THE BARD BRIGADE
A Division of Shakespearean Ventures, Inc.
Benjamin Valaris, Executive Producer
“Sinbad?” Benny said. “What are you doing here?”
“Playing catch up,” Simon said. “Touching up a tape from Betty Baxter’s cooking show, Flash in the Pan. She did a really good plug for Uncle Gordon’s Popcorn Bursts, mentioned the calcium added and followed your script about the pleasure of toasting them on the burner of any gas range if you don’t happen to have a campfire handy, and said they were a favorite holiday yummy—her word.”
“Refresh my memory.”
“You made contact through the Marsh Agency in Phoenix? Betty Baxter? Sunday afternoons on twenty stations in the Southwest? Uncle Gordon’s Crunchies, a subsidiary of Valley Foods? Does it ring a bell?”
“Oh yeah, yeah. She used the word yummy? That’s fabulous. Let’s hear the audience roar when she hits that word. What did it cost us?”
“Two of those discontinued stereos Mr. Waldo had shipped up from New Orleans last week. One for Betty and one for the account executive at Marsh.”
“Fair enough. We made two thousand profit on that one. God, I am good at what I do. Ship the stereos out UPS.”
“I already did. It’s a great plug. Rosy felt the tape needed a few more squeals and woos to jazz it up. She asked me to wrap it up tonight.”
“You been here long?”
“Not long. I was out making deliveries.”
“Was Waldo sitting around when you came in?”
“I didn’t notice,” Simon said.
“Right. Not important. So, Sinbad, finish up and head out. I see you’re interested in my little sign here. You didn’t know about ‘The Bard Brigade’?”
“Now that you mention it.”
“You like the name?”
“It’s catchy.”
“How about ‘Shakespearean Ventures’? Groovy or what?”
“Definitely.”
“We do Shakespeare plays,” Benny said.
“Shakespeare? Really?”
“Well, as they say, it ain’t necessarily so. You’re a smart kid, Sinbad. You’ve got a brain between your ears. You’re hip enough to know that Billy-the-Shake is the best cunt bait on the market if you happen to be interested in fucking tender young actresses. Which I am. So I put an ad in Backstage this week looking for a Juliet. Two Juliets are coming over tonight. You want to bet I get laid? I’ll give you odds.”
“Set me straight, Benny. You took an ad in Backstage asking Juliets to come here for an audition?”
“No. I ask them to call and I tell them to send over their headshots and bios. Firstly, that’s more professional and secondly I get to toss out the lard buckets and the ones who look deranged. Then I pick the ripest fruit and call them back. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t score a hundred percent of the time. But my average is up there in the sixty-centile range which ain’t so bad.”
“How do you handle the Juliets?”
“I ask them if they’re serious about theater, why they think they’d be best for the part, who they study with, how they feel about the Stanislavsky method whatever the fuck that is, etcetera and so forth. Then I ask them to show me their boobs. I explain that my vision of Juliet is a girl with nifty tits and that there might be a nude scene where those tits are front and center stage. That’s a very crucial moment, Sinbad. That’s where you get the chance to cut your losses because if they don’t reach for their buttons or pull the sweater over their head or if they show any sign of hesitation you say a quick goodbye and good luck. But if those tits come flying out of the gate you gasp, ahhh, jeez, and say you never saw a rack like hers, not in your life, and you look like you’re going to drop dead, like you need a sip of water to keep conscious. Then you make your move.”
“Which is?”
“Depends. Some you just tip them over, others you need to be a little more subtle but you always come on like God personally sent you the perfect Juliet and you tell them how the budget is in place and rehearsals start in about two weeks and when you see their eyes flash like they swallowed a bag of fireflies you ask if they’re on the pill and if they say no you unwrap a Trojan and try not to get tangled in their pantyhose. Then, a few days later, when they call about a contract you say you’re waiting for your lawyer to do the papers and after they call back a few times you say you’re too busy to talk, I’ll call you, and after a month or so they stop calling. Fini. Virgins are the worst but you don’t get much cherry these days. By the time they make it to New York they’ve been plucked in the backseat of a previously owned Pontiac or someplace.”
“You don’t have a casting couch,” Simon said. “So where—?”
“The table in the conference room. I keep a few bath towels in the TV cabinet. How many times did I ask Wallace Waldo to tell da boys we needs a comfortable couch for a touch of class? Someday, praise the Lord, we’ll get one. If you’re set on working very late tonight, please keep it down. Stay in the studio, don’t even go out to piss and definitely don’t get too curious. Do me that favor because there’s a ritual to this, a rhythm, and the slightest deviation can queer a perfect screw. I’ve seen it happen a dozen times. You have to realize the Juliets go into a kind of trance state when they hear they’ve got the part and you don’t want to spook them.”
“I’ll be quiet,” Simon said.
“Good,” Benny Valaris said. “So what about a little bet that I score some nookie before Romeo is old enough to get his working papers?”
“No bet,” Simon said.
“A pity. You would have lost your money.”
An hour later while Simon was fiddling with the Betty Baxter tape, he heard Benny Valaris answer a timid knock and greet the first Juliet whose interview lasted about twenty minutes before she exited “The Bard Brigade” yelling about calling SAG, AFTRA and Equity to file a complaint for sexual harassment. Benny told her to calm down, that she was too high strung for Shakespeare and should stick to Arthur Miller or Tennessee Williams but not to expect a recommendation from him.
An hour later, the second Juliet arrived and this time Simon kept working through moans, groans and many thumps on the walnut conference room table. He couldn’t help taking a quick peek at Juliet #2 when Benny walked her toward the door. Benny had a big smile on his face, waving a script book at a girl who couldn’t have been more than seventeen. She was in character, saying things like parting is such sweet sorrow.
For a minute, Simon felt jealous, then he felt nauseous and heaved into his waste basket.
A few minutes later, Benny Valaris yelled, “All clear, Sinbad. Why is it Juliets are always better than Mirandas? The Tempest is a hot show but Mirandas never swallow. Which reminds me, when you get home—check the Universal Music Awards. I think we got a good chance for a placement in the Best Single segment. The Windchime Concerto should be a shoo-in. Polly Moon’s manager said she’d drop a plug for Glacier Maid Lozenges in the igloo-shaped tin box for dependable freshness. Glacier Maid is Shaub & Shaub’s newest account. I’m talking Regis Pharmaceuticals money. And do me one little favor before you lock up. Take down The Bard Brigade sign and stick it behind my bookcase between the Salome Films and Gospel Productions signs.”
Benny Valaris grabbed for his coat and hat. “Good night, sweet prince,” Simon said. “May bands of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
“Same to you, cocksucker wiseass,” Benny said.
At the Flatiron, Simon found Wallace Waldo sitting next to the snake plant in what passed for the lobby. It was hard to tell where the pathetic plant ended and Waldo began. Simon wished him a good evening.
“I used to have my own table at Twenty-One,” Waldo said. “When I walked in everybody in the dining room fell silent. Once, Bing Crosby—we called him Der Bingle—stood up and hummed the theme song from The Wallace Waldo Amateur Hour. They always had veal cutlets waiting for me, even during the war. Then a cloud passed over the sun.”
“Well, the
good life must have been a very good life while it lasted,” Simon said.
“With mashed potatoes and onions.” Waldo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Betwixt and between us, Sinbad, I’m thinking of dismissing Benny Valaris. He’s accomplished at what he does but I find his manner abrasive. That information is confidential.”
“Strictly,” Simon said. “And I know what you mean.”
“We played to a live audience back in those days,” Waldo said. “No laugh tracks. No gimmicks. And every talent was respected. Contestants were treated like kings and queens. What I did was important, wasn’t it? It meant something. At El Morocco it meant gooseberries for dessert with a dollop of whipped cream. Where they found gooseberries in the middle of winter is a mystery to me. Back then they were firm, sweet, and large as ping-pong balls. Now they’re sorry shadows of themselves. Talk about losing ground. Did you know that dinosaurs evolved into birds? Who would have thought it? It’s like that with gooseberries.”
“I heard about the dinosaurs,” Simon said.
