Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  When I finally left the building for our six o’clock dinner break, I saw Gary smoking a cigarette at the redwood table that had become the epicenter of the compound. He was relaxed and waved me a friendly hello, then stood and gave me a macho hug.

  “We have to finish our talk about Veronica and Lizzy,” he said. “Don’t want to leave you hanging or wondering where the story goes.”

  “Okay,” I said with trepidation. “When?”

  “I’m taking Ellie out for supper. How about after the show? I’m coming to see it tonight. I already paid for my tickets—fourth time. I’ll check in with you at intermission.”

  “You are a great man, Gary Golden,” I said, then moved away so he could greet Ellie as she approached wearing a wide grin of ease and contentment. It said more than words could ever hope to convey. I headed back to my room. Rest was what I needed most, and to achieve it I needed to make sure I had no encounters along the way.

  Veronica was sitting on the bed wearing a towel and brushing her freshly washed blond hair. “Hey, big boy,” she said. “Got a minute for your honey?”

  I answered by turning my hug into a long, lingering kiss. Before it went any further, though, I was fast asleep.

  An urgent knock on my door startled me awake as the clock read 7:46 p.m. JB shouted that Mr. Foster was on the phone. I sprinted to the office, picked the phone off the cradle, and pressed the blinking light on line one. “Hello,” I said breathlessly.

  “Please hold for Mr. Foