Chapter 9: Building Momentum
Gabriel Goldhand set the ball in motion shortly after hearing The Royal Perfects’ wholehearted acceptance of his offer. Everyone was on board and excited, so work began on sprucing up the other taverns Gabriel now owned around town and preparing them for stage shows.
In addition to the original Rat’s Tail, there was another dining hall called the Thumbtack Pub over in Shillings. It was a smaller place, but still big enough to hold a performance. The Emerald Cat was also a new acquisition in that neighborhood. Then there was the Rusty Pelican in the Moors District and the Monkey King’s Crown, a rather posh establishment in Central District. Goldhand hoped that he could pack the Monkey King’s Crown with the most prestigious members of high society, many of whom lived nearby.
A mighty publicity push was also thrust upon the public. The Royal Perfects had already forged a strong reputation, but The Death of Bugs Harrington had elevated it to another level. With the announcement of even greater exposure, there wasn’t a man, woman, or child in all of Upper Southrump who didn’t recognize the Perfect name. The potential for great fortune lay just beyond the horizon, so in preparation, Bugs, Romeo and the others sat down to interview would-be managers.
The business world had been in constant upheaval. Things were changing at a breakneck pace. Newer jobs born out of innovation were replacing industries that had stood for decades. Because of this, there was no shortage of people looking for work.
Among the interviewees were several fellows, nicely dressed, but clearly having no true experience. They were men who had been in occupations far from what the job called for, but they were desperate to land anything. There were also some others who may have possessed the insight and education for the position, but, as Bugs considered with every prospect, they lacked that intangible Perfect quality that would make them an excellent fit.
It was a long process and hadn’t yielded anyone who met the traits for which they were searching. Bugs had decided to see one more candidate before postponing the search, and that last gentlemen was Sir Snoots McGee.
Sir Snoots walked into the tavern and surveyed the scene, holding his chin high all the while. He calmly approached the table, where a panel of Perfects were sitting. He glanced down the line without revealing even the slightest expression, then looked at the wooden chair upon which he was to sit. It was old and beat-up, and Snoots scoffed at its appearance before taking a white handkerchief from his pocket and thoroughly dusting each and every surface that might come in contact with his person. Bugs looked to his right and left as his fellow actors fought back giggles. Lancelot rolled his eyes.
“Well, Mr. McGee…” Bugs began.
Sir Snoots interrupted, waving a finger in correction. “It’s Sir, Mr. Harrington.”
Bugs shook his head, trying to knock away his surprise at being so abruptly corrected by a man who was hoping to land a job. “Oh, my apologies,” he offered sarcastically, “Sir Snoots McGee, could you please tell us a little about yourself?”
The well-dressed man seemed almost annoyed by the request, but exhaling a deep huff of breath, he laid out his past.
At one time, Sir Snoots McGee had it all. He had a luxurious home, several carriages, numerous lady-callers and more money than you could ever need. Sadly, it all vanished in a blink of an eye. Snoots had invested heavily in a cross-continental enterprise to ship pre-fabricated concrete domiciles to the United States of America. The population of that country was exploding, and many people needed homes to call their own. A business partner convinced Snoots that pre-built, solid concrete houses were far superior in quality to native American wooden dwellings, and they saved customers both the extravagant cost and effort needed for do-it-yourself construction. The buildings could be produced in England and then shipped via sailing vessel across the Atlantic.
To Snoots, the concept was sound, but only after investing wheelbarrows full of money into the enterprise did he realize he and his partners had made a catastrophic miscalculation. Once built, the concrete homes were simply too heavy to ship. There wasn't a vessel made that could carry more than one home on a single trip. Any more, and the ship would succumb to the weight and sink miles from port. This "concrete conundrum" became Snoots’ downfall. He had several hundred two-story concrete homes ready to ferry to America, but no way of getting them there in a cost-effective fashion.
Snoots made several attempts to sell the homes locally, but once word spread of his disastrous business decision, he was met with laughter and dismissal. Eventually, he sold the vacant structures to a quarryman, who ground them into fine rubble to be used in exfoliating soap. A shamed businessman, Sir Snoots lost his income and his reputation. Gabriel Goldhand had known him from a previous real estate deal and sent word that The Royal Perfects were looking for someone to help manage the financial end of things. That’s what had brought him there that evening.
