I returned within ten minutes, freshly scrubbed. No one had moved from the table, and the mood was still heavy. The rain continued pungent and sweet. But before I could join them, Sidney intercepted me and put a firm right arm around my shoulder, walking me away from the action. He smelled good, as if he were wearing a high-end cologne, and he carried an energy that suggested he had been up for hours.
“Hey, college boy, you being good to Veronica? Shes talks about yous all the time. She’s happy.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m glad she’s happy. She makes me feel the same way.”
“Nice. Now, Sammy, yous got a lot of shit at that table. Yous can play them or you can get played. If theys play you, then it’s a bad morning, ’cause they win and losing sucks.”
“I agree, Sid. Winning is always better. What’s up? Who’s on my side?”
“I am, Veronica is, and I bet a bunch of your college pals are wit ya. And the cop, that Dudley Do-Right. That’s enough. Just play it close, no yelling, no punches, all good.” Then he turned me so I was facing my guests.
I noticed a difference from the usual demeanor and dress of the Golden family. I was surprised by how attractive Susan looked. She was dressed down in form-fitting jeans and a crisp, Brooks Brothers daisy button-down. Her hair was combed without any trace of sex. Her makeup and outfit were age appropriate. She was a lovely midforties woman.
More interesting was Gary. He looked more preppy than tough, wearing navy work pants and a white golf shirt tucked in to reveal his sculpted body. He had replaced his work boots with penny loafers resplendent with shiny copper coins. He didn’t seem menacing, and he even brought a hint of a smile. It was a nice change; I wanted to run out and buy doughnuts as a gesture of my appreciation. Then the Plymouth official walked purposefully toward me.
“Mr. August, my name is Martin Duggan. I am the senior building inspector here in Plymouth County.”
“Nice to meet you, sir. Why am I meeting you, sir?”
“Unfortunately, I have a list of violations that unless repaired and inspected by this afternoon will force me to close your building immediately.”
I noticed two of the cast, company members Karen Ross and Julie Watkins, leave their rooms and head toward breakfast. The door swung closed behind them, slamming hard against the doorstop. A phone rang several times in the office, then stopped. Rain washed over the compound, giving the moment some production value.
“May I see this list, Mr. Duggan?”
“Yes, sir.” He sorted through his briefcase.
Secunda got up and moved a bit closer to me. ASK stepped a couple of strides away from Janet and began to listen more intently. There was a sense of ill feeling in the air, and the compound became inordinately quiet, like the OK Corral before the first shot was fired. Gary Golden got up from the redwood table.
Mr. Duggan handed me a typed formal-looking sheet of paper with no official city heading. Scratched across the top of the page was PLYMOUTH COUNTY BUILDING DEPARTMENT. Anyone could have written it, and I was sure that someone with deceitful intent had. I looked at the document for some time. There were inspections listed, but with no dates. In addition, the inspectors’ signatures were illegible.
I returned the paper to Duggan. “So that’s it? This log with no dates or names or actual specific violations entitles you to come here and threaten to close my business?”
“I assure you, Mr. August, there is no threat here. As the watchdog for the safety of this county, I am prepared to shut your doors.”
“‘Watchdog,’ Mr. Duggan, is an interesting choice of term. May I see that list again?”
The building inspector obliged. While I studied it, Duggan offered a solution. “Due to the timing of the situation and the tremendous losses you might incur as well as the poor press you might receive, may I suggest another alternative, Mr. August?”
“You are the watchdog, sir. You can suggest and do anything you’d like, except shit on my grounds, because I’d insist you clean it up or eat it, depending on what your suggestion is.”
That cast a pall on further conversation. I looked at the paper again, but only saw red.
“There is no reason to be rude, Mr. August. I am only doing my job.”
“Right. And again, what is that job?”
“I am the head of the Building Department here in Plymouth County and I am assigned to keep places of assembly safe.”
“Okay, you’re right, I should not be rude, at least until I hear your suggestion.”
“Thank you. If you pay a violations fine of six thousand dollars, we can consider the matter closed.”
Who would believe this guy? Don’t we have rehearsal in a few moments? Maybe I can get Ellie to fuck him in lieu of the six grand. What are all these spectators going to do when this plays out? Does Julie Watkins ever wear a bra to breakfast, and why haven’t I noticed before what big breasts she has?
I looked at Duggan through narrowed eyes. “Do you have a boss?”
“Yes, sir. I do.”
“Does he know you are here this morning?”
“No, Mr. August, he does not. I have a job to do and he is a busy man. Your situation is not the only one on our docket today.” For the first time since he had uttered a word, Mr. Duggan gave me attitude with more than a modicum of edge. It became clearer what an unadulterated scumbag he was.
“So your boss doesn’t know you have shit for brains and are here to extort me? He doesn’t know you are a complete douchebag. The only thing you are leaving here with is a few broken bones, a formal complaint to the mayor, and a report to the paper that you are a corrupt dirtbag.” Duggan didn’t say anything.
“Cat got your tongue, dirtbag? Or has the watchdog got it?”
I moved toward Duggan intending to pick him up off the ground and throw him onto the street. As I took my first step forward with a red face and violence pulsing through my veins, ASK ran toward me at full speed and kicked me square in the testicles. I was too incapacitated to say a word and fell unceremoniously to the ground in a ball of misery. Through a haze of pain, I watched and or heard the following:
ASK dropped to my side and said, “I’m really sorry, but if you hit that guy you’d be in jail, and I need notes for tonight’s performance. Also, you’re much bigger than I am, and that was all I could think of. Sorry.”
Dr. Rosenstein knelt next to me and his prescription was, “Breathe. Testicles are very resilient, and I imagine yours are more than most.”
Susan Golden approached Duggan and handed him sheet of paper and a pen. “Sign this, you bastard, and sign it now, quickly.” Duggan perused it with dispatch and did as he was told.
Gary Golden got chest to chest with Duggan and shoved an eight-by-ten envelope at him. Then he grabbed the front of Duggan’s shirt and said in a rather intimidating whisper, “Take this money, you prick, and get lost. Consider it a gift from my grandfather, but don’t go thanking him. If I hear you come back to August with anymore bullshit, here is some good advice—don’t. You’re not even allowed in here if you buy a ticket. You are a lowlife prick. You have until the count of ten, and then I mess you up.”
Duggan took the envelope and leaned over a bit to where I was slowly recuperating on the damp ground. “Thank you, Mr. August. May you have the best of luck the rest of your summer.”
Gary Golden punted him a good fifteen yards with a stunning kick to the ass. Duggan stumbled a bit but made it back to his car, climbing in and driving off into the misty morning.
Secunda surveyed the situation. He took a draw on his stogie then with a big smile said, “Well, that was interesting. How about we take a brief respite for breakfast and then continue. Would someone help Sammy off the ground and find him a comfortable seat out of the rain?”
“It might help if he sat on a pillow,” Elliot suggested. ASK, perhaps out of guilt, said, “I’ll get one
,” and he ran off to find a cushion.
I noticed it was just past seven o’clock. What else could this day bring?
62
Fifteen minutes later I lay on my back under the eave of the theater, protected from what had become a steady, cold summer rain. The company had just witnessed a series of events that was not in the fine print of their employment agreements. Nevertheless, it seemed to pass quickly, and the morning din in the dining room rang with spirited talk of impending rehearsals. Veronica had brought me some breakfast: orange juice, soft-boiled eggs, and crispy, well-buttered English muffins. She told me I was a hero for my “restraint,” lacing the word with sarcasm.
“If it wasn’t for ASK, there would have been no restraint,” I pointed out.
She jumped all over that. “You were an idiot, Sam. You wanted like so many other morons to lead with machismo. You’re smarter than that. So actually ASK was the hero. Maybe he should be rewarded with deviant sex.”
I was chastened. I should have been smarter. Think first. Get the facts and don’t lead with my chin.
Jojo visited the temporary infirmary and told me I had notes and rehearsals in an hour and that after this morning’s distractions I had better be at my best. When I asked her to line up a call with my dad at six in the evening, she softened and said, “Sure. I’ll tell him to expect to hear from you.”
“Oh, and Jojo, could you send a telegram to Mr. Foster, Ellie’s dad. I think his first name is Steven. See if he can find some time in his schedule to talk with me. Ten minutes is all I need.”
“Sure.”
“And we’ll keep that between you and me, right?”
“Yup.” That was all there was to say.
Sidney pulled up a folding chair and sat facing backward on it, resting his chin on the back of the chair. He made no effort to stay out of the elements, and rain spotted his shirt.
“College boy,” he said, “yous a good solid kid. Yous tough and unafraid, which is both good and bad. Yous can only win so many battles in life. Only so many. Even if yous fucking Jim Lonborg, you lose, particularly on short rest. Take a blow. Decide what is important and fight those fights. Then you win. The ones you pay no attention yous might lose anyway, probably. Yous a winner kid, but only when you figure that part out. Call me if yous need me. And when yous feeling better, stop by for a drink. Oh, and keep being nice to my Veronica sweetie, otherwise yous lose everything. Love ya, kid.”
He walked off into the rain like Shane. I wanted to shout, “Come back, Sid!” but my balls still hurt. I rested in silence for a bit. The rain pelted the deck and was relaxing in its exactitude. My attitude was all that mattered. I could control that. I was committed to making it work today.
The cops wandered over. They had an air of contrition and stood a few feet away as if to make sure it was okay to approach me. I sat up and grabbed Sid’s chair, placing it out of harm’s way from the chilly rain. As the senior agent, Officer Warren did the talking. “Sam, we are here to help. What went on here this morning is not what we represent in our department. Trust me. You already have had a day and a half. Now you have to go to work. We’ll plug the dam for the day and let you catch up. We’ll be back at six and we’ll figure out how to win this one, as well as those problems facing Miss Foster.”
“Yeah, Sam,” added Officer Richardson. “I have done some reading about your guy Capra—actually Ellie read it to me mostly. He said something like, ‘In the fight of all great causes, it is at times when we feel lost, that we are closest to finding our way.’ I’m here. Feel better and we’ll check in later.”
Warren added one more thing. “I told your people if Colon calls you again, they are to tell him you’re off limits and that he has to go through me first. Hey, you have a good day, kid. Make some music.”
Gary Golden walked up the three steps to the deck and handed me a large glass of grapefruit juice. “I understand you don’t drink coffee because you wake up wired. True?”
“Yup. The problem for me is not waking up, it’s falling asleep. So thanks. This has pulp in it.”
“Squeezed it myself,” Golden said. “Wow. I guess the war is over.”
Gary dropped to his haunches so I could stay seated and away from the rain. The precipitation seemed to hit him and bounce off the way bullets do off the chest of Superman. He captured my gaze, and I have to admit I was confused. Yet I was ready to listen. That much I had learned these past weeks.
“Sam,” he said, “I want to be your friend. I didn’t want to be a few weeks ago, but now I do. I am a badass enemy, but I can be a good guy if I am on your side. I’d like to be on your side and I want you to trust me. I even talked with Veronica about it and we’ll straighten things out so this can happen. She told me to talk with you, said she’d sign up for whatever is good for you but that it was your choice. I’m going nowhere. I am a local dick who fights too much and takes some graft and punches around a few schlubs. I like you. I’ve watched you these past weeks. But no one can make a difference alone. I want to help you.”
“Wow,” I said, “I thought you were here to beat the shit out of me. Life is full of surprises.”
“Yeah, it’s true.” He offered his hand.
“Lots of questions,” I said.
