“Yes, she’s been a God send. She’s been taking care of the show and me and Tamburlaine.”
Jericho glared at Chris, who refused to blink first.
“What’s the problem?” Chris asked.
Jericho looked away and then back at him.
“Why are you making that face?” Chris watched the subtle movements of Jericho’s eyes and brow.
“I’ve just never known Nancy Ann to be nurturing. She’s great with the shows. Anything you need there. But, she’s never really been great with people. It took me years to get her to open up about anything, her personal life, or anything outside of the theater.”
“Well, she’s been very committed to me. And, devoted to Tamburlaine. I can’t remember how she worded it, but she said that she felt a kinship with the club, like coming in there she’d come home. Her words and attitude reminded me of Jimmy’s lover. You know, that guy who died really early during the AIDS crises, before it was even called AIDS.”
“Oh, shit, yeah. What was his name. No, it was two names, like Jimmy Bob or Chester Jason or…shit. I can’t remember. He was that really tall, incredibly skinny boy. Very seventies. Always with the roller skates on.”
“Yeah, that’s him.”
Both focused, trying to remember the guy’s name, but neither of them could find it.
“God, we’re getting old. Can’t remember some fool’s name.” Chris closed the paper and pushed it away. “Anyway, that’s what her tone reminded me of. He was always there at Tamburlaine. Always involved. Very protective. Like there was gold under the floors or something.”
“Whatever that means.” Jericho got up and refilled his cup. He held the pot toward Chris, who shook his head. “So, you seem to be doing better today.”
“Gold dust sifted between the floorboards. Never seen Paint Your Wagon? Anyway, Nancy Ann gave me tea and got me way stoned. I slept solid through the night and into the late morning. Woke up feeling good.”
“So, you’ll be there today?”
“Not for the show, but I’ll be there for my set. We’re going to be swamped after these reviews. I’ve added phone support and more staff. And, there will be security tonight, too. The line should be around the block.”
Jericho sat at the table. “Just take it easy. No heels, okay?”
“Yeah. And, I ruined my slippers last night, so I might come barefooted.”
“I’m sure you’ve got something else festive to wear. It’s Saturday night, will you pull out the big guns?” Jericho laughed as he cupped his hands around imaginary breasts on his chest.
“No, not until I can balance them with heels.”
The two passed the next hour kibitzing and talking about renovating restrooms. Chris wanted to spit and release the possibility of the Evil Eye, but just kept going with the conversation. Tamburlaine was once again a sensation. Life was good and there was no tempting fate about that.
Twenty-six
“Chris, what opens tonight?”
“Hm?” Chris, engrossed in an article about the terrorists’ return to activity in New Jersey, about the use of Molotov cocktails to set off the series of explosives. He wondered if it could be possible that he was being targeted by terrorists? The reality of that, the chance of that, seemed impossible.
“The show,” Frank began, phone held to his chest. “What show opens tonight?”
“Oh…Ain’t Misbehavin’ at midnight.”
“Still doing Dames at Sea before that, right?
“Yep.” Chris closed the paper, slid off his stool, and headed to the kitchen. Matilda prepared chicken parm again tonight, his favorite, and he wouldn’t take a chance of not getting a portion. 150 covers a night, selling out, night after night. The kitchen was making money. The bar was making money. The theater was on the verge of repaying the initial investment. Tamburlaine was awash in cash and success. The reviews continued to pour in. Bloggers loved the place. #Tamburlaine was all over Twitter, or so Ingram said—Chris didn’t understand all of this internet stuff, but the young people got excited about it.
“Are you wearing actual shoes?” Matilda asked as Chris hoisted himself up on the stool.
“I am. They’re not heels, but they are shoes.”
“I’ll miss the array of slippers you’ve been wearing. It was becoming something of a signature for you.” She heaped extra sauce atop the plate.
