Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  “You make it all sound so easy. But, that’s how it’s always been for you, Jerry. You’ve always moved on easier than anyone else. You love them. Fuck them. Toss them aside.”

  Jericho said nothing. He looked hard into Chris’ eyes.

  “Nothing to say because it’s true.” Chris’ feet hurt.

  “It has been true. In the past. Yes. I’ve never been one for long-term commitments. There was a guy named Barry. Another blast from my past. It didn’t work out.”

  “Oh, is that what I am, some twelve-step moment in your life?” Chris ached, but it wasn’t his feet that hurt now.

  “No. I just thought this would be fun to do. And, so far, it has been. I’ve always wanted to do something to revive Tamburlaine, to bring some of my past into the present. I got my start there like you did, like lots of guys did. It’s an institution that should be saved from extinction. And, if we save you along the way, so much the better.”

  “Save me! Save me? Who the fuck do you think you are?” Chris wanted to throw something; to storm off; to stomp away. He couldn’t. Instead, he sat with a sigh. “Wait. Don’t say another word. I’m tired. I don’t feel well. And, you’re right. This is an ancient fight that we don’t have to deal with today. Just go.”

  “I don’t think you should be alone.” Jerry reached for Chris’ hand. Chris tucked his hands under the afghan. “Despite this bad blood between us, I really do care for you. I like you, too. And, I’m not walking out on you. Not this time. We might not work as a couple and I think we’ve both found our ground with that. Let’s see if we work as business partners. The personal shit, well, that’s for moments like these, not moments at the club.”

  “I’ve never brought this up there. I won’t. But, I still want you to leave.”

  “I’m going to the bathroom.” Jericho stood up and left the room.

  Chris hit the button, changed the CD, and Ella Fitzgerald sang “Someone to Watch Over Me.” “The score of my life,” he said to no one. He turned the machine off. A radiator banged.

  Jericho returned. “Ingram will be here in a few minutes. He’s going to spend the night with you. Keep an eye on you. Make sure you take your meds. Keep you off your feet.”

  “I really don’t need a nursemaid.”

  “Tough shit. You’ve got one. Be nice to the boy. He loves you. And,” Jericho came over to Chris, bent down, kissed the top of his head, “I do, too.”

  Twenty-three

  With assistance, Chris took a seat at the rear of the house, just as the lights dimmed. The combo played a shortened version of the Dame’s at Sea overture and the character Mona, played by a burly drag queen, stepped out and performed “Wall Street,” including an extended tap break. His ’30s dress split a side seam up to his left hip while he tap danced in size 13 heels. The audience went wild.

  Number after number, genders swapped and switched; it was difficult at times keeping up with who played whom. Without the benefit of straight or gay couples, in a show where everything went, the nine characters gender bended their way into the hearts of the witnesses. By the end of Act II, folks were roaring their approval and stamping their feet because applause just wasn’t loud enough.

  The whole building reverberated. Which, mixed with a healthy dose of pain pills, had Chris in a jolly mood. At the end of the show, he waited for the others to exit. He didn’t want to take a chance of being stepped on or falling on anyone.

  He straightened his frock, checked his wig and makeup in his compact, and then simply watched the happy faces of the men and women streaming in slow motion out of the theater.

  Chris sat until the stage lights came up. He watched Nancy Ann and two men in black clothing moving scenery and presetting for the midnight show.

  Nancy Ann put her hands over her eyes and peered into the theater. “Mr. Marlowe, is that you?” She jumped off the stage and ran to his side where she knelt on the floor so they were eye to eye.

  “Oh, Nancy Ann, it was a wonderful performance. A few cues seemed weird to me, but the show fits on our little stage perfectly. You young people did a very nice job.”

  “Thanks, Mr.—”

  Chris held up a finger.

  “…Chris. Has Jericho told you the plan?”

  “Not sure. We’ve talked about so many things.” He let her take his hand for a moment.

  “We’re going to be swapping roles every night. Everyone will have an opportunity to play every role.”

  “Well, I can’t wait for that big old queen who played Mona to play the ingénue role of Ruby.”

  “Oh, Chris, it’s a riot. You’ll have to be sure to be here for that. And, I don’t know if you noticed, but this chair you’re in is yours. We’ve got a plaque on it and we’ve taken all the tickets out of the rack. This seat will be available at all performances just for you. No matter what is happening, you will always have a place to watch the show from. That was my idea.”

  “Well, Nancy Ann, you’re very kind. I hope you’ll let me buy you a drink tonight to thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

  “Of course.”

  “Nancy!” One of the crew boys called.

  “I really do have to go back to work so we can get these boys out of here before we hit overtime.” She patted Chris’ hand a few more times and then bolted up to the stage.

  Chris sat for a bit longer, watching them work on ladders, altering the lights. He knew, without a doubt, that so long as Nancy Ann was in charge, was The Tamburlaine Players’ Stage Manager, that everything in this showroom would run like clockwork.

  He couldn’t help but remember his own performances in this space, but tonight’s show altered that history. New memories filled his mind and that would take some of the burden off the older, dusty and threadbare memories.

  Chris reached for his cane, used it and the chair in front of him to stand, regained a comfortable balance, and headed out into the edge of the dining room. He hated once again that the showroom let out in the dining room. They should be separated somehow, something for his Tamburlaine to-do list. That and renovating the restrooms. Once there was some money coming in, he’d get a contractor to offer some quotes.

  He hobbled through the full dining room, out into the over-filled barroom. The Piano Player, while contemporary, played well. He was tinkling a modern melody, but somehow made it sound like something old-fashioned. Chris wound his way to his end of the bar. He couldn’t bend his feet enough to gain the leverage to climb up and sit on his stool.

  “What can I get for you, boss?” Frank asked.

  “A bourbon. And a chair.” While he waited for his drink, Ingram sidled up next to him.

  “Hello, Chris.” He held out a palm with several pills in it. “Don’t give me any grief. Take your medicine like a good boy,” he said good natured and a little silly about it.

  Chris took the pills from Ingram; he downed them with the bourbon, pointed at the glass. Frank refilled it.

  “Listen.” Ingram’s mouth was tight to Chris’ ear, which sent a thrilling wave through Chris. “We’ve got a table for you right down front and to the side. You can sit there, enjoy cocktail service. And, when you’re ready to play, it will be easy to get you up on stage.” Ingram looked down at Chris’ feet. “How are you…are you wearing bunny slippers? Actual bunny slippers?”

  “What?” Chris turned his feet out, first one then the other. “Don’t they go with my outfit?”

  Ingram laughed.

  “And, they’ll help me remember without too much pain that I can’t work the pedals. And, even better, they’ll be funny. Go for the joke whenever possible. People haven’t been overly morbid with me, and I don’t want them to have too much of a chance.”

  “As you wish.” Ingram took Chris by the elbow and gently led him to the table as one of the drag queen waiters mounted the stage and did a bold rendition of “Defying Gravity.�
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  While Chris didn’t usually enjoy the new music, he loved anything that empowered people and Steven Swartz did that with his music.

  As Chris sat at his table, a parade of folks came and kept him company. Nancy Ann had her drink. Jericho arrived and spent a few minutes. Ingram checked in every twenty or thirty minutes, bringing drinks and food; at the proper intervals, he also brought medications. Finally, about midnight, with several men helping him up to the stage, Chris took his turn at the piano. As he began to play, people applauded. He made jokes. Worked the slippers. Sang Rusty Warren’s sex songs and ballads. He kept the room riveted to him for over an hour, the audience following every word and musical note.

