Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  I enjoyed the competition, and once the cards were in my possession I would study the player’s statistics until I had memorized every one. Every player, every homer, RBI, and stolen base. For instance, Jerry Lumpe hit thirty-four doubles in 1962 while playing for the Kansas City Athletics. There wasn’t anything subjective or ephemeral about the back of a baseball card. If a player hit .330, he was good. If he batted .211, he’d be on a bus back to the minors. It was clear and precise, very much the opposite of the theater business, which is nothing but irrational or completely insane.

  The rain hadn’t let up all day and now as curtain time approached it was almost comical in its intensity. Yet every ticket was sold! SRO made for a rather colorful array of umbrellas held by those waiting in line hoping for a cancellation. And all on a Thursday night. Nothing made sense. We weren’t bad when the house was sparse, and we weren’t world-beaters now that there was a battle for every last seat, even the one in the corner behind a pole.

  There is nothing like the theater. There is no other entertainment medium that can deliver the surprise a live performance on the stage promises. Every night is like a snowflake unique unto itself. Tonight’s performance of our fluff thirties silly musical was proof positive. There was a terrific classic tap number in the middle of Act One in which our character actress Mary Saloshin led the chorus girls in a wild, crazy, joyous ride into insane silliness. Mary was all bones and elbows and made Olive Oyl look like she needed to eat a salad. She owned the number from the downbeat and wore it like a glove. With flourish she built and built it. Unless you were Satan, you couldn’t help but smile from start to finish. Tonight the mirth meter was off the charts.

  As the number reached its peak, one of the backup dancers, the lovely Carol Duteau, had the misfortune of having her halter top unhook behind her neck; she had to continue in just her dance pants, tap shoes, and a smile. Wow! What a way to steal a scene.

  Carol was up there dancing with her luscious breasts, which had graduated from Yale, beautifully bouncing for the entire world to see. It was like a gorgeous train wreck. You had to look. You knew you shouldn’t but you couldn’t help yourself.

  Carol kept dancing as if nothing had happened. It made no sense; she should have bolted off stage, but for some inexplicable reason she chose not to. The rest of the girls fed on the energy from her courage and abandon; the audience was in awe of her beauty, her guts, and some unconscious, unmitigated confidence that allowed her to tap on through without missing a beat. She went from role player to superstar—and no doubt about it: she had a sensational, glorious set of boobs.

  The number ended and the audience cheered. Then they stood up and roared. The cast broke character and applauded Carol with every fiber of their clothed bodies. There were whistles and hollers and a drum beat from the orchestra, and everyone kept letting Carol Duteau know she was something else

  . . . and oh those boobies.

  Whether she was in shock or denial or liked the attention, she made no effort to cover up and took repeated bow after repeated bow. The spot operators crisscrossed their lights so they resembled klieg beams at an opening night in Hollywood. It appeared the frenzy would never end, and I began to wonder if she would cover up before catching one hell of a chest cold.

  Finally, and as further proof that tonight was the perfect evening to attend the show even by boat if necessary, Secunda, who was playing the comic lead Moonface Martin, walked center stage and stood next to Carol. The cheering continued. In the spirit of classic burlesque he made googly eyes at this stunningly beautiful, half-naked girl and placed his head gently against her naked tatas. He rested there for quite awhile—nice work if you can get it—then placed his face directly on target and shook his head vigorously and joyously from side to side. He turned to the audience and held their gaze. What could he possibly say? Or do?

  With a slight nod to Groucho he said, “I have been so busy with rehearsals I haven’t been keeping abreast of things.”

  Huge laugh.

  “I love this job. And it involves money too. But don’t worry, I don’t pay them very much!”

  More laughter. Lots of it.

  He then removed the costume sport jacket he was wearing and draped it over Carol’s shoulders. He took her hand and walked her center stage into the hot light of the two balcony spots.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Carol Duteau.”

  Carol took a deep bow and smiled from somewhere she had never been before. Wherever her life would lead her, she would never forget this unexpected bit of magic when in the blink of an eye she became the epicenter of this small yet overwhelmingly loving universe.

  By the end of the next afternoon, you could find many auto rear windshields freshly painted and shouting throughout town, I LOVE YOU CAROL! WILL YOU MARRY ME? Never had a girl had so many choices, or such a growing number of acolytes. It is true the show must go on and it will, long after we are all gone. I doubt, however, that there will ever be another evening to match that rainy night in the old barn in the town where the Pilgrims had set up shop.

  67

  As I walked up Garden Road on the way to my eleven o’clock meeting with Gary Golden at the Full Sail, I heard breathless footsteps following me, gaining ground. The rain had finally slowed and the entire beachfront was now cloaked in a dense low-lying fog. You could hear the ocean without seeing it, and the streetlights glowed like old-fashioned gas lamps. The sound of wet footsteps behind me was unnerving. I wasn’t sure whether I should stop and face down my pursuer or wait to see if he was headed for a rendezvous with another. In fact, I wondered if perhaps my overall fatigue and apprehension had fabricated this faceless menace.

  But I could hear clearly the approaching heels of my pursuer as they pushed down on the pavement. So I quickened my pace and braced myself as the footsteps came within arm’s length.

