Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival

by Gregory A Kompes

  “Okay.” Jericho clapped his hands when the number ended. Everyone on stage.” The company assembled. “We’ll get through this. Tomorrow at noon. And, tonight, have a bite to eat and I want each of you to run your numbers in front of the bar audience. The band, no The Piano Player and bass player will play for you.”

  “What about me?” the drummer asked.

  “If you want to move your kit or your snare, go for it,” said Jericho. “That’s it. See you tomorrow. No notes. Just learn your songs and your lines between now and tomorrow.” He turned and walked out of the theater without another word. Chris could tell, Jericho was not happy.

  Chris slipped out the rear of the theater, skirted the dining room, and walked quietly through the kitchen to the alley. There, he discovered several of the actors passing a joint around. Chris endeavored to slip past them unnoticed, but they acknowledged their producer. The smallest of the boys, the one currently holding the joint, cupped the smoking length in his hand.

  “No need to attempt subterfuge, dear boy,” said Chris with a smile. “It was a rough one tonight.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Well, difficult techs mean good performances.” He turned to go. “No more smoking in your costumes, got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chris walked down the alley to the street. He contemplated a cab, but decided to walk. It was the first time since the attack. He’d walked a block when he heard footsteps racing up behind him. He contemplated his options, thought about his cane, realized he didn’t have it, and remembered once again that he was a slow, old man. So, he turned.

  “Chris!” Jericho raced up behind him. “I was waiting for you in the bar, but you didn’t come out. I finally went searching for you and the kids said you’d left.”

  “Well, you pushed The Piano Player onto my stage, so I thought I’d call it a night.”

  It did seem to Chris, because of Jericho’s awkward stance, that Jerry wanted to say something, or talk about something, but he wasn’t forthcoming.

  Chris said: “Jerry, it’s chilly. Do you want me to come back to the club?”

  “No.” Still, he said no more.

  “Shall we go somewhere else? Do you want to talk?” Chris pulled his shawl tighter around his shoulders.

  “No. I don’t want to go to a club. How about your place?”

  “Fine.”

  Silence.

  They hadn’t been alone together on the street since the bomb. Chris busied his mind: he wondered about the backdrops and scrims for Little Shop. He thought about the nightly transition to Ain’t Misbehavin’. He was curious where the giant Audrey II would live during the off weeks when other shows were being performed. He held his tongue and walked, hoping that the two of them wouldn’t once again be attacked.

  Chris turned the key and pushed hard to open the door. Since the fire and the cleaning and the colder weather, the door was even more difficult. Once inside, he waited and slammed the metal door behind them and then led the way up the alley. It was dark and cold. But, within a moment more, they were inside the warm loft.

  “Cocktail? Beer?” he asked, tossing his wrap aside on the chair.

  “Beer.” Jericho scrutinized the cat clock. “I can’t believe you still have this after all these years.”

  He handed a beer to Jerry and poured himself a glass of bourbon. It all felt so easy and repetitive. “I’ve had to have him fixed twice.”

  “You mean neutered?”

  Chris chuckled at the joke. “Come on in the other room. It’s warmer there. Since I’ve gotten older, the cold bothers me more and more. The past few winters I’ve thought about retiring to Florida or Arizona.”

  Chris sat in his spot, Jericho chose one across from him. Chris waited, sipping his drink. Jericho nervously set his beer down, picked it up, didn’t drink, set it down again. Chris said nothing; he’d decided this conversation was on Jericho. He didn’t like the way this great director was treating the cast. He didn’t like the way he burst in and out of rooms. It was as if he’d forgotten where he’d come from, his past and how poorly they’d all been treated when they first started working together at Tamburlaine. Now, Jericho was just like one of those asshole choreographers from back then.

  “What did you say to Nancy Ann,” Jericho finally said.

  “What?”

  “The stage manager. She said she’s spent some time with you.” Jericho again picked up his beer and set it down without drinking.

  “We did spend some time together. I went with her to pick up the new lights. I set up credit for her at that shop. We were together when the gas line.... That’s what we returned to that afternoon.”

  “But, there was more?” Veins bulged on Jericho’s forehead and in his neck, his face red.

  “We’ve spent some time together. She’s very nice. She helped me when I needed it. She’s running our shows. We’ve spent time together.” Chris sipped more bourbon. “What has you all worked up?”

  “Nancy Ann is mine. She works for me. She’s worked for me for years. She’s opened all my hit shows. You need to step away from her.”

  “Jerry, I don’t understand. You brought her in to work at Tamburlaine. I didn’t even know her before she served me that first drink.” Chris’ glass was empty and he stood up.

  “Where the fuck are you going?” Jericho stood up, too.

  “Another drink.” Chris turned and left the room. He filled his glass and returned to the living room with the bottle and sat down.

  Jericho was still standing where he’d been left.

  “Jerry, I don’t understand what has you so upset.”

  “She’s resigned.”

  “From Tamburlaine?” Chris was truly disheartened at the thought of losing her.

  “No, from me, from my production company. She said she’ll only be working at Tamburlaine.”

  “Well, that’s good. You’ll still be near her. And, when she’s ready to step into your Broadway shows—”

  “It’s all so easy for you, Chris, isn’t it?” Jericho slammed his bottle down, causing foam and beer to pour over the mouth. Jericho ignored the spill. “You just go with the flow. Your shows are up and running. Your club is making money. You have an audience once again for your ridiculous act.” Jericho began pacing.

  “My what? Who the—”

  “You heard me.”

  Chris backed down. He wanted to wipe up the spilled beer, but instead, he kept his focus on Jericho. “It’s our shows, Jerry. We’re both making money from this company. We’re sold out for weeks and booked ahead for months. It’s going exactly as we planned.”

  Jericho paced and then stopped. “You can’t have her. I can’t replace her.”

  “Jerry, I really don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand. You sound like a fucking broken record.”

  Chris sat silent; sipped his bourbon. He’d been here before: An angry man desiring a punching bag. He’d been beaten before, by thugs on the street and street trash in his home. He’d been beaten and bullied; he’d survived a Molotov cocktail. He wasn’t going to take this shit any longer, especially from someone who was a business partner and a friend.

  “Well!” Jericho shouted.

  Chris sipped more liquor.

  “You can’t have her.” He broke. Tears welled into and out of Jericho’s eyes. He crumpled onto a chair. “Chris, I won’t tolerate it. You can’t have her. Nancy Ann is mine.” He took a deep breath and began to sob.

  “She’s a grown woman and can do as she pleases. I had nothing to do with her decision. This is the first I’m hearing of it.” Should he get the man a hanky? Chris sat, sipped his drink, allowed Jericho a moment to wallow in his emotional breakdown.

  Just as suddenly as this odd mood came on, Jericho was again o
n his feet. “Sorry, sorry.” He repeated over and over. He headed to the door and was out of the loft before Chris could stop him. He followed Jericho out to the metal door. He watched him cross the empty street and walk toward the river.

  Thirty

  The bell startled Chris out of his lost thoughts. He paused The Pirates of Penzance and checked the monitor. Nancy Ann and another woman stood at his door. He buzzed them in and went into the kitchen. He liked living his life with full mobility again, although his ankles still hurt too much to wear heels.

  “Hello!” Chris sang out as the women came into his home. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Have you seen Jericho?”

  Chris couldn’t remember the woman’s name. She worked for Jerry.

  “Sarah and I haven’t seen him in hours. He’s not returning calls or texts.” Nancy Ann’s face tightened with concern.

  Sarah, that was it. Chris felt better knowing her name without having to ask. “Nancy Ann, what did you say to him? He was crazy. Almost like he was fucked up on something, some drug or something.”

  Nancy Ann sat down at the table. Sarah patted her shoulder.