The story was unfortunate, but the way Snoots told it, he never once conveyed a sense of self-pity. He accounted the anecdote of failure with the same ego-wrapped tone that would accompany a tale of success. Every experience in Snoots’ life was framed by the perspective that he knew it all and made the correct decisions, even if he hadn’t. At least, that’s the way he came across to people who had met him for the first time. It was in this light that Bugs and the rest saw him at that moment.
The head hirer, Harrington, rubbed his brow and looked down in contemplation. The man before him had the haughtiness of a lone peacock amongst a rabble of hens. He was a snobographer’s dream, with his neatly trimmed beard and his white wig-quaffed head. Arrogance oozed from every pore of his body and soaked every word that left his mouth. But then, a thought crept into Bugs’ head. He was staring at the manuscript for a play Timmy had just completed, The Rectangle That Went That Way. The piece called for a character quite unlike any they had previously performed. He was to be the captain of the Queen’s Royal Guard, and a real stickler of a man.
Gazing at a bit of dialogue from the play, Bugs requested one more thing from Sir Snoots McGee.
“Would you be so kind, Sir Snoots, as to read off this line?” he politely asked, handing Snoots the script and pointing at the necessary sentence.
Snoots grabbed the paper and looked down his nose at it. With an air of indignation, he read the words to himself first before doing so aloud.
“Private Rhombus,” Snoots started, “you are by far the most ignorant, imbecilic, and downright dense soldier I have eeeeever had the misfortune of leading. You’d make a better bearskin hat than a guard meant to wear it.”
The inflection and delivery was natural for Snoots. Its condescending content clearly married with the man’s innate contemptuousness. It was then that Bugs realized he could find no better man to play the part in question.
“Sir Snoots, you are hired,” Bugs said with a grin.
The rest of the Perfects looked at one another in stunned silence. Sir Snoots McGee simply laid a card upon the table. It listed his expected rate and cut. Bugs could only laugh to himself at the wonderfully entertaining gall of his newest hire.
“You’ve made a wise decision,” Snoots declared. “I’ll procure my belongings and return ready for work first thing in the morning.”
The fellow stood and walked out, striding as confidently as when he entered.
Lancelot was at a loss and felt he had to say something. “Bugs, how could you hire that plank? He’s a royal bottom wart.”
“And now, he’s a Royal Perfect,” Bugs voiced with pleasure.
He pulled together his papers and gathered the rest of the crew around to go over the new ideas Timmy had provided. It was an exciting time, with the prospect of stupendous fame and prosperity just beyond the horizon. But the theatrical gang needed to work earnestly and steadfast. They welcomed the challenge.
Days of preparation followed. Amidst stage and set preparations conducted at each new tavern location, the Perfects also worked on new material, freshly supp
lied by Bugs, who was transferring it from Timmy upon their daily visits at the hospital.
Timmy was continually improving, and as he grew stronger, he worked longer and harder, writing down concepts and fleshing out complete ideas for innovative plays. Bugs kept the bedridden man-boy abreast of the troupe’s progress, and the pair hashed out brainstorms and back-and-forths like they had so many times before.
One afternoon, the ensemble, minus Timmy, sat upon the Rat’s Tail stage reviewing the prop needs of the new plots. Sir Snoots took inventory of what was required and compared it to a list he had compiled of items already in the group’s possession.
Snoots’ uppity persona had endeared him to many of the lads. While his monarch-like disposition could easily be a point of detest, almost every Perfect had come to appreciate the humor in his deadpan demeanor.
The only exception was Lancelot Castletowne the Third. In pre-production meetings, Lancelot was a vast source of foolish suggestions and wild ideas. His creativity flowed like a broken fire hose, but he lacked the forward thinking of actual execution. His thoughts were often preposterous with no basis in reality, but Lancelot was blind to the fact.
Up until the arrival of Snoots, the rest of the Perfects simply humored Lancelot and his hair-brained ideas. They would politely nod and place every comment in a category “to be considered.” But, Snoots was unable to let such foolishness go unchecked. He was a businessman at heart and held to the mantra that time was money. So when Lancelot would ramble on about some irrelevant topic, it drove Snoots crazy. He would argue with Lancelot at every turn. The third Castletowne wasn’t one to back down either. He felt his offerings held infinite merit, even though they rarely, if ever, did. Sir Snoots would counter with a debate based on logic and reason, and Lancelot would fire back with the skill of a master phlyarologist. The contest usually escalated until Bugs or Captain Pantaloons stepped in and drew down the ire.
The whole phenomenon was like sandpaper grinding on the mind of Sir Snoots. While he hated the time wasted in hearing out Lancelot’s foolish fancies, his ego would not let the stupidity pass unchallenged. This only served to swell the loss of productive tempo. It was a horrible Catch-22, and it happened a lot.
Today’s meeting was no different. The topic came up as to how the Perfects could best acquire a bearskin hat for use in costuming Theodore Rhombus, the star character in their new play titled The Rectangle That Went That Way. John Ladyfist had a collection of several caps and wigs, but nothing that would serve rightly. He offered a fair suggestion on how he could modify a top hat using an old fur coat as an overlay. It would give the piece its trademark hair-covered exterior. Lancelot thought someone sitting in the front row may notice the fur was not bear and raise an awful stink about the inaccuracy of the portrayal.
The idea was, of course, foolish. Firstly, John’s mastery of wardrobe was without compare, and he would be able to mimic the piece as well as any. Secondly, anyone who cared enough to stare at the accessory for that long was neither intrigued, nor entertained, enough by the actor wearing it, which would then be the greater sorrow. None of that mattered to Lancelot, for at that moment, he was solely stuck on his self-made worry.
To address the concern, which only existed in his own mind, Lancelot offered the following solution. He would don John Ladyfist’s fur coat, and bolster its mass with pillows sewn into the interior. He would then take down a mounted bear’s head from behind the Rat’s Tail counter, one of many animal trophies collected by patron gamesmen over time, and hollow out the cavity, making an extremely life-like bear mask. With his bloated fur coat and dead animal headdress, he would take on the full appearance and persona of an actual bear.
Next, he would head into the North Wood to track down a large black bear, and woo it. After all, it was mating season. Once he gained the creature’s trust, it would lead him back to its cave. After sharing a meal of berries and freshly mauled squirrel, Lancelot was confident the animal would fall into a deep slumber. At that moment, he would draw forth a pair of sheers and bald the beast from neck to tail, doing it no lasting harm, but acquiring the significant swatch of black fur pelt needed to properly construct the prop.
The absurdity of the plan was apparent to everyone, but its telling, like so many others, was a point of amusement to the group. Many tried to hide their giggles and struggled to keep the appearance of serious consideration. Everyone also looked toward Snoots, knowing the compulsory call-out was at hand.
Snoots could not help it.
“Lancelot, after you are inevitably raped by the woodland creature, what makes you think it will not eat you alive at the very moment it realizes you are a man and not a bear?”
Lancelot responded with his usual quick thinking, yet faulty, comeback. “I’ll bring along a bottle of Colonel Stout’s and drench our dinner with it. Once the animal eats it, and consumes the potent alcohol, he’ll get so corned he passes out and won’t even be able to address the mating ritual. It will also make it far easier to cut its hair.”
Castletowne was happy to not only successfully defend his point, but also to further add to the clear reasoning behind it. He struck a pose of self-pride.
“Lancelot, that is psychotic,” Snoots rebutted.
“No, it’s not,” Lancelot rebuffed.
“Come on, you fool, do you actually think a bear is going to believe you to be one of its own dressed up in a tattered mink coat?”
“Hell, he’ll think I am the prettiest of the lot, as a matter of fact. Do you care to place a bet on the certitude?”
It was always a wager with Lancelot, and this was usually the point at which things escalated between the two men. When Snoots surprisingly did not reply, Lancelot raged on.
“And additionally, Sir Snoots, I have greater knowledge of bear behavior than anyone else in this troupe,” he asserted. “My uncle used to train tigers in the circus.”
The statement lacked any correspondence.
“I also read an in-depth book on bear mannerisms once. I think it was titled Goldilocks. If a little girl can manage three of the beasts, I can surely deal with one.”
Trying to hold back his laughter, Bugs was shaking to such a degree he mimicked the motion of a buck-naked Amazonian at the North Pole. Smirks, John and the rest were in the same dire straits. They couldn’t believe Snoots wasn’t saying a word, not a single peep. But, it was clearly evident that anger was brimming inside him. His face was red, and his brow angled in rage. Still, he said nothing.
