The Queen and I

by Russell Andresen

  The Queen and I

  By

  Russell Andresen

  Strategic Book Publishing and Rights Co.

  E-book Edition © 2015

  Print Edition © 2015 Russell Andresen – ISBN: 978-1-63135-996-5

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 978-1-68181-348-6

  This book is dedicated to the comic geniuses who entertained and inspired me my whole life.

  Let’s face it, without Jews, fags, and gypsies, there is no theater.

  —Mel Brooks, To Be or Not To Be

  Contents

  Chapter One: Show of Shows

  Chapter Two: Creative Differences

  Chapter Three: Heinrich

  Chapter Four: To Catch a Hit

  Chapter Five: If This House Is Rocking …

  Chapter Six: Betrayal

  Chapter Seven: Rave Reviews

  Chapter Eight: Phases

  Chapter Nine: Ups and Downs

  Chapter Ten: The Phone Is Not Ringing

  Chapter Eleven: Thinking for Two

  Chapter Twelve: No Prospects

  Chapter Thirteen: Rewrite

  Chapter Fourteen: Missing Persons

  Chapter Fifteen: Zion

  Chapter Sixteen: The Locals

  Chapter Seventeen: Sherriff Pitts

  Chapter Eighteen: Music in the Night

  Chapter Nineteen: Pish-Posh, Tisch-Tosh

  Chapter Twenty: Everyone Is a Critic

  Chapter Twenty-One: Like Mother, Like Son

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Saul

  Chapter Twenty-Three: A Lady Reveals Nothing

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Strange Bedfellows

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Vaudeville Origins

  Chapter Twenty-Six: The Hunt

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Anti-Playwright

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Love and Sushi

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Brainstorming

  Chapter Thirty: Houseguest

  Chapter Thirty-One: Someone’s in the Kitchen with Cloris

  Chapter Thirty-Two: Love and Mishegas

  Chapter Thirty-Three: Yom Kippur Is the New Christmas

  Chapter Thirty-Four: Abby-Dexterous

  Chapter Thirty-Five: The Cat Show

  Chapter Thirty-Six: You Little Mamzer

  Chapter Thirty-Seven: Dinner for Two

  Chapter Thirty-Eight: Eyes Wide Open

  Chapter Thirty-Nine: Off to the Island

  Chapter Forty: Bounty, Set, Catch

  Chapter Forty-One: Hate Crimes

  Chapter Forty-Two: Leaving the Nest

  Chapter Forty-Three: With Two, You Get Kreplach

  Chapter Forty-Four: I See You

  Chapter Forty-Five: Rounding up the Schmendricks

  Chapter Forty-Six: Devil among Us

  Chapter Forty-Seven: Eyes of a Monster

  Chapter Forty-Eight: Premier

  Chapter Forty-Nine: Night on the Town

  Chapter Fifty: Curtain Call

  Chapter Fifty-One: New Tenants

  Chapter One: Show of Shows

  The champagne exploded, reverberating through the giant hall as the well-wishers and invited guests took in the festivities. This was a grand night, a triumph! This was the night for all involved to praise their favorite playwright, Jeffrey David Rothstein, for his latest and greatest work to date. The smash hit, A Dreidel Spins in Yonkers.

  A play that took Broadway by storm and was already generating buzz about shattering all of the records come awards season. The heartwarming tale of a Hassidic Jewish girl breaking away from the bonds of the rabbinical laws set forth by her father to become an exotic dancer in the seedy underworld of Yonkers.

  “Gritty and joyous” was what they were saying, and the show had been sold out for tonight’s premier and for the foreseeable future. It was the perfect blend of politically incorrect humor and outright offensiveness that the new Broadway audience craved and spent big money to see.

  Gone were the times of the happy-go-lucky show tunes and tales of hardworking artists struggling to pay the rent. This was offensive at its very core, which made you want to jump out of your seat and scream, “I feel the same way!”, and for the two and a half hours that it ran, the audience was free from the restraints set forth by the media and political pundits who told all of us how to think and speak.

  Jeffrey David Rothstein was a genius among ordinary men, and this was surely to be his crowning achievement. His last play, Shakespeare in Borough Park, had brought him the most recognition to date, and from what the early reviews were saying, this new play was going to make everyone forget that groundbreaking tale of culture shock when an anti-Semite embraces his inner Jew.

  Business cards were exchanged, jokes were told, and it seemed that everywhere one turned, another person was quoting a line from the show. It was what every writer dreams of, that not only is his work appreciated, but it is loved by so many that they cannot help but tell everyone and anyone who they meet about it, thus giving life and legs to the artist’s work.

  “Well, it really was amazing working with him. The man is a genius,” Jacob Stone said to a grateful guest who was praising the performance with the joy of a child on Chanukah. “Just being around him was a privilege that I will never forget and am so grateful for.”

