by Jack Kilborn
“Look at the stage.”
“Look at the plasterwork. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
“Yeah, yeah. Beautiful.”
The usher showed them their seats and Frank frowned.
“I thought we were front row.”
“This is the front row, sir.”
“How about all those guys in front of us?”
“That’s the orchestra pit, sir.”
They took their seats, which were actually pretty nice. Plush red velvet, roomy and comfortable. Too bad they didn’t have seats like this at the United Center, where the Bulls played.
Wendy handed him a Playbill, and Frank squinted at the cover. A man in period clothing stared back at him.
“Who is this guy, anyway? Alexandro Mulchahey?”
“He’s the famous Irish soliloquist.”
“One of those guys who talks with a dummy on his lap?”
“He’s a dramatic actor, Frank. He does Shakespearean sonnets.”
Frank slumped in his chair. This was worse than he’d thought. When Wendy nagged him about this night, during a pivotal regular season game a few months back, he hadn’t heard her mention Shakespeare.
“And this guy’s famous?”
“He’s the hottest thing in Europe right now. He’s in all the papers.”
Frank folded his arms. “If he was in all the papers, I would have heard about him.”
“He wasn’t in the sports section.”
Frank frowned. The most pivotal basketball game of the century was playing right now, and Frank was stuck here watching some fruit in tights talk fancy for three hours.
Maybe he could fake a heart attack. Those ambulance guys have radios. They could tune into the game…
Some people needed to get to their seats, and Frank and Wendy had to stand up to let them by.
It was the kid with the Watchman! He stuck his tongue out at Frank as he passed, and then sat three seats away from them, his TV still tuned to the Bulls game.
Frank glanced at Wendy. She was absorbed in her program, gaping at big, color photos of Alexandro, who appeared to be in the throes of agony or ecstasy or a massive bowel movement.
“Look at how passionate he is,” Wendy beamed.
“Or constipated,” Frank muttered. He turned to look at the kid. The little boy held up the Watchman so Frank could see the game. The screen was tiny, but there was a score in the corner that Frank could almost make out. He leaned closer, straining his eyes.
The little snot switched the channel to Tom and Jerry.
“Goddamn little…”
There was a moaning sound in front of them.
“Orchestra is warming up.” Wendy bounced in her seat like an anxious schoolgirl. “It’s going to start soon.”
The little boy whispered something to his father, and they both got up. Once again Frank and Wendy had to stand. Frank fought the urge to strangle the little monkey as he sashayed past.
The father took the kid by the hand up the aisle.
“Wendy, I have to go to the bathroom.”
“The show’s about to start.”
“It’s an emergency.” Frank made his Emergency face.
“Hurry back.”
Frank stood up and followed the boy into the lobby. As he guessed, his father led him into the bathroom.
The kid’s father was standing by the sink, checking out his hair from three different angles.
“I just joined Hair Club for Men,” he told Frank.
“Looks good,” Frank told him. It looked like a beaver had died on the man’s head.
“Can you see the weave?”
“Hmm? No. Seamless.”
Frank eyed the stalls. Only one door was closed. Had to be the kid.
He walked into the nearby stall and closed the door. Removing twenty dollars from his wallet, he slipped the bill under the partition
“Psst. Kid. Twenty bucks if you can give it to me for an hour.”
There was no answer. Frank added another bill to the offer.
“How about forty?”
The voice that came from the stall was far to low to belong to a child.
“I normally don’t swing that way, man. But for sixty, I’ll rock your world.”
Frank hurried out of the bathroom and into the lobby. The kid and his dad were going back into the theater.
“Hey! Buddy!”
Several people in the crowd turned to stare at him. He pushed through and caught up with Hair Weave and his kid.
“You think I could check out the game on your son’s TV?”
“The game?” Hair Weave scratched his roots.
“Bulls game. Playoffs.”
“Clarence, let this man see your TV for a second.”
“Batteries are dead.”