  “Sam! Hold up,” someone shouted just steps away. “Hey man, wait, slow down.” I recognized the voice and slowed to face it. Out of the haze ASK appeared. He had changed out of his costume and was dressed in jeans and a gold PBT T-shirt, but he was still wearing his stage makeup. It made him look ghoulish and frightening in the distorting light.

  “Alan, what are you doing? Did you come to kick me in the balls again?”

  He reached his arm out to hold me in place while he gulped for air. The long run had taken its toll.

  “No, of course not. I didn’t want you to go alone, that’s all. I came after you because I thought you might need help. You know, backup.”

  He had his hands resting on his knees and his breathing was decelerating.

  It appeared he was going to make it.

  “Backup?” I asked. “You mean like on a cop show?” He nodded his assent and saved some air by doing so.

  “You know, ASK, with your makeup on and in this light you really look like Howdy Doody.” Then I began to laugh from someplace down deep.

  ASK laughed as well. “Hey, I’m sorry about this morning. I didn’t know what else to do. You okay?”

  I took a long time to respond. After all, it had been one crazy night. And although Gary Golden had spoken of his desire to be friends, perhaps it was all a setup.

  “Alan, I don’t know. How do you think I should be?”

  “If I knew, I’d tell you. I thought if I showed up we could figure it out together.”

  “That would be good. That would be really good.”

  ASK moved toward me and offered an awkward hug. If anyone were around they’d see a funny snapshot of the diminutive ASK with his arms around the six-foot-four me. After a moment, he said, “I love you, man. You’re not alone. I know you think I’m a little imp, but remember dynamite comes in small packages.”

  “Kaboom,” I said. I patted his head, and we continued together to my appointment with Gary Golden.

  Gary was seated at a two-top overlooking the deck. ASK took a barstool, ordered a beer, and acted as loo
kout. We had decided I should talk with Golden alone. I sat across from him and watched while he drank tequila neat with a beer back. I hadn’t noticed before, but this was one good-looking guy. He had a strong jaw that emphasized his chiseled features. He had dark, piercing eyes and a smoldering look complemented by a five o’clock shadow. His body was broad at the shoulders and tapered at the waist, like a middleweight boxer who could cast a shadow longer than his reach. He had a disarming model’s smile and carried himself with confidence and élan.

  “Spooky out there. I thought I’d run into Basil Rathbone,” I joked.

  “Don’t know him. Does he work with you?”

  “No, it was a joke. Rathbone was an actor who played Sherlock Holmes in the movies. It was always foggy in those films.”

  He smirked a bit. “How the fuck would I know that?”

  “Are you going to beat me up?” I asked lightheartedly, to test out the landscape.

  “You want me to?” He smiled. “I think you might want a drink instead. Or I could buy you the drink then kick the shit out of you if you’d prefer.”

  “I’ll just go with the drink for starters and take a rain check on the random violence,” I replied.

  Gary responded with a polite chuckle and motioned to Doobie at the bar for another round of drinks. He waved at ASK and held up a peace sign suggesting that he could relax; no SWAT team was needed at the moment.

  We sat silently until the drinks arrived. He asked that the waiter hold a moment while he raised his glass to toast. We both downed the shots of Cuervo. Then Gary signaled the waiter to bring another round.

  We sipped our beer and took each other’s measure. “Sorry about the angel dust,” he said.

  “Yeah, that really sucked.”

  “Didn’t think you’d try to swim to England.”

  “Wouldn’t have smoked it if I had known it was laced with that shit.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”

  I locked on his eyes and decided he meant it. “I accept. Why’d you do it? Try to fuck me up like that . . .”

  He ran by the question and left it unanswered. “You know, I never saw a show until you came to town. Where you learn that stuff? In college?”

  “Some of it. Mostly in college I learned that I wanted to try to earn a living at it and find out if I might be good enough to do so. And how to chase girls, of course.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, but you seem pretty good at the whole thing. I mean, you and your group are the talk of the town. As to the girls, you have some lookers working there, so congrats on that as well.”

  “Thanks. I guess I’m good enough to get everybody’s attention. Now what I need to do is learn how to keep it.”

  I looked over at ASK, who was engrossed in a sports debate with Doobie. It was a bit disconcerting to note that if Gary decided to stomp me to death, ASK would be too involved to notice.

  I hesitated a moment but then ventured forth. “I mean no disrespect, but where did you learn to shake people down? And why me?”

  “College,” he said, smiling.

  “What school teaches Extortion ?”

  “It’s an extra-credit course.” He said this with a grin, and we both laughed. “Boston College. I went to BC for two years and then dropped out.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “I got tired of the BS. The football coaches telling me what to do. Same with the professors. The whole being bossed around thing didn’t work for me.” He took out a pack of cigarettes and did that thing smokers do where they smash the pack a few times to tighten the tobacco before they light up.

  He offered me the first option. “Don’t smoke,” I said.

  “Mind if I do?”

  “Yeah, I kinda do, if you don’t mind.”

  “That’s why I asked.” He put away his smokes. “Hungry?”

