” he shouted.
Timmy handed the man a shilling, as he intended to do all along, and the man snatched it up like a ravenous beast capturing its prey.
Twirling the coin in his fingers, he then offered another dubious bet.
“Sir, double or nothing says I can knock that constable’s hat right off his head,” he stated, pointing to a nearby lawman. “Furthermore, I will soak it with my emptied bladder and have him place it back upon his balding dome before he can manage to snatch me up in iron wrists.”
Now that was a feat Timmy was certain would lead to quite a calamitous end, but the man seemed more than confident in his abilities.
“Sir,” Wicketts responded, “you do that, and I’ll not only give you another shilling, I’ll give you the promise of many more.”
The man jumped into action. Retrieving a drying sheet from a clothesline hung just meters away, he tied the large cloth around his neck like a cape-clad musketeer.
“Now watch closely, Sir,” he said to Timmy with a smile before vaulting into a full sprint toward the constable. As he ran, he waved his billowing cape behind him. It grew taut and filled with air. Then only feet away from his target, he pulled it swiftly to his side, unleashing a gust of air and knocking the constable’s hat right off his head and into a nearby puddle. The constable quickly ran to retrieve his soaking hat, believing it was merely Mother Nature who had toppled it, as the caped gambler retreated back toward Timmy.
“Look,” the man said as he nudged Wicketts.
The constable picked up his hat, emptied the water it had been filled with, and shook it as dry as he could before propping it back upon his head.
“Sir,” Timmy said to the man, “it is water-wet, and nothing more.”
The man giggled as they both watched tiny, leftover beads of liquid drip down the brim and over the face of the constable. His nostrils then flared, and he snatched his hat off his head with agitation. Taking a big whiff, his features recoiled in disgust as he frantically wiped any lingering moisture from his face. He then stormed off in absolute anger while holding his hat at arm’s length.
“You see, Sir, I win again!” the bettor excitedly shouted. “I pissed in that spot earlier this morning and made a fine, fine puddle in the process.”
Timmy laughed at the man’s ingenuity and creativity. He also marveled at his boldness. Handing him another shilling, he made an offer far more interesting.
“Why not put your fearlessness and absolute disregard for humiliation to better use,” Timmy asked. “I’m Timmy Wicketts and my acting troupe, The Royal Perfects, is looking for members as audacious as you. What do you think of becoming a thespian?”
The man was absolutely ecstatic. He accepted with a huge hug of thanks and then introduced himself as Lancelot Castletowne the Third. Timmy inquired about how he came to be a beggar, and Lancelot laid before him a tragic tale of wrong-minded wagers.
It is often said that the last taste on every gambler's lips is the cold, cracked crust of disappointment loaf. This was indeed the case with Lancelot Castletowne the Third. Each Castletowne before him had met disaster at the hands of foolish games of chance, and Lancelot continued the family tradition.
After Castletowne the Second lost his life betting he could swim into the belly of a live blue whale and re-emerge through its blowhole, Lancelot was left a small fortune. However, that fortune did not last.
When Lancelot disagreed with a fellow member of his llama polo team, the debate ended with a wager. Lancelot bet the man his entire fortune that he could mate his prized golden-frocked Indian llama with a domesticated Siberian tiger housed at the Upper Southrump Zoological Society, thereby creating a type of “super llama” capable of leading his polo team to assured victory in any match.
After passing the zookeeper a few shillings to look the other way, Lancelot guided his llama into the tiger's enclosure. Without hesitation, the tiger tore the llama to ribbons, feasting upon its plump meat. Lancelot looked on in horror as his friend demanded payment. The wager had cost Lancelot his entire savings, as well as his favored llama steed. Dejected, Castletowne roamed the abbeys and courts of Southrump wagering what he could in hopes of rebuilding his fortune. But his string of bad luck continued, eventually bringing him to his current state of paltry existence.
The story was as wild as Lancelot, and Timmy knew his dauntless, albeit often ill advised, way of thinking could make for a fine actor. Wicketts instructed Castletowne to meet him later that evening at the Rat’s Tail, where he would be filled in on all the details. He then handed Lancelot a couple more coins with the request that he get a fresh shirt and pair of slacks. The future Perfect brethren parted ways and Timmy continued on to Madam Ladyfist’s.