“Can you imagine going from a brontosaurus to a pigeon? Jesus H. Christ. Since we’re on the subject of birds, why do you think they migrate on cue?” Waldo said. “What’s the cue?”
“I don’t know,” Simon said.
“I know you don’t know. The question was rhetorical,” Waldo said.
“I’m heading upstairs,” Simon said. “I have to catch the Universal Music Awards.”
“Is there still music?” Waldo said. “Or just commercials and noise?”
60
Simon sat naked on his bed watching the Universal Music Awards. His room was dark except for the sugary colors reflecting from the TV screen. Benny was right, The Windchime Concerto won Best Single Record. There was Polly Moon, his own Placebo, graciously accepting a crystal statuette of Pan with cloven-hoofed goat legs tightly wrapped around a world globe.
Polly wore a gold lamé minidress, a sparkling baseball cap studded with diamond chips, one bumble-bee-striped sock, one bare leg, purple platform shoes that matched her frizzed hair, bangle bracelets covering the length of both arms, and a silver fox fur piece dating back to the 1940s, with a snarling fox mouth and beaded green eyes, thrown casually across her shoulders. While Polly thanked her producer, arranger, parents, friends, and God for inspiring her lyric, Simon flexed, holding his hands over his privates, expecting to hear his name next but Polly hailed Jerry Warren as composer. She kissed the crystal Pan, held it over her head, then, for an audience of many millions, said she was surprised to win and was so glad she’d sucked on a Glacier Maid Lozenge, the ones that come in that adorable igloo shaped tin to lubricate her nervous vocal cords before stepping into the limelight. Polly actually got a laugh and a small cheer (which could easily be augmented) for the blatant plug.
A batch of commercials for Regis Pharmaceuticals over-the-counter cures for everything from anti-bacterial gargle to a denture adhesive followed in rapid sequence. Simon pressed the Mute button on his remote and did some thinking.
In the silence, he decided to give up show business.
Early the following morning Simon rehearsed his resignation speech while he stared at the diorama of the Steinway Piano display. He couldn’t begin to predict Benny Valaris’s reaction; it could be anything from cool detachment to physical violence. The sensible path would be to wait until after Valaris handed him his paycheck on Friday, then make a quick exit. Giving Wallace Waldo Enterprises the traditional two weeks’ notice could be suicidal. He would leave himself open to extended gutting by a master who could turn a manatee to sashimi in ten seconds.
Upstairs, Rosy was perking the Glacier Maid videotape, spicing the soundtrack. “Not much to do,” Rosy said. “This is fabulous. But why did those schmucks seem to get such a kick when the Moon girl dropped the Glacier Maid line? The theater audience was a bunch of pros, they had to know it was laid on. Half of them do deals with Benny.” Rosy scratched her head. “People amaze me, Sinbad. On my first job I set up fund-raising dinners for this charity. Every dinner had a guest of honor. The guests were picked because they were major mavens who could fill a room by calling in IOUs. There was this one guy who ran a real estate empire. He made damn sure every table in the Plaza ballroom would be packed solid. He made personal calls and threatened to nuke anybody who said they wouldn’t spring for a handful of VIP tickets at five-hundred-simoleons a plate. Then, at the dinner, when he was handed the annual award for being a Great Human Being in front of a roomful of people who hated his guts, he cried. Real tears. The Great Human Being nearly drowned himself. Go know what goes on inside anybody’s head.”
Benny Valaris came into Studio B, still glowing from the success of his Glacier Maid coup. “Sinbad, you get to bring that Polly Moon diva a Westinghouse refrigerator by tonight,” Benny said. “It’s being delivered here, then you’ll wheel it over personally on one of those little dollies the Broadway hustlers with no legs roll around on. There’s one laying around the office someplace.”
“A refrigerator? That’s the payoff? That’s what Polly Moon wants?”
“Ask not what Wallace Waldo Enterprises can do for a cunt singer. Ask what the cunt singer can do for Wallace Waldo Enterprises. She asked for an icebox and that’s what she gets. It’s one of the new models that makes ice cubes.”
“Can’t it be delivered to her place instead of here?”
“You still miss the point. I want her to definitely know it came from us for services rendered. I’ll give you a thank-you note to hand her. Her and nobody else. The broad keeps an apartment on Fifth and Sixty-Fourth so it shouldn’t be too much of a push.”
“They say it’s going to rain,” Simon said.
“So wear a condom,” Benny said. “What’s with you, kid? Afraid of an April shower? And by the way, don’t accept a tip from Miss Snatch, not that she’ll offer you anything. The bigger they are, the cheaper they get. But if she does hand you a buck, turn it down flat. Tell her Benny Valaris is a huge Polly Moon fan and that he sends congratulations on winning the Pan. Better yet, just shut up.”
“I’ll bet Shaub & Shaub is a happy camper,” Rosy said.
“Happy as a pig in shit,” Benny said. “This was humongous. You know how many people saw that show on ten continents?”
When Benny Valaris left to take a call, Simon watched Rosy pick from her sound effects file. Under applause she chose Young Hands. From joyful sounds she selected Female—Moshpit Shrieks & Screams, then went back to work souping up Polly Moon’s thank-you speech.
Rosy, a perfectionist, ran through the entire three hours of the show and lifted close-ups of orgiastic girls vibrating during various performances and pulled five seconds of a young man weeping during the Liberace memorial, then added those cutaways to the moment when Polly kissed the crystal Pan. Rosy swiped a clip of a standing ovation for Michael Jackson and slipped that into the mix when Polly waved her trophy and gave her spontaneous endorsement for Glacier Maid Lozenges.
Rosy played the edited tape, fine-tuning the video and sound at least fifty times before she was ready to call it a wrap, got Benny Valaris’s OK, and had Simon carry a copy of the finished product to the Shaub & Shaub Agency downtown.
61
When Simon got back to the office, gearing up to morph from messenger to delivery boy, the city’s sky had turned heavy gray. He could smell the special perfume that drifted across Manhattan from the Hudson and East Rivers, a fragrance with the same peculiar appeal of horse manure from the hansom cabs parked along Central Park South.
Flecks of lightning crackled through ominous blots of clouds floating low enough to truncate the tops of the tallest buildings. Wind gusts carried tiny droplets of rain that stung like insects. Thunder booms confirmed that the city was under siege.
Simon remembered an old movie where a courier burst into a royal ballroom as uniformed aristocrats dripping medals danced a waltz with beautiful women in arrogant gowns. The gasping courier ignored the forest of bosoms heaving in a rhapsody of
cleavage to announce that the enemy (Simon forgot which enemy) was at the gate, that the minions of death were approaching the palace swinging bloody sabers. The king, accepting doom, smiled knowingly, and quietly commanded that the dance continue.
In the sudden afternoon darkness, street lamps lit, cars turned on their lights, signs flared in store windows. Inside the Steinway showroom Simon saw a young woman testing the keys of a grand piano while a salesman stood with his arms crossed over his stomach. No sound came through the thick window glass.
Upstairs, Simon handed Benny Valaris a case of Bombay Gin, a show of appreciation from the Regis account executive at Shaub & Shaub. Benny locked it in a cabinet behind his desk. “The fridge came,” Benny said. “It’s waiting for you in the conference room. This goes with it.” Benny handed Simon an envelope hand-addressed to Polly Moon.
“The little touches make a big difference,” Benny said. “Here’s the address.”
“It’s going to pour in a minute,” Simon said. “Maybe I should take a taxi.”
“You couldn’t get a taxi if you wanted to. Besides, the box is wouldn’t fit in a limo. I told you, use the dolly.”
“Is there an umbrella around here?”
“How’re you gonna carry an umbrella and push an icebox at the same time? What college did you say you went to? Listen, I keep an old slicker in the storage closet. Borrow that.”
“Holy shit,” Simon said when he saw what had to be pushed up Fifth Avenue. Polly’s refrigerator was larger than his room at the Flatiron. It teetered on a wooden cart with metal wheels.
“Quit whining,” Benny said. “She could have asked for the Berlin Wall. Get your ass in gear. I’ll call down for the service elevator.”
“I don’t think I should be doing this,” Simon said. “I think you should hire somebody with a donkey cart.”
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