  “I’m not looking for any trouble Gary, but what are we doing here? First you fuck me up, then you shake me down, and now you want to buy me a burger. You make a bet with someone on how big a schmuck I might be?”

  “You got a hot switch on you,” he noted without animus.

  “Yup, my Achilles heel. Maybe I should breathe. But everybody’s strength is also their weakness.”

  “Temper’s a bad thing. Can get you in a whole lot of trouble, you know. I told you this morning I wanted to be friends.”

  I drank my beer until the glass was empty. I walked over to the bar and told ASK it was all right, but if he wanted, he should hang around. Then I ordered two more Cuervos with beers to back ’em and returned to the table with the drinks in hand.

  “Okay,” I said, “let’s drink to new friends and how all that works between us.”

  “We talk,” he said.

  I jumped in. “Gary, why’d you do that stuff? Why’d you come at me? Was it sport or real?”

  “I dunno. You ever see somebody, strangers mostly, and they just piss you off? They have a nicer car or a better-looking girl . . . Everybody likes ’em. Everything is so easy and you think, ‘Why can’t that be me?’ And since you can’t be that person, you fuck with ’em or bring ’em down to your level so that you can feel better?”

  In a quiet way I was stunned. I looked long and hard at this guy. He was the grandson of Dr. Barrows, who was wealthy beyond means. He was great looking, clearly smart enough to attend Boston College, and sufficiently talented as an athlete to play football there. He thought my life was easy and I thought he was a misguided tough guy. I took some time with my beer so I could ponder the situation and concluded we were both just two angry young fools. He had done what he did to me and I responded with equal unnecessary vitriol. Perhaps we could be friends, but it was certain we wouldn’t be if we judged each other from a distance. We were young men trying to find our way; it was clear we each needed a compass and road map as much as the other.

  “So you’re human,” I finally said. “My dad jokes about how you can never be too thin or too rich because he’s neither, but he is still a great person. The Bible says something about envy being ‘where jealousy and selfish ambition lead to evil vile practices.’”

  He sat there pensively and waved away the waiter who had come with a free round from Doobie. “I thought you were Jewish,” he said.

  “I am, but it doesn’t mean I haven’t read some of the Bible. I’m also not Italian but I eat pasta.”

  “I never met a Jewish guy before. Gotta admit you’re no different than me.”

  “Yeah, I am,” I said. “I’m sure my dick is bigger than yours. It’s a curse we Jewish guys have to bear.”

  He laughed long and hard, and then after a beat laughed again as if he’d found something new in what he thought was funny.

  “That’s a problem for you?” he asked.

  “A big one,” I answered. “Enormous.” And we laughed again.

  The fog was lifting, and with the lateness of the hour, the moon had taken full flight. It all seemed so cinematic: as two strangers connected there was light, and in that moment there was magic.

  “You know what else the Bible says about envy?” I asked.

  “Never read it nor been to church, so I doubt I do.” He said that more as confession than as fact, and I found it winning in its openness.

  “Well, it says something like ‘many people are motivated to find success because they are envious of their neighbors and that such pursuits are meaningless and tantamount to chasing the wind.’ You get the drift.”

  He got up, stretched, and looked out at the ocean. He appeared younger than when we’d first met. He spoke to Doobie across the empty tables, asking for the round of free drinks he’d called off earlier. He then sat back at the table and looked at me for a long while without saying a word. The drinks arrived, and still nothing.

  Finally, he said, “What motivates you?”
>
  “Not envy. That’s one thing I am sure of. I think I want to make a difference. Make people think about their lives, where they’re heading. Try to do the right thing. Make others laugh or escape from a bad day. Hit a homer. Be liked. ‘Seek my bliss’ like Joseph Campbell said.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “A writer, philosopher.”

  “You’re a smart guy. Maybe that’s why so many people like you.”

  “Hey, man, we’re all smart about different things. And I am not so certain these days that too many people are liking me. You think my life is easy? That’s irony for you. I thought yours was and built you up in my head as an asshole. Right now, my life is getting the better of me. I feel like I’m running a race and trying to finish with a stitch in my side. I’ll cross the ribbon, but the chances of getting home first are fading.”

  He considered this for a moment then said, “You know who I think are the best-looking girls at your place?”

  “They’re all gorgeous. But everyone has their favorites.”

  “Ellie and Katherine.”

  “Everyone thinks Ellie’s a beauty, but Kat’s a little tough for me.”

  “How about you?” he asked.

  “Slam dunk. Veronica.”

  “You don’t know everything about Veronica.”

  “I don’t know everything about anything.”

  “You don’t know everything about Lizzy Barrows either.”

  I nodded. “Pay the bill. We’ll grab ASK on the way out. I want to introduce you to the best-looking girl at PBT. It would be good for her to meet a nice guy like you. On the way, we can talk about Veronica.”

  I expected it would take a lot more time to talk about Veronica than our short ride to the Moondog would allow. Unfortunately, I was correct. Gary had known Veronica her whole life, and as he shared some history and I connected the dots, it became unsettling. Tonight I had no time for questions. They would have to wait till another day, some privacy and discretion.