When he arrived at the clothing boutique, Timmy was met with an unfortunate surprise. Upon the front awning hung a sign stating, OUT OF BUSINESS. Timmy peered behind the dangling obstruction and could see someone moving around inside the shop. Despite being closed, most of the gowns and dresses still hung on racks. Whoever was inside made busy packing up boxes. It was not a happy thing to see, another shop closing in Sooty Stoops, but maybe it could work to the Perfects’ advantage. Maybe Madam Ladyfist would be willing to sell off some of her stock at a lower price.
Timmy turned the door handle. It was unlocked, so he entered to the familiar sound of a jingling bell.
“Who’s there?” a man asked gruffly, standing and sneering toward the door.
“Hello, Sir, my name is Timmy Wicketts. I am looking for Madam Ladyfist.”
The man stepped closer, and Timmy moved toward him. The stranger’s face revealed recognition and Timmy once again got the odd feeling he had come to expect while in Madam Ladyfist’s Gorgeous Gowns and Men’s Tweed Suits.
“Ah, Mr. Wicketts,” the man acknowledged in a more pleasant tone.
Timmy was momentarily confused. There was a definite familiarity, but something just wasn’t resonating. Then it hit him. Hidden within the fellow's features and voice lied that of another.
“Madam Ladyfist?” Wicketts asked in astonishment.
The man smiled and nodded the truth.
“Yeah, that was me. Is me. We are us,” he stammered while placing another dress in a box. “The name’s John Ladyfist.”
“I knew there was something wrong with Madam Ladyfist,” Timmy resounded.
His comment was met by John’s stern eye.
“I don’t mean wrong, just somewhat off. I couldn’t put my finger on it though,” Timmy said, trying to massage his previous statement. “You made for a very fine and believable lady.”
John lifted up one of his favorite gowns and held it in the light. “Why thank you. It was by no means my original intention, but sometimes necessity has a way of forcing us to do things we may not do otherwise.”
Timmy could attest to that. “How did this all come to be?”
“Well, Mr. Wicketts, rich people around Southrump love their fine threads. They value unique, one-of-a-kind, statement-making ensembles. Many of the old bats are just looking to better each other at this dinner party or that flower exhibit
ion, and their vanity made for good business. What didn’t though, was their discrimination. While the greatest dresses in all of Upper Southrump were the talk of the town, the fact that a male seamstress crafted them just about ruined me. No one wanted to buy a woman’s dress handmade by a thick-bearded man, no matter the unsurpassed elegance of the piece. So, I decided to tailor an acceptable substitute, Madam Ladyfist. I closed down my old shop and reopened this one, and poof, business was back in a big way. It was a fabulous run.”
Timmy motioned to the sign on the front door. “So what happened?”
John shook his head while recounting his fatal mistake.
“Well, a few evenings ago, after a particularly great day of business, I went out to celebrate my good fortune. Forgetful of my limited tolerance for libations, I failed to realize I was still dressed as Madam Ladyfist, and after several pints at the tavern, was firmly on the ran-tan. I stumbled into the street looking for a place to relieve myself, and did so, in a side alley, standing up straight as a post. That, my friend, is very unladylike in so many, many ways. Someone saw me, a middle-aged woman in a highly questionable state, and word started to spread. My cover was blown and business took an immediate hit. It’s been downhill ever since.”
The story was very unfortunate. Timmy felt for John’s predicament. He had skills of unrivaled fashion yet was persecuted for who he was, something he could not change. Timmy then noticed a dress hanging on a rack. It was the perfect piece for a woman character’s costume in The Nursing Spirit. He then saw a second that would work for another part. An idea began to formulate in Timmy’s mind. John was an exceptional wardrobe specialist as well as a man capable of convincing quite a few people, for quite a long time, that he was a woman. What better qualities could you ask for in a fellow Perfect?
Timmy proposed the idea to John.
“Mr. Ladyfist, how does a position with the Royal Perfects strike you? We sure could use a needler of your immense talent and your keen mastery of disguise speaks well of your acting abilities.”
John was elated.
“You mean I can continue my passion for fashion through costume design while at the same time lending a hand on stage?” he asked in amazement.
“That is absolutely correct,” Timmy replied.
“Then count me in!”
While packing up the store, Wicketts and Ladyfist discussed future wardrobe needs as well as the details of the next Royal Perfects production. The inventory was extensive, and as fate had just dictated, it was now more fodder for the creative minds of the growing stage act. Whatever wasn’t already available could easily be crafted by the excellent apparel artist, John “Johanna” Ladyfist.
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The Royal Perfects Page 4