  “Oh, Chris. After our talk, our time together, I realized that I really want to be doing some other things. I want to go to school. See if I really do have what it takes to become an artist.”

  Chris sat at the table facing Nancy Ann.

  “Really? You want to paint and stuff?” Sarah asked. “That’s so cool.” She remained standing. “Oh, I like your kitty clock.”

  “What did you tell Jerry?” Chris pushed.

  “I told him that I would stay on at Tamburlaine and continue to manage the company and the shows there, but that I wouldn’t be his stage manager on his next Broadway show. Fury filled his eyes. I’ve never seen him like that before. But, I want to go to school. I told him that, too. I got a bachelor’s degree a long time ago. But, it was in theater arts. I want to do something else. I’ve got the money. I’ve got the time.”

  “You don’t have to convince me of anything.” Chris patted the girl’s hand.

  “So, he was here? Jericho was here?” Sarah asked.

  “Yes. He found me after the rehearsal and came here. We had a drink and he started ranting about how I couldn’t have you, Nancy Ann. It was like he was crazy. Not drunk, but actually acting insane. He raved, paced around, and then left. I watched him walk away.”

  “Where? Which way did he go?” Sarah asked, already buttoning her cheap overcoat.

  “Toward the river,” said Chris.

  “The pier, of course.” Sarah practically pulled Nancy Ann out of her chair. “He’s sitting on the pier. That’s where he goes when there’s trouble.”

  “No, he goes to that bench in Central Park, outside the Children’s Zoo.” Nancy Ann said, dismissively.

  “What sort of trouble?” Chris asked.

  “Not at night,” said Sarah. “He goes to the river and sits on the pier because that’s where he used to jog.” Sarah barely whispered the “he.”

  “Oh. Would he compare this to that?” Nancy Ann asked as she stood.

  “What are you two talking about? It’s like you’ve begun speaking a secret language or something.” Used to not understanding young people, Chris thought this different. They avoided telling the story, avoided using names.

  Nancy Ann spoke quickly as she buttoned her coat. “Jericho had this thing for Billy Lake. The kid lived with him for months. We all thought they were sleeping together, but it turns out they weren’t. Jericho was crazy in love with the kid. Billy is in amazing shape and jogs every day. He used to jog down here along the river.”

  “Billy Lake? He’s with that other handsome performer. Hank something?”

  “Hank Miller. They sang at Tamburlaine a few weeks ago,” Sarah said.

  “That was a few months ago,” corrected Nancy Ann. “Okay, we’ll go seek him out there.”

  “Wait. Is there something I’m missing? It’s only been an hour. He’s a grown man. Maybe he’s working something out. Give him some space.” Chris stood with the women, held the cuff of Nancy’s Ann’s coat.

  “No, I think this is a time I need to find him and talk to him,” said Nancy Ann. She took Chris’ hand. “I’ve worked with him a long time. It’s like a break up to him. That’s what Sarah thinks. So, we should find him and comfort him and assure him.”

  The girls were out the door with a wave. He watched on the monitor as they slammed the door shut and headed toward the river.

  Chris sat on the couch, but he didn’t start the movie. He thought about how Jericho was acting. Was it possible he’d popped some pills or smoked something? He didn’t remember Jerry ever doing drugs like that. Sure, a little grass, too much whiskey. But, drugs?

  He replayed the scene that had happened here a few hours earlier. It didn’t seem like the Jerry he knew at all. Stealing a woman from him. That’s what he’d accused Chris of, stealing Nancy Ann. Like she was property.

  Chris gave up the thought and turned the movie back on, getting lost in Kevin Kline’s chest hair and a young Rex Smith’s tight ass.

  Thirty-one

  Again the doorbell pulled Chris from his movie. He paused the film. Now who? Ingram waved his hand and smiled toward the camera. Chris buzzed the boy in. He got up and met Ingram as he came through the kitchen door. The boy kissed both of Chris’ cheeks.