  He congratulated the cast and crew as they continued to drink themselves silly. He thanked his partner Jericho. He mentioned Matilda and the restaurant. He reminded people to tip their waiters and bartenders. He closed with “Life is Just a Bowl of Cherries,” and, with a little help, came down off the stage. He didn’t sit, but instead, asked Ingram, who was on constant vigil, to call a cab to take him home. He was done for the night and others would have to see the evening through to the end. Chris hobbled to the door, not speaking to anyone, overcome with emotions.

  Twenty-four

  The cab dropped Chris at his door. He over-tipped the driver for the short trip before getting out. He stood on the street for a long time, the proud owner of a torched, scarred building. It was brick, so he knew the damage to be surface only. The flames had been extinguished quickly, so there wasn’t much scorching.

  He pushed hard to open the door, limped down the alley, and entered his kitchen. He downed a handful of pain killers before filling a bucket with hot, soapy water. After two trips, he managed to get the bucket and a scrub brush, along with the hose, out to the front and Chris started scrubbing. It wasn’t long before his hands were red and raw; his clothes and slippers soaked. He felt no pain, felt nothing. So, he scrubbed.

  Brick by brick Chris made his way from the highest blackened brick, barely at eye level. He scrubbed and scrubbed and rinsed. Brick by brick he rediscovered his sense of pride in his home. Brick by brick he found his anger at those who had thrown the bottles, at those who paid for them to do it, for those who poisoned him. Brick by fucking brick he released that anger as he scrubbed and rinsed until the building and door were cleaned. He left the mess on the sidewalk for others to take care of.

  Chris stepped backward and contemplated his work under the bright light that cast a large, round shadow about him and then dumped the bucket of soot-stained water into the street. He got the hose inside the door and the pain crept up his legs, into his torso, until it exploded in his head. With effort, he navigated the alley, got into his home, and swallowed another group of pills.

  Stripped, in the shower, he let the hot water rush over him, warm him. He wanted a joint, so that this over-drugged sensation might mellow. Chris couldn’t remember if there was any pot in his home. It had been so long since he, or any of the boys he’d dated, had been open about smoking the drug.

  “Chris? Chris!”

  Chris didn’t recognize the feminine voice calling him. For the second time that day, he couldn’t find words.

  “Chris?”

  The voice came closer.

  “Here,” he squeaked out.

  “Can I come in there?”

  “Who?”

  “Nancy Ann.”

  Chris leaned against the wall. “Yes, if you can take an old queen in the shower.”

  Nancy Ann came into the room. “How are you? The boys were worried about you, and I was the only one dispensable.”

  “So, the evening is going well?” Chris continued to let the water rush over him. “Any chance you have a joint on you?”

  “In fact, I do. Want me to spark it?” She reached for her ever-present fanny pack.

  “Well, first, I think I need to figure all of this out.” Chris turned his head toward her.

  “What is ‘All of this’?”

  “Well, I’ve taken a few painkillers. I’ve over done it from an energy standpoint. I’ve made a mess of my dressings. And, I’m naked.”

  “Okay. Let’s get to work.” Her voice low and calm, Nancy Ann reached into the shower and turned off the water; she began to hum something familiar, but Chris couldn’t remember the song. Within an instant, she’d ushered Chris out of the shower, onto a soft rug and toweled him off, while encouraging him to help.

  From the towels, she had him easily into a plush robe and ushered him toward the bed.

  “No, living room.”

  She guided him down the hall until he stopped. Once inside, he turned on a light and sank onto a couch.

  Nancy Ann got his feet up atop a pillow covered by a towel. She disappeared for a few moments, all the while humming. Was it “Unforgettable”? Chris felt his consciousness sink into the yielding sofa. She returned and masterly removed the sopping bandages, gently dried his feet, applied medication, and rewrapped his feet and legs like a medic. All the while, humming that song—that song the drag queen had been singing about flying… “Limited. Together we’re unlimited…”

  Once finished, the tea kettle whistled, as if she were calling the cue as easily as a travel spot or entrance on stage.