“Oh, I can’t eat all that,” said Chris. He knew she knew it wasn’t true, but he appreciated her not contradicting him. “Anyway, slippers are not the statement I ever want to make my own.” He cut up the cutlet and ate a bite. “By far, the best ever.”
“Thanks, boss.” Matilda gave instructions to two girls who went about cutting veggies.
“Is there anything you want or need that we haven’t given you?” Chris wiped sauce from his chin.
“No, it’s all good. I’m thinking about two more busboys and another dishwasher, but no real rush there.” She stayed busy.
“Well, whatever you need. It’s your kitchen, run it. Hear me?” Chris and Matilda nodded, acknowledging each other. He finished his meal while watching the collection of line cooks and prep chefs prepare the meal for the night. They were all women and all of them seemed slightly not “normal.” Not in an offensive way, but they all seemed a bit battered or put together wrong. Yet, each of them worked nonstop, taking their marching orders from Matilda and executing as requested. They were selling out of food night after night. He wasn’t complaining or judgmental about anything. He cleaned up the remaining sauce with a piece of bread.
Chris slid off his stool, thanked Matilda, and headed into the dining room. Every expertly set table glistened in the soft lighting. He walked toward the office and changed his mind. The bills could wait. Instead, he headed into the theater. The small crew was setting the stage, working the backdrops and scrims, shouting numbers and instructions to each other. He took his seat in the corner and watched them work. He liked observing. They all seemed so talented and so open and comfortable. Each of them was playful and fun. Everyone was respectful of everyone else.
As they worked, a brick shithouse of a man came out in a women’s “Star Tar” costume, with all the sequins and American bravado a dress can hold. He sat on the ground, stretched out a bit, and then worked his splits, both legs, shifted right front, then left. He stood and began singing softly to himself, tap dancing, hand movements with feet. He dropped into the splits, still singing, rolled, and was up.
“Perfect, Jacob. You’re going to be wonderful tonight as Ruby.” Nancy Ann came out onto the stage. “Just remember to hit this mark.” She tapped a spot on the floor. “This is your light. It’s always your light. Whenever you’re on stage, in general, if you don’t know where to go, hit this mark and you’ll be lit. If you need anything, look easily to me, and I’ll feed you the line. Got it?”
“Nancy Ann, you’re the best,” Jacob said before turning to the stage and beginning the number again. Then, he stopped. “Nancy?” he whispered.
“Sorry, can’t do the dance for you. Haven’t been able to do a split in years.”
“Nancy Ann, is that Mr. Marlowe?”
She looked out into the house with a hand above her eyes. “Yes, it is. Hello, Mr. Marlowe,” she called.
“Hello young people. Jacob is it?” The guy nodded. “You look good from here. Hit those splits and the audience will forgive and forget everything else that happens.”
“Splits? Oh, you mean the dead fall. Yes, sir. Thank you,
Mr. Marlowe.”
Chris could remember a time when he, too, could drop into a split. They’d done a cancan number and he learned to drop on a beat. If he hit the floor now, he’d never get up again. “Remember, after the show, to come down to my reserved table and I’ll buy you a drink. Everyone who plays Ruby gets a free drink.”
“Doesn’t everyone working
here drink for free, Mr. Marlowe?” Nancy Ann said, playfully.
Chris played along. “That doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a handsome drag queen sitting at my table while I perform.” The drugs helped him feel like his youthful self.
“You’re a tramp, Mr. Marlowe,” Nancy Ann continued.
“Bet your ass I am.” Chris stood up. “Keep up the good work.”
“Yes, sir,” they said together as Chris left the room.
The bar lighting was set for the evening. The mirror ball already spun. There were a few people sitting at the tables. Chris made his way to the stage and one of the men waiting nearby applauded. It was the developer, Norton Folgate.
Chris said: “What are you doing here? I didn’t think we were your type of people, Mr. Folgate?”
“It’s a free country, and I came in to see what all the hubbub was about.” He drank off his glass of booze.