Clarence switched on the Watchman and nothing happened. He smiled. Malicious little bastard.
“Did you see the score?”
“Yeah—fifty-four to sixty-eight.”
“Who was winning?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Come on Clarence, Mommy’s waiting.”
Clarence stuck out his tongue and followed his father down the aisle.
Frank felt as if his head were about to blow apart. He almost began crying.
“Are you okay, sir?”
An usher, red vest and bow tie, no more than eighteen. Frank grabbed his arms.
“Is there a TV anywhere in this place?”
The boy scrunched his eyebrows. “TV? No. I don’t think so.”
“How about a radio? It’s the Eastern Conference Finals. I have to know the score.”
“Sorry. There’s a TV in the dressing room, but…”
Frank lit up. “There’s one in Evander Mulrooney’s room?”
“You mean Alexandro Mulchahey?”
“I went to school with Evander, in Italy.”
“Mr. Mulchahey is Irish.”
Frank clapped the usher on the shoulder, grinning broadly.
“I should stop in, say hello to the old hound dog. Where’s his dressing room?”
“I don’t think…”
Frank held the forty dollars under the kid’s nose.
“Just tell me where it is.”
The usher sniffed the money, then nodded. He led Frank through an unmarked door and down a winding hallway that had none of the frill and pizzazz of the lobby. It barely had ample light.
The hall finally ended at a door to the backstage. Frank half expected to see a jungle of sandbags and painted backdrops, but instead it was very orderly. There were several people milling about, but none of them paid Frank any attention.
“He’s the third room on the right. Don’t tell him I let you in. I’ll lose my job.”
Frank didn’t bother thanking him. He ran to the door, flinging it open, seeing Evander Fitzrooney sitting in a make-up chair.
The soliloquist turned to him, venom in his eyes.
“I don’t allow visitors before a performance! Get out!”
Frank ignored the actor, scanning the room, searching frantically for the…
“Television!”
Frank ran to it, arms outstretched, and Evander stood up and punched Frank square in the nose.
“How many times can I say I’m sorry?”
Wendy stared at Frank through the bars. She didn’t seem sympathetic.
“I’ve decided to let you spend the night in jail, Frank. Maybe it will help you prioritize your life.”
“Wendy…please. I need you to bail me out. The game has to be almost over, and I gave my last forty bucks to that pimply usher.”
Wendy darkened, then turned on her heels and walked out.
“Wendy! Will you at least find out the score for me? Please!”
After Wendy left, Frank slumped down on the metal bench, alone. Every second seemed to last an hour. Every minute was an eternity. Are the Bulls winning? Will they move on to the finals? What was the score?
Never a religious man, Fr
ank silently begged the Lord to please send someone to give Frank the score.
When Frank finished the prayer and opened his eyes, he was confronted with a wondrous sight.
The cops were bringing in a man—a large, burly man—wearing a Bulls jersey.
“Is the game over?”
The man squinted at Frank. “Yeah, it’s over. Most amazing ending I’ve ever seen. It’ll be talked about for decades to come.”
“Who won? Who won?”
The door closed, and the cops went away. The burly man looked Frank over, top to bottom.
“You a Bulls fan?”
Frank began to jump up and down.
“Yes, dammit! Who won the game?”
The man smiled. It was an ugly thing.
“How much is it worth to you to know?”
“Name your price. I don’t have any money on me, but I’ll get it to you. My word is good.”
Burly Guy licked his lips. “Don’t want no money.”
“What is it you want, then?”
Fifteen minutes later, Frank learned a valuable lesson: If you dedicate your life to sports, you’ll only get hurt in the end.
Written for a college anthropology course, as a final project. The Woody Allen influence is obvious. I’ve always liked this story, but no one ever expressed any interest in publishing it, even though it made the rounds.
DAY 1 — 2:47 P.M.
The funding has come through! As I write this, I am in a plane heading to the Bahamas, on a grant from the University of Sheboygan. With me are my colleagues Dr. Myra Bird and Dr. Jerome Sloan.