  Chris, propped up with pillows around him and his afghan over him, sipped tea while Nancy Ann lit a joint and returned to humming her song. He took several long tokes, feeling the drug quickly enter his system. He melted deeper and deeper into the couch, first handing back the joint, then the tea cup.

  Blackness and silence filled not only his head, but his whole being. Chris felt consciousness drift away.

  Twenty-five

  Chris woke on the couch with no immediate memory of how he’d gotten there or why he’d spent the night there. He generally abhorred sleeping on the sofa, and hated when others wanted to. His feet were elevated and felt better than they had since the attack. He contemplated the moment and instead of rushing into his day, he chose to lay there and enjoy the experience of feeling stronger.

  His mind cleared and memories of Nancy Ann and a joint surfaced. Gently, he rolled into a sitting posture. He put a little weight on his feet, hardly any discomfort. He worked himself to the edge of the couch and stood. No wobble. Into the bathroom, peed. Into the kitchen, coffee on. The place was spotless, the day’s papers on the table.

  “Hello?” he called into the loft; no response.

  Chris sat, drank coffee, and read the papers, his feet propped up on a kitchen chair. Without any motivations, he made his way through the thin, Saturday papers. There, on page twenty-seven of the Daily Post was a review of Dames at Sea and Tamburlaine. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Next to Jericho’s, his name was spelled correctly. “MARLOWE” Most folks left off the final “E.” The show was a hit. The restaurant was a hit. The club was a hit. The concept was a success—Tamburlaine was now in the legitimate press. Jimmy always wanted that.

  He wanted to call someone. He wanted to brag or gloat or something. But, Chris refrained. Now, there would be more people to hire. He remembered back to Tamburlaine’s successful days, when he’d become a star. There would be nonstop phones ringing at the club and lines around the block and police escorts to make large cash deposits at the bank.

  The black phone book on the table was open; Nancy Ann’s number was penned in black Sharpie. He called her. Second ring she answered. “Thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Marlowe.”

  Chris wanted to chastise her once more for the use of his last name, but she’d dried and dressed him like a child; he just couldn’t. He liked the way she said his name, the deference and respect she offered. “I need to hire some people to help at the club. Is that something you can take care of?”

  “Tell me what you need and you can consider it done.”

  They talked about a receptionist and secur
ity, a few additional drag waiters. He knew, when they hung up, that it would be taken care of. He called Matilda and told her to bring on whoever she needed in the kitchen and dining room. He called Frank about extra bartenders.

  Tamburlaine had returned to the top of the heap. Chris knew from experience how fleeting this time might be. He also knew it could last for years, depending on the buzz and desire the company and the staff might generate.

  The bell rang and he buzzed in whoever might be there without thought or concern. Jericho arrived in his kitchen and poured himself coffee and freshened Chris’ cup.

  “You’re well? I was worried when you left so early last night.”

  In a playful tone, he said, “I watched the show, which was wonderful, and I played my set. What more do you want from me?”

  “You’ve seen the reviews?” Jericho asked.

  “Reviews? I’ve only seen the Post.”

  “New York One loved it. The other channels loved it, too. All the reviewers want comps to love it again.”

  “The Times?” Chris asked.

  “Nothing yet.” Jericho added milk to his cup before he sat. “So, the front looks good; the sidewalk needs attention. Did they come early this morning?”

  “I did it.” Chris turned the page of the newspaper without looking up.

  “What? Are you insane?”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.”

  “What do you call cleaning a building at midnight in bandages?”

  “And, bunny slippers. Don’t forget the bunny slippers,” Chris snapped. “It didn’t feel melodramatic. It was drug induced. And, it’s done. I feel great. Nancy Ann is a wonderful nurse.”

  “Nancy Ann? I’m confused.”

  “She came by, rescued me, got me settled, got me stoned…”

  “Nancy Ann?” Jericho set his cup down.