  “What are you doing out in this weather without a coat?” Chris shut the door and then picked up his shawl and threw it around Ingram’s shoulders.

  “We need you at the club and you’re not answering your phone.”

  “It never rang. The house phone didn’t ring and the cell didn’t either.” Chris went to the princess phone on the counter and picked it up. He listened to the receiver. “Dead.”

  “Really? That’s strange?” Ingram watched as Chris tapped the cradle and listened to the phone again.

  “Nothing. No one usually calls, so I didn’t think about it. It might have been dead for days. Weeks. Months, even.” Chris went into the living room. Ingram followed him. “My cell is…” Chris stopped and turned. “I thought it was here. Oh, I might have left it in the office or dropped it in the theater. I don’t remember the last time I had it. No matter. You said you needed me at the club?”

  “Yes. The Piano Player and the cast have run through all their songs. You’re supposed to be on stage. When you weren’t there and not picking up, Frank worried there might be something wrong, so he asked if I’d come over and check.”

  “Well, aren’t you all such sweet boys. Let me put shoes on and touch up my face.” Chris headed to the bathroom and the boy followed. They sat on the stools while Chris put on eyeliner and mascara, a touch of lipstick and some soft rouge. He powdered his face. “We pretend it covers lines and blotches. Like everyone doesn’t know I’m an old queen.” He rooted through a heap of shoes in the bedroom, choosing flat, golden slippers; he still couldn’t enjoy heels.

  “We love you because of that.” Ingram smiled into the mirror at Chris.

  It bothered Chris to have his tool used to view him. “How are rehearsals? You’ll be going into previews soon, right?” Chris asked.

  “Everything was going really well until today. It was like Jericho was a different person. He was angry with everyone about everything. The costumes were all wrong. The set needs to be repainted. The lighting is all wrong. Everyone said their lines incorrectly. It was three of the longest hours I’ve ever spent in my life. And, from what they were saying at Tamburlaine, he was like that with the Little Shop cast tonight, too.”

  “Well, we all go through shit. Maybe Jerry is going through something personal. It’s sad he’s taking it out on all of you, but perhaps you should be supportive.” Chris stood up, checked his face and makeup from different angles, and, satisfied, led the way out of the bath. He picked up a flowing du
ster and threw it on as they left the house and headed the short walk to Tamburlaine.

  Neither of them spoke as the cold hit them. And, instead of going around to the alley, Chris led the way, past the line, and through the main entrance. He couldn’t believe that there were dozens of people standing out in the cold waiting to get inside.

  Chris made his way to the bar and got Frank’s attention. “Thank you, dear, for worrying about me. Can you send some hot coffee outside to those poor people standing on the street?”

  “Of course,” said Frank. He tapped Chris’s hand. “We all love you.”

  Chris walked toward the stage. A drag queen waitress was finishing up an amazing rendition of “Somewhere That’s Green.” It surprised Chris that she’d be doing one of the show numbers, but all performers have their specialties.

  With the applause for the singer, Chris stepped up on stage, whispered to the boy playing the piano, someone he’d never seen before, and the guy got up and left. Chris launched into his routine to the delight of the crowd. As he pattered and bantered and tinkled at the piano for emphasis, he regarded his wristwatch. It was one fifteen. It felt good to be performing to a full room. He launched into Rusty Warren’s most famous song: “Ladies, it’s time for the march of the knockers. Ladies, get your knockers up, up, up. Doesn’t that make your navel tingle…”

  Women and drag queens alike were out of their chairs parading around the room to the cheers and delight of all the men there.

  Thirty-two

  “You’re Nobody Until Somebody Loves You” closed Chris’ set, just as Rusty closed many of hers. At three thirty there were still twenty or so people at the showroom tables and another dozen at the bar. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen. If you had a good time tonight, tell all your friends. If you had a lousy time, well, go fuck yourselves.”