I’m thrilled, though my excitement was somewhat dampened when I had some trouble getting my excavation tools through airport security. Jerome’s sly joke that I wasn’t really an archaeologist, but rather a homicidal maniac, prompted them to conduct an embarrassing and somewhat uncomfortable body-cavity search.
I’m grateful the airport security gentlemen had small hands.
As for the site, none of us knows what to expect. Sure, there have been stories of fossilized Homo erectus skulls just lying on the beach, waiting to be picked up, but archaeological rumors are plentiful. I still remember traveling to the Antarctic six years ago, because of the discovery of what seemed to be an Australopithecus boise tooth, but instead turned out to be just a small white rock. I sorely miss those three toes I lost to frostbite.
But this site seems like the real thing. The authenticated femur of a Homo habilus was found by a vacationing family in a small cave. Evidently, the children were acting up, and the father had grabbed something lying next to him to beat them with. It turned out to be the fossil in question. Luckily, it remained intact, even though the father used it.
I also believe the children have gotten out of intensive care.
Myra, Jerome and I have been waiting a week now for the go ahead to investigate. My bag was long ago packed and waiting for the word, leaving me pretty much without anything to wear for the last week.
But now we were finally on our way.
Jerome just tapped me on the shoulder, smiling. He is also obviously thrilled about this trip. No, he just wants my martini. I give it to him. I am so high right now I do not need alcohol. This package of peanuts is fine.
DAY 1 — 9:35 P.M.
What a horrible flight! Jerome threw up on the stewardess, who then refused to acknowledge us for the rest of the trip. We didn’t even get served our dinner, which as far as I could make out was some kind of meat in brown sauce. When we got to the airport, Customs confiscated Jerome’s suitcase, which was filled with liquor. Both Myra and I are appalled at the lack of professionalism on our colleague’s part, and we attempted to confront him and express our disappointment.
Unfortunately, he was unconscious.
We managed to get him to the hotel by strapping him to the hood of our taxi, but they charged us fare for three just the same.
The hotel we are staying at is very cheap, and we all must share a room due to budgetary constraints. Myra and I propped Jerome up on the sink, then discussed where we would sleep, there being only one bed. I was willing to be adult about it and share the bed with her, half and half. She agreed, and now I must sleep on the underside of the mattress.
Myra is very sharp, so sharp in fact that I once cut myself shaking her hand. But she has really sexy bone structure, and her teeth are exquisite. I long to run my hands over her illium and ischium, but realize such thoughts are dangerous, as I must work closely with her. Nothing must jeopardize our excavation.
I can barely wait to start work tomorrow.
DAY 2 — 5:43 A.M.
I am awakened in the morning by Jerome retching. The sound was disturbing enough, but the fact that he was retching on me made it impossible to sleep any longer. After a shower, I dressed and went down to the lobby and waited for my colleagues to join me. Myra arrived a few minutes later, without Jerome. When I inquired about him, she told me he was sick and going to stay in bed for the day. I wanted to protest, but realized he probably wouldn’t be much help to us anyway, and would only throw up on anything we might find.
We called a cab and took it to the sight. My mind was giddy with anticipation. I could tell Myra was nervous too, because she bit off all her nails and spit them in my face (a cute habit she has.)
When we arrived, it was exactly as I had expected; a clearing in the tropical forest of about eighty square yards. On the edge of it was a rock formation that held a small cave. Myra had brought her camera, and she began to take pictures of the area. Then she gave the camera to me, and asked me to take some pictures of her posing on the rocks.
After shooting three rolls of film, we broke out our equipment and began our excavation. Armed with a flashlight, a horse hair brush, and a small pick, we entered the cave. Myra clutched my arm, afraid of being attacked by vampire bats. Every so often I would flash my light at the ceiling and yell “A bat!” just for fun.
I soon quit, as Myra would slap me repeatedly in the face when she discovered there was no real danger.
A quick inspection of the cave showed no real evidence of primitive man. Though we were unduly excited about seeing something on the wall, which just turned out to be a spray painted picture of a man’s genitalia, with “Eat me Jonny” written beside it. Primitive as it may be, it wasn’t what we were looking for.
After examining the cave, we went to inspect the area where the femur was found, twenty feet east of the opening. The ground was hard clay, and we discovered the impression of where the discovered femur bone had been lying. Using our picks, we dug roughly six inches down for a square yard of the area encompassing the impression, but got nothing for our efforts except a large pile of clay.
By then it was late afternoon, and we chose to break for lunch. Unfortunately, neither of us had brought anything to eat. But this was a tropical jungle, and there were many edible roots and tubers growing around us. I also noted that several of the rocks were slate, and if need be we could knock off a Mousterian point using the Levallois technique and go hunting for rodents.
Myra, however, wanted a burger and fries, so we had to go back to the hotel.
DAY 2 — 1:46 P.M.
Upon finishing lunch, it was our intention to report our progress to Jerome, then return to the sight. But to our surprise Jerome was not in the room. We begin searching the hotel, and I find him sitting by the pool in a chaise lounge, sipping a Mai-Tai.
I am shocked at his conduct, and threaten to tell our superiors of his insubordination. He flips me the bird.
I find Myra peeking in the Men’s room, and tell her of Jerome’s attitude. She agrees we should file a report recommending he be dismissed, or at least have his suave safari hat taken away. Then we take a cab back to the sight.
While I continued to excavate the area where the fossil was found, Myra decided to start in another area, closer to the mouth of the cave. It is hard, laborious work, but it is made more bearable by Myra, who sings operettas while she digs.
Four hours into it, I discover something. Rather than get Myra excited over what may be just a rock, I bit off a small portion of my lower lip to keep from yelling with joy. As I dig around it I realize it was smart that I waited, for my discovery was nothing but a long, thin stone. Or perhaps a petrified snake. Either way, it wasn’t important.
The sun begins to set, and we know we must go. We aren’t discouraged, as neither of us expected to find anything on the first day, but we are a little disappointed. When we get back to the hotel, Jerome is watching “Emmanuelle in Egypt” on pay-per-view, eating what appears to be his third room service filet mignon. He apologizes profusely about earlier, and promises to accompany us tomorrow. We reluctantly forgive him, and Myra lets him sleep next to her that night.
I must sleep on a small wooden chair.
It doesn’t bother me, for I have slept in far worse places. Like Detroit. Or that time I was in Cairo, and slept on a bed of camel dung. To this day, I still attract more than the average amount of flies.
DAY 3 — 7:30 A.M.
I awake to the sound of gagging. I then realize that it was me, as Jerome stuffed a small gourd into my mouth as a joke.
He is really beginning to irritate me.
Jerome and Myra had gotten up earlier, so there is no time to change or take a shower, as they are on their way to the sight. I am already in the cab when I realize I am still wearing my Snoopy pajamas.
Myra reassures me not to worry, as the sight is secluded, and they are pretty nice pajamas. Then she takes several pictures, while she and Jerome laugh hysterically. I haven’t been so embarrassed since I interned with Leakey, and mislabeled a gracile Australopithecine skull fragment for robust, completely forgetting to take into account the sagittal crest.
I smile politely, and jokingly tell them both to go to hell. We do not talk until we reach the sight. When we get there, Jerome is impressed with our progress. He agrees we should keep at what we are doing, and he’ll start work further in the cave. I like this idea, as it keeps Jerome away from me.
Several hours later, I again come upon what appears to be fossil material. But this time it is more definite. I call Myra over, and we begin to dig it out together. It turns out to be a parietal bone, intact! I am so excited I kiss Myra. She surprises me by passionately responding. She then goes into the cave to give the news to Jerome, whom she finds is sleeping. He becomes very excited, and clutches the bone tightly, yelling, “Mine! All mine!”