  Jacob was Jeffrey’s newest assistant and had worked very closely with the star of the evening during all of those long nights of writing this future masterpiece. He had done everything that his mentor had asked of him. He ran errands, made sure there was always plenty of Perrier and orange juice available, which was Jeffrey’s poison when he wrote, and he was there to run to the Second Avenue Deli when the craving hit for pastrami, corned beef, and chopped liver on rye bread.

  Jacob was an aspiring writer himself and just being around Jeffrey fed more passion and desire to write than any other experience in his entire life. He had been hooked from the first time his mother and grandmother brought him to see Jeffrey’s first play, All’s Quiet in the West Bank, a love story about a Palestinian girl who shuns her Islamic upbringing to marry an Israeli soldier who killed her brother.

  Tonight, Jacob’s true responsibilities were to entertain the guests until the very shy Jeffrey was ready to come out to receive his accolades. Jeffrey was never comfortable with crowds and even less at ease with constant praise. Part of his reasoning was that he knew how good he was, and getting the approval from those whom he didn’t care about did very little to change his perspective on life. The only person whose opinion mattered to him was Rachel Benjamin, his longtime girlfriend and drama critic, who had been seeing him for the last five years.

  “So, tell us, Jacob. Where is the man of the hour?” a guest asked with great anticipation.

  “Oh, knowing him, he’s probably hidden away in the men’s room, writing on that little pad of his and coming up with his newest work of sheer brilliance.”

  * * *

  “I’m telling you, Jeffrey, this is the big one. You have etched your name in the hearts and minds of the Broadway community, and there is nothing to stop you now,” said Rachel as she typed away text after text on her phone. “The way that audien
ce was eating it up, you would think that Jesus himself was speaking.”

  She was a very attractive woman of only thirty, slender of build, and her body could best be described as athletic with a bit more voluptuousness. Already she was at the top of her profession as an award-winning theater critic. She always found it amusing that she should get awards for expressing her opinion, which was seldom different from her readers. After all, if they didn’t agree with her, they wouldn’t read her reviews.

  “That’s what you should do next, Jeffrey, you should write a play about Jesus!” she continued excitedly. “That way we can get more of the goyim into the theater. Those Gentiles don’t know what they’re missing.”

  She put her phone down and tilted her head back, stretching her neck from right to left to release tension. “So, what do you think?”

  Jeffrey mumbled a response that was barely audible, and she looked down and asked, “What did you say?”

  He pulled his head out from under her skirt and said, “I hope they like it better than what I’m trying to do right now.”

  “Aww, I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her fingers through his hair. “I guess I’m just a little distracted.”

  “Well, I’m done with this then,” Jeffrey said as he washed his face in the sink of the men’s room. They had snuck in here together, locked the door behind themselves for a little alone time, and their feelings for each other had taken over. Actually, it was more of her feelings for herself than anything else since she was the only person whom she really cared about. Jeffrey had thought this on many occasions, but he was the type of man who was better with a loveless relationship than no relationship at all.

  Being with Rachel had even inspired many of his writings that had not yet been sold or even published, just another spiral binder in his library of unfinished or unpublished work. These were his babies, and nobody knew about them. These were the words that flowed late at night when he had time to himself and nobody could pollute his mind with their senseless jargon.

  Writing was the way Jeffrey found release and was able to transform himself into something and someone whom he was not. Where he was uncomfortable with crowds, his hero was charismatic and posh. Where he was shy around women, his leading men could melt the female heart by just entering the room. He was king of his fantasy worlds, and he loved expanding them.

  “I guess it’s time for me to head out there, isn’t it?” he asked, although he really wasn’t interested in the answer.

  “Well, they are here for you. It’s your night.”

  * * *

  Back in the ballroom with the guests, Jeffrey was immediately spotted, and the roar of approval and clinking of glasses echoed throughout the room. If it had not been for the fact that Jeffrey was already a pseudo famous writer, he may not have even been noticed in a crowd of this size. He did not solicit much attention in a crowd.

  He was about six feet tall with salt and pepper hair, medium build, and crow’s feet around his shockingly bright blue eyes. If you did not know better, you would swear that he was maybe of Irish descent, but he was born and bred Jewish. His father’s family came from the Ukraine and his mother’s from Germany; a great many of them had been killed during the Nazi reign of terror throughout Europe. But Jeffrey did little to draw attention to himself. He did not walk with his head held high or with perfect posture; he was just another talented shmuck walking among the talentless.

  A microphone was handed to Jeffrey as the cry of “Speech, speech!” began ringing out amongst the crowd. He moved in to speak, and the ring of the microphone momentarily left everyone in attendance flinching at the sound.

  “Sorry about that,” he began. “Well, I would like to thank all of you for coming out tonight, and it looks like you all enjoyed the show. I would like to thank Jacob Stone for all of his invaluable help during this process.” The crowd erupted in applause as Jacob gave an awkward wave and smile. “I would also like to thank the best critic in the world, and my personal worst critic, the love of my life, Rachel Benjamin.” The crowd again applauded, and someone asked when there would be wedding bells.

  “Not until he wins all of his Tonys,” Rachel interrupted and shouted back to the crowd. She had saved Jeffrey from answering this very uncomfortable question, one that even they rarely discussed.

  Jeffrey laughed with the crowd and continued, “I wish I shared your confidence, Rachel. But in the meantime, thank you all for coming and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  Another round of applause broke out, and Jeffrey and Rachel began mingling through the crowd until they eventually went their own ways. She was a driven woman who never failed to seize an opportunity to advance her career and reputation, while Jeffrey found Jacob and the nearest corner so he would have some form of buffer between him and the encroaching crowds that just wanted to share a few brief moments picking the brains of this genius in their midst.

  “This could not have gone any better, Jeffrey,” Jacob said, trying to contain his excitement. “They love it! You can write your own check for the next one.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I’m telling you, we have to strike while the iron is hot.” Jacob was almost jumping from excitement.

  “I was thinking about taking some time off.”

  “Bad idea! You have to keep it going while you’re in the zone. Imagine what you can write next.”

  “I actually have nothing in my head right now, Jacob. That’s why I want some time off. You know, to refresh.”

  Jacob smiled at Jeffrey and said to him as quietly as the crowd would allow, “Why don’t you pen someone else’s idea?”

  Jeffrey returned a puzzled look and asked, “What do you mean someone else’s?”

  “I have a guy who I met a couple of months ago who has a shitload of money and wants to get on Broadway, but he can’t write worth a shit. He told me that he would let you name your price if you agreed to write his idea and bring the concept to life. He’ll even fund the play.” Jacob’s excitement was overwhelming him as he started to giggle and asked, “What do you think?”

  Jeffrey took a sip of his champagne and gave an awkward, undecided nod of his head.

  Chapter Two: Creative Differences

  “I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Jeffrey said in a hushed tone to Jacob as the two of them sat in the waiting area of Jacob’s clandestine benefactor who wished to fund their next endeavor, provided that Jeffrey was the one who wrote it, and it was the brain child of this mysterious man.

  The waiting area was on the top floor of a forty-story high-rise in Manhattan and decorated in a sort-of nouveau art deco; it rang of the old and the new at the same time. The air was surprisingly musty for the surroundings, and it did not take long for Jeffrey to determine that the smell was emanating from the closed office door and that it was thick cigar smoke he smelled.

  The secretary was a middle-aged woman who was handsomely dressed, but carried a scowl expression that spoke of a woman who was not particularly fond of her employer or the business that he was in. As of this very moment, Jeffrey had not much more information than first impressions, and this bothered him some.

  He had asked Jacob repeatedly for any kind of history as to whom they were meeting with, but his assistant only shared the man’s name, Heinrich Schultz.

  Jeffrey was not a bigoted man by any standard, but he was also a Jew who had lost family members during the Nazi reign, so he was always a bit apprehensive whenever he had to do business with a person of German descent. He regretted this prejudice, but it was not something that could go away easily because of personal discomfort.

  Jacob stood up and walked to the office window, looking down on the city below, and he did a quick snap of his fingers while slapping the palm of his hand. He turned to Jeffrey and quietly said, “This is going to be great. You’ll see. Henry is a great man with a vision and the money to support that vision.”

  “Where did you meet this guy? And when? I thought I kept you too bu
sy for socializing while we were working.”

  “You did take a nap every now and then, and I took a walk.”

  “Well, what does he do?” Jeffrey asked impatiently.

  Jacob nervously looked at the secretary and whispered, “It’s better that I let Henry explain that.”

  Whatever this business was and whoever this Henry fellow turned out to be, Jeffrey was becoming quite certain that he was not going to like either one of them.

  Jeffrey’s work had always been very important to him, sacred even, and now his closest professional friend was asking him to possibly prostitute that love for nothing more than money. Jeffrey had money, money was not his problem, and he was increasingly wondering why he had agreed to come along to begin with. Perhaps it was creative curiosity, intrigue, or maybe, and even more possible, that Jeffrey was out of ideas. It had been a minor miracle that he was able to pen the last play, and he knew that he had left everything on the table when he finished it. Try as he may, he could think of nothing when he sat alone in his office at night and stared at his spiral binders for hours. Not a single creative thought came to mind, at least, nothing worth writing. Perhaps this mysterious Henry would provide him with the original idea and the motivation to get back to work, to get his creative juices flowing again, and maybe even inspire him to write an even more impressive work than A Dreidel Spins in Yonkers.

  He watched as Jacob hardly contained his excitement and kept leaping from his seat as if it were spring loaded. If you didn’t know better, you would swear that it was Jacob who had been offered the job and Jeffrey was only there as moral support. He kept muttering to himself, almost indiscernible phrases like, “This is so great” and “We’re going to be rich.”

  The last statement bothered Jeffrey a bit because he never did what he did for the fame or fortune, it was embedded in the fibers of his being, and it was who he was. This talk about money made him uncomfortable and a little confused, since Jeffrey was the playwright and Jacob was just the assistant and they were compensated accordingly.