“And one more thing,” Lancelot offered for consideration, “no one need worry about me impaling myself on the bear’s tail spikes. I’ll wear oven mitts for protection.”
That was all Snoots could stand. Not only were Lancelot’s ideas irrational and impossible, the fool apparently didn’t even know what a bear truly looked like. With teeth grinding, he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a leather wallet. He gently tugged at the inside of the case and pulled out a stiff rectangle of paper, about half the size of a playing card. Snoots walked three wide paces toward Lancelot, stopped, and tossed the item directly into his chest. The scrap fell to Castletowne’s lap, causing him to look down. In bold, dark letters was printed a single word, RUBBISH. Snoots then gave his mental adversary a defiant nod and headed into the storeroom to continue inventorying the Perfects’ possessions.
Lancelot raised the card to eye level and read it again, speechless at its delivery but fully understanding its message. Bugs rushed to see what was written. When he did, he howled with mirth.
“Rubbish! Ha!” Bugs chortled.
The rest of the guys passed around the card and burst into laughter as well.
“Well,” Pantaloons said to Lancelot, “I guess you’ve been dealt the perfect response.” The Captain snickered some more.
“Yeah, you’ve been snooted, Lance,” a snorting Ladyfist uttered.
The entire group had great fun over the matter as Lancelot simply sat mouth closed, unable to utter a worthy comeba
ck. As Snoots later explained to Bugs, he was tired of arguing with a madman such as Lancelot, and so he devised a method of retort that summed up his case in a single word. He wrote on stiff paper a collection of such singular responses—RUBBISH, NONSENSE, POPPYCOCK. By dealing the card, Snoots could take solace in having not let Lancelot’s foolish diatribes go unanswered, while at the same time ending his past practice of only fueling the verbal dispute further. It was an effective idea, and one he utilized many times thereafter. It became a source of superb entertainment amongst the Perfects.
After the guffaws died down, Bugs handed each man a manuscript containing the text of two new Perfect plays. The Rectangle That Went That Way centered on a gent named Theodore Rhombus. A private in the Queen’s Royal Guard, he was a military man with a pedigree of loyal service, and his station included minding the Queen’s personal bathhouse.
Among the many rituals conducted there, the Queen had her hair and wigs styled and fashioned by Samuel Snips, the royal hairdresser. Samuel was of an openly different persuasion, which was perfectly acceptable given his lot. But unfortunately for Theodore, Royal Guards were not afforded the luxury, and this tore at him daily, for he had a growing crush on Samuel. After continued interludes and conversations between Theodore and Samuel, the captain of the Royal Guard became increasingly suspicious. The story then became a cat-and-mouse game as Theo and Sam desperately tried to hide their feelings for one another, while the Captain looked to reveal Private Rhombus' true nature and disgrace him in front of everyone.
The second show was called One Comment Too Many, in which William and Wendell Potluck were twin ushers at the most prestigious theater in all of England. One night, during a performance, the building falls black. A shriek is heard in the dark, and when the lights return a murder has taken place in the audience. Constables rush the aisles and surround the two suspects closest to the scene, William and Wendell. An accusation-laden game of whodunit unfolds, with a murder mystery investigation to determine the vile criminal.
The catch to this play, however, was the Perfects’ intent to mesh theater and reality in the same vain as The Death of Bugs Harrington. The plan was for patrons to actually think they were attending a completely different performance. Then, mid-story, the actors would douse the lights and roll into the fictitious tale intended with One Comment Too Many. It was a novel idea that had proven successful in another light, and both Timmy and Bugs believed they could capture the same magic with this new presentation.
The men reviewed the materials and were engrossed. The concepts were just as original as their past works and held even more potential. Accepting the brilliance of the offerings without pause, everyone was prepared to execute the written words to impeccable appeal. Bugs then dealt out the roles along with a caveat. Every man was to learn multiple parts, becoming both a star and an understudy. The strength of the Perfects was honed by a focus on versatility and improvisation. Nothing showed that with more clarity than recent events, so it was a mandatory condition despite the increased skill required. Not a single fellow protested.
A mug knocked loudly against the wooden surface of the bar. A woman chuckled at the joke of another. Friends and colleagues engaged in conversation and well wishing. It was another, patron-filled night at the Rat’s Tail. There was no performance that night, but The Royal Perfects were present in force. Their stage hiatus was almost up, and the group had gathered to celebrate the conclusion of all their hard preparatory work. Everything was in order, and tomorrow night, The Rectangle That Went That Way would be making its public début upon the proscenium of The Emerald Cat. Tonight, however, the actors only concerned themselves with merriment.
Sitting around a large oak table, the nine regaled one another with yarns of tomfoolery and wild exploits. Captain Pantaloons told of an incident he encountered while drifting in his handmade dinghy upon a calm, nighttime ocean. He had been out to sea for days and was hoping landfall would not be far off. Beyond the normal concerns of starvation and drowning, he was starting to miss human contact and dialogue. Staring up at the star-filled sky, he wished he had someone to talk to. Just then, the moonlight silhouette of a curvaceous woman emerged from the deep. The lass glistened with droplets and she moved with grace and beauty toward him.
Pantaloons realized he was looking at a real-life mermaid. The fish-woman swam up and onto his boat, positioning herself next to him. After lying there in peaceful silence, side-by-side for a bit, Pantaloons asked the sea sprite her name. In the most elegant voice, she told him it was Calassandra and that she lived in a kingdom many fathoms below. The Captain inquired about more things, and the mermaid told him all about her life and the many wonders of the sea. They talked for hours, stretching far into the night, but eventually fatigue took hold and Pants fell into a sound sleep.
The next morning, he woke to the sound of sea gulls squawking and cawing. It was both an awful and fortuitous noise. For one, the screeches were painfully ear piercing, but they also meant land was not far off. It was at that moment that he recalled the mermaid. He quickly turned to view the spot upon which she had been laying and there, snorting and oozing drool, was a fat, dozing sea lion. Startled, Pantaloons lunged back and went headfirst into the drink. The splash alerted the sea lion, which immediately shot up and leapt into the water. As if all that wasn’t weird enough, as Pantaloons swam back to his boat, he could swear he saw the sea lion lift a flipper and blow him a kiss goodbye.
The Perfects burst into laughter at the absurdity of the story, but Pantaloons held fast to his belief he actually met a mermaid that night. A doctor, who he visited upon reaching shore the next day, told him it was most likely an acute case of seawater psychosis, a common ailment that plagued those stranded upon the ocean. But the Captain would not accept the diagnosis because he had proof.
Upon his raft, he found a clamshell necklace he swore the mermaid left behind. To quell his now-cackling Perfect cohorts, Pantaloons pulled the object from his pocket for all to see. Its presence made no difference. His friends just kept laughing.
With a thunderous volley of wild chirping, Twitch came swooping down from the rafters. The noise stole everyone’s attention as they focused on the bird in flight. It cut through the air and landed upon the shoulder of the one and only Timmy Wicketts. Walking tentatively, and aided by a cane, Timmy made his way down the Rat’s Tail stairs. When everyone saw him, a loud roar erupted from the gathered group. It was as if a famed hero had just returned from battle. Francis was first to reach Timmy, helping to steady his friend as the pair made their way to a seat at the Perfects’ table. It was a joyous moment for all.
“How you feeling?” asked Brock.
“You look good,” Smirks stated.
“Great to see you up and moving,” John Ladyfist commented with a wide smile.
All were happy to see the heart and soul of the troupe back where he belonged.
Bugs handed Timmy a mug of ale, which he gratefully guzzled down.
“Timmy,” Bugs said, “I’d like to introduce you to Sir Snoots McGee.”
Snoots had been sipping a glass of wine while sitting just at the edge of the party. As much as Snoots was happy to be part of the Perfects, he never really let on, instead choosing to keep some distance between himself and the rabble-rousing. When introduced, Snoots stood and made his way over to Timmy.
Shaking Wicketts’ hand, the reserved fellow offered a greeting. “How do you do? I’ve heard much about you.”
“And I you,” Timmy replied. “Bugs says you are doing a marvelous job. He also says you’re going to knock the stockings off the audience as you perform in The Rectangle That Went That Way.”
“I’ll do my best.” Snoots grinned and returned to his seat.
“So,” Bugs continued, “we’re all set for tomorrow. The Emerald Cat has been prepared, and the guys are all at the top of their game. You won’t have to do a thing except sit back and enjoy.”
“I can do my share, Bugs,” Timmy stated as he s
tood and displayed his somewhat slower, but still fully functioning movement.
“No doubt, friend, but just for the first night, maybe it’s best you lay back a bit.”
“Hey Timmy, you barely have a mark on you,” Lancelot interjected.
It was a remarkable thing. For as bad as he looked going into the hospital, Timmy Wicketts visage was virtually unchanged. He had some dissipating bruises, yellowing as they faded, but that was about it.
“Doctors attribute it to my condition. For once, I’m thankful for the damn disease,” Timmy explained.
“Well, it’s amazing,” said Smirks, while giving Timmy’s face a once over.
A group of patrons then approached the table. Among them were quite a few lovely women. They offered the acting company some drinks on their behalf and wondered if any of them would humor their party with stories and conversation. Several of the Perfects took them up on the offer and headed over to the bar, where cold bumpers of brew were being poured.
Electing to remain, Bugs, Timmy, Francis and Snoots held fast. Timmy pulled a stack of papers from his knapsack and laid them before Bugs.
“I’m just about finished with that other play, you know, the one about the butcher,” said Timmy.
Bugs looked over what was written. “This is simply genius, Timmy. I love what you have here.”
“Yeah, I thought that was a good twist of fortune. What about the cow? Do you think we can pull it off?”
“I’m sure we can think of something.” Bugs then slid the document to Snoots.
“See here, Sir Snoots,” Bugs stated, while showing McGee what they were referring to, “we need to develop some type of costume or prop that can lose limbs and then miraculously grow them back right before the audience’s eyes. It’s a bit of a challenge, but absolutely critical to the work.”
Snoots examined the description of the cow and what was required. “I’ll talk to Ladyfist. I’m sure we can come up with something more than adequate,” he said with confidence. Sir Snoots then headed off to speak with his peer.
“I was also thinking,” Timmy said, “we could really push this thing to another level if we had some music. Nothing too elaborate, just a few melodic artisans playing the right tunes.”
Bugs loved the idea. “Who and what do you have in mind?”
“I’m not sure. I just want it to be original and moving.”
A gruff cough suddenly came from an adjacent table. A man leaned into Bugs’ and Timmy’s conversation. The gentleman was of similar age and sported a fastidiously manicured red beard. He wore a slightly battered dark brown frock coat with matching slacks, and topped it off with a somewhat askew sporting derby. Above all other visual trappings, he possessed one unrelenting characteristic. The man had an ever-present, unblinking, wide-eyed stare. It was both captivating and unnerving.
“Good Sirs, I hope you take no offense, but I overheard your dilemma,” the man stated.
Bugs, Timmy and Francis couldn’t say a thing. They were hypnotized by the fellow’s unwavering glare.
“If you are looking for a score, I may have something that could be of interest.” He pulled some sheet music from his inside coat pocket. “A young man I met was staying in my flat for a few days. He was visiting someone in town and needed a place to stay. I needed the money, and so offered a spare room. The lad fancied himself a would-be composer with a flare for waltzes. He dabbled in other musical musings as well, and when I heard him speak on the matter, I knew he possessed great potential and passion. After he departed, I was cleaning up the spare when I noticed he left behind a few crumpled-up pieces of composition in the wastebasket. I thought to myself, if the boy ever made it big, these earlier works may prove golden, so I kept them, and held them on my person for security.”
Momentarily broken free of the man’s staunch glance, Timmy asked, “So why do you reveal this to us now?”
“Well,” he explained, “I’m kind of on the ropes, so to speak. The parchments are the last bit of value I have, and I was hoping they may buy me an audition with your acting company.”
Timmy handed the music to Francis, who used the opportunity to look somewhere other than the gravitating abyss of the man’s pupils.
“Well, Sir, that’s a just exchange I suppose, but first, tell us a little more about yourself,” Timmy requested.
The music lover introduced himself as Benedict Hornberger, a former parliamentary court reporter. Benedict was known for two things, his exemplary diction and a constant stare, the likes of which could cut glass, fixed fast below his brow. Drinking at a pub one afternoon, he glanced at a fellow patron whose drunken and belligerent tone was capturing the attention of all in the tavern. When the man saw the look on Benedict's face, he took exception, not knowing Benedict could look no other way. Fisticuffs ensued, and constables were called in to quell the skirmish. Unfortunately, Benedict lost his job as a result, for convicted offenders, even of misdemeanor offenses, could not serve in parliamentary functions. He had since been making ends meet by begging on the streets.
The ill-fated story was indeed unfortunate, but as luck would have it, Timmy saw potential in Benedict. If for nothing else, his stare alone was capable of holding people’s attention for minutes at a time, which was undeniably a valuable asset to have on stage.
The leader of the Perfects agreed to the deal, and once he nudged Bugs back to the matter at hand, Harrington also concurred. They all agreed to meet at The Emerald Cat the following morning. Benedict would be allowed to read-in as the Perfects ran through their final rehearsal of The Rectangle That Went That Way. Timmy knew the troupe could use a few more men given the increasing scope of their plays, so if Benedict could perform admirably, he just might find a spot.
The Emerald Cat was larger than the Rat’s Tail, and much brighter. It had many more windows and even a vaulted, circular skylight overtop the main dining area. The plaster interior was accented with aged bronzed turning a greenish patina, and low reliefs on many of the walls depicted playful and fanciful felines wearing suits and gowns. There were two main areas in the tavern—a larger upper platform and a single step lower, a smaller one. The latter had been renovated for theater needs and had been framed with decorative pillars and a curtain rig, among other necessary mechanisms.
Brock was working those mechanisms, checking their integrity, when Benedict came in. Many of the other Perfects were on stage walking through a scene while Timmy and John Ladyfist sat in the dining area surveying the presentation.
“Benedict,” Timmy greeted upon seeing the man enter, “good morning to you.”
“And to you, Sir,” he replied.
“Head on down to the stage and take up Captain Pantaloons’ role there.”
Mr. Hornberger made his way to the platform with haste. Everyone had their eyes glued to the hopeful fellow, waiting in vain for him to flutter a single blink and rescue them from his freezing stare. He did not. Pantaloons simply handed him a script and stepped aside.
“Okay, Benedict,” Timmy shouted, “why don’t you start at the top of the act. You’ll read as Samuel Snips, and Francis there will be Theodore Rhombus. The scene is the Queen’s washhouse after dark. You’re mad at Theodore for not standing up to his superior.”
Benedict cleared his voice. Francis did the same and then began. “You don’t understand Sam, soldiery is all I have. It’s all I’ve ever been. I can’t allow my weakness to cost me my career.”
“Weakness! Weakness! I am your weakness! Not exactly the most endearing term I’ve been shackled with, although I can rail off quite a few that were far worse,” Benedict delivered with surprising fluidity.
“I’m sorry, Sam, it’s just that you’re a hairdresser, and will be a hairdresser after all is uttered and brought to light. Nothing will change for you. If I bare the same, I will be cast out of the Royal Guard faster than boots fly from the feet of a man hit by a six-horse carriage.”
“So, is that it then? You cannot bring yourself to choose betw
een your life as a military man, and the possibility of happiness with me? I’ll tell you this, Theodore, if the roles were reversed, if the Queen Mum herself told me I would either have to give up my shears or my heart, I would cast aside those instruments of primping and watch them rust while lying peacefully in the arms of my true love.”
“Stop right there!” Timmy yelled from afar. “That’s all we need.” He leaned over to John and whispered something before getting up and making his way to the stage. The rest of the ensemble moved to meet him. They talked in hushed tones as Benedict was left on stage desperately trying to make out what they were saying. After a few moments of murmuring, Bugs emerged from the posse and walked over to Mr. Hornberger.
“We’re sorry, Benedict,” Bugs began with dour expression, “but there’s no way, no way, we could go further…without you.”
The way it was delivered threw Benedict off for a moment. At first, he was sure Bugs had just dismissed him. His head drooped in disappointment. But after replaying the moment in his mind, Hornberger was immediately injected with a rush of joy. The sensation was enlivening, and the man was so overcome that he actually blinked. That event sent a wave of disbelief through the rest of the Perfects, and they bellowed a simultaneous "hurrah" before joining their newest brother on stage. Benedict was thoroughly congratulated, and he graciously accepted a position amongst the gregarious lot.
Even Snoots offered an offhand compliment, “That wasn’t the worst thing I’ve seen, Mr. Hornberger. Not the worst at all.”
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The Royal Perfects Page 9