“They’ll wait till after rehearsal. By the way, I think Secunda is hysterical. Saw the show three times and paid every time.”
“Let’s meet at the Full Sail at eleven tonight and see if the new beginning is real.”
“Guarantee it is. I’ll be early. Thanks.”
“You know the Bible teaches grace. Let’s hope you’re right.”
Gary considered this for a second. “I dated a girl named Grace once. Good for the Bible.”
After he left I stood up, rearranged my damaged testicles, and rethought the events of the morning. I took a deep breath and walked into the theater for my rehearsal. I was ten minutes early. What to do with the extra time?
My dad always told me that it is the unexpected in a deal that rattles the cage, so here I was with everything I needed to deliver the show except a lack of distraction. What was my choice? Blow up like Apollo 1 or stand true to my goals?
One day at time. As of this morning, it was the best I had to offer.
63
Sylvia, a distant, much older, cousin of mine worked for the RAF during the London Blitz. She looked at radar screens all day on the lookout for the German Luftwaffe. Every day, ten, twelve, fourteen hours a day. Then she would go home. Every night the city was bombed. Yet people went out to buy food, take an evening walk, or even see a movie or a show at the Royal Shakespeare Company.
One day a high-ranking RAF officer offered Sylvia two tickets to see John Gielgud play Hamlet at an evening show of the RCS. Thrilled, she got to the theater early to soak up the experience. John Gielgud! She and her friend took their seats, fourth row center. Just then the stage manager stepped in front of the curtain and made an important announcement.
“Mr. Gielgud will not be performing the role of Hamlet this evening.” The audience murmured their dismay. “The role of Hamlet will be performed by Mr. Gielgud’s understudy, Mr. Laurence Olivier.”
Okay, they all thought, we’re here, we’ve dodged the bombs and the bullets. Let’s see if this Larry bloke is any good. I guess he was, since he would later work often.
Just before the end of the first act, sirens went off; the city was under attack. The stage manager announced that the performance would recommence once the “lights out” was lifted. He hoped everyone was enjoying the show. The bombing ceased, and about fifteen minutes later the performance was completed. Mr. Olivier took the star bow as Hamlet, the first of many times he would play the role.
The next day, my cousin went back to watching radar screens and looking for Germans. Life goes on. It simply has to, otherwise what would we all do to fill our days? Now, I’m not suggesting th
at the events and distractions of earlier this morning were tantamount to the London Blitz. Of course not. Not even for a moment.
Yet what I was thinking as my rehearsal began and everyone was focused, all in good humor and actually working at a heightened level, was that life does go on, and as long as it does, we should make the most of it. In London, they did this as they tiptoed through the bombings. Here today at PBT, six o’clock would arrive and Colon might reappear. At eleven, I’d meet Gary Golden, my new best friend. Until then I’d work, and on my breaks I would check the radar to see if anyone else was trying to blow up the building.
64
In addition to the minutiae that goes into a rehearsal, today we had two major things to accomplish. One was a “star” issue about Katherine Fitzgerald and her position in the lead role. She was either going to meet the challenge or fall short. It was not a question of ability but psyche, which is always a deep-rooted conundrum. The other was fun, but could lead to tedium if we were not on top of our game. It would require focus and creativity from everyone; we were going to run the scene that ended the first act as many as twenty times so we could set up the first act finale perfectly. With each run, the artists had to bring something new to the scene. If they did, it would be time well spent. If not, then both the scene and rehearsal would be deadly. We chose to work on the end of Act One first.
Funny Girl is the musical biography of the great Ziegfeld star Fanny Brice. It was a huge hit on Broadway and made Barbara Streisand an international sensation. She won both the Tony and the Oscar for her performance in the lead role. Like all classic musicals, it has some brilliant moments and a few clinkers that I am sure the original creators wished they had the liberty to fix before opening night. Act One ends with one of the great musical numbers in Broadway history, “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” The setup is simple, the execution difficult.
Little Did I Know Page 24