“Well, it may be a free country, but I own this little corner and have the right to refuse service to anyone. I want you out of here. I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. And, I don’t want you in Tamburlaine ever again. Consider yourself banned.”
“That’s no way to talk to your neighbor.”
“Rocko!” Chris called toward the bar. A linebacker of a man with muscles for days appeared. Why were guys like this always named Rocko or Slugo? But, they were. Chris had never met a bouncer named Elliot or Roger. “Please show Mr. Folgate and his friend the door. They are no longer welcome here, ever.”
“As you wish.” The big man turned. “Please come with me. The house will pick up whatever tab you might have at the bar.”
Folgate and his companion didn’t move. Rocko stepped closer to the table.
“You don’t scare me. There’s nothing you can do to me.” Folgate still hadn’t stood up.
Rocko took another step toward them. Folgate’s companion stood and headed for the door. Folgate didn’t move. Rocko reached for his arm.
“I’m warning you, if you don’t want to be sued, you’ll not touch me.”
“Sir, I’ll ask you one more time to stand up and leave the premises.”
Police sirens could be heard outside. Folgate looked at Chris, then at Rocko, but still he didn’t move.
Rocko wrapped a meaty paw around Folgate’s arm, and with a quick, well-practiced move, Folgate was on his feet. Rocko’s hand grasped Folgate’s wrist, pinning his arm behind his back, and he steered the man expertly toward the door. One solid thrust and the door popped open, released Folgate to the street, and Rocko, also on the street, closed the door behind him. The sirens stopped, but the red and blue lights still flashed.
The others who sat quietly at the tables applauded. Chris made his way to the stage, sat behind the piano, and played “Get Happy.” On the third chorus, Chris sang the lyrics. He felt good and enjoyed getting to once again manipulate the pedals of the piano. It was going to be a good night.
More folks filled the room: Some waiting for dinner, others early for the first show, and still others happy to have an opportunity to sit in the barroom. Chris launched into a Rusty Warren routine about kids, a divine trucker on the highway, and sex. Always sex. The audience ate it up.
Twenty-seven
Chris, in his office at Tamburlaine, pecked with his index fingers at the little buttons on the keypad.
Two in the afternoon on a Monday. The club closed on Mondays, but Matilda and a few of her team were busy in the kitchen, cleaning, restocking, and accepting deliveries. He could hear them laughing.
The computer beeped at Chris.
“Now what, you stupid machine?” Chris said aloud while entering figures in an accounting program on the new laptop computer.
“Did you say something?” asked Nancy Ann
Startled, Chris turned to the doorway. “Just talking to myself. I do that. Hold on.” He turned to the computer, hit the send button, and the confirm button, and logged off the program. “Hello, dear. What are you doing here, it’s your day off. Don’t any of you people take a day off?”
“When you work for Jericho Taylor, you rarely get an actual day off. There’s always something to do or something to check. And, as always, he was right. Two of the lights have frayed cords. We need to replace those lights, and he said to see you about getting a check. We don’t have credit established with the supply company.”
“Here, sit.”
Nancy Ann came further into the office and sat in the solid chair next to Chris’ desk. “I just love that Picasso. You know, I spent time in France and Spain. I’ve been to his museums and read all the books there are on the man. I’ve never seen this one before.”
“Well, if you know so much about Picasso, then you probably know that he created thousands and thousands of works. Paintings, sculptures, drawings.”
“Of course.”
“Not all of them have been photographed or featured somewhere. Only pieces that are part of large museum collections or part of museum shows have fully been documented. This work has been on this wall since just after he painted it in the late ’60s. Someone gave it to the man who opened Tamburlaine; when he died, he left it to me, along with a few others.”
“You have others?” Nancy Ann turned, shocked, toward Chris.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll go view some art and then we’ll buy your lights.” Chris took up his cane and used it to stand.
“You’re getting around better.” Nancy Ann stood, too. “Do you mind if we buy the lights first?”
“Wow, Jerry has you trained.”
“You call him.” She lowered her voice. “You call him Jerry?” She laughed.
“I knew your Mr. Taylor before he became The Great. I knew him as a beautiful, usually shirtless dancer who backed up drag queens here at Tamburlaine.”
“That’s not on his Wikipedia page.”
“His wikiwhat?”
“Wikipedia. It’s a giant, endless online encyclopedia.”
Chris pointed to the computer. “Show me.”
Nancy Ann deftly hit buttons and arrived at a screen that said in big, bold letters: “No Connection.” “You need an internet connection for us to get there.” She pulled out her cell phone and tapped at the little screen. She turned the results toward Chris.
“Look, there’s his name.” He read through the information. “Nope, no mention of Tamburlaine. Do you think I’m on there?”
“Let’s see.” Nancy Ann searched for Christopher Marlowe. “Sorry, only the poet comes up.”
“Oh, him. He’s been haunting me my whole life.” Chris was disappointed not to be listed, even though he’d only this moment heard of this wiki place.
“Hmm. He wrote a play called Tamburlaine…but it’s not about a drag bar in New York City.”
“And, I certainly don’t want to talk about that stupid play.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” said Chris. He hit the power button and closed the laptop.
“Your name and the play’s name, it’s an odd thing that a…”
“Very few drag queens use their own names.”
“But, your name isn’t something campy or silly, like Hedda Lettuce or Marsha Dimes or Sharon Needles. I’d think you’d have become Rusty Nail or Game Warden or some other clever take on Rusty Warren.”
A sense of nostalgia rose in Chris. “My name, and the bar’s name, were birthed the same, stoned night. A handsome, kind man christened us both. Being hopelessly in love with someone can change your life, even if he’s not…and…. I don’t…”
“But, wasn’t it Tamburlaine when you arrived here?”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” There were tears in Nancy Ann’s eyes.
“Oh, dear. I’m fine.” He patted her arm. “Come, let’s t
ake care of your lights.”
The two stopped in the kitchen.
“Matilda!” Chris called. She thumped to the bottom of the stairs. “I’m stepping out. You and your team are the only ones here, so be sure to lock the door when you leave, okay?”
“Of course, Mr. Marlowe.” She smiled sweetly at her boss.
“Okay, let’s go shopping,” said Chris.
Nancy Ann held the door and then pushed it closed tightly. The two headed to the street. The sun warm, the sky a romantic fall blue. Nancy Ann blew her taxi whistle and a yellow cab appeared, as if by magic.
“Well, that was wonderful,” said Chris. “Maybe I should carry a rape whistle, too.”
She laughed. “I’ll get you one.” She held the door for him and he climbed in. “No skooching. Just sit.” She went around the cab and got in on the street side. Once settled, Nancy Ann gave the driver the address, and they rode in silence for a while.
“So, are you doing what you love?” Chris asked.
“Stage managing? I guess. I do like it a lot. I love working with Jericho. We’ve been doing shows together for years. He treats me well. Pays me bonuses under the table. It’s a pretty good life.”
“You didn’t really answer my question.”
“Well, love seems so strong when it comes to describing work. Do you love what you do?”
“I love to perform. I cope with the details, paying bills, hiring people, all of that. But, because I have my own club, I have Tamburlaine, I always have a place to play the piano for a crowd. Granted the past few years, the crowd has been a bit small, but still…”
They were silent as the cab pulled up in front of the address, a building covered with graffiti.
“Where have you brought me?” Chris asked. “Can you wait for us?”
“Yes, sir,” said the cab driver.
Nancy Ann jumped out and opened Chris’ door. The two went into the store, purchased the new lights, and Chris put a credit card on file so Nancy Ann could get whatever she needed for Tamburlaine.
Their cab driver, now on the street, smoked a cigarette, talked to another cabbie. He opened the trunk and the store staff loaded lights into it. He held doors open for his passengers, tossed his cigarette into the street, and got in smelling of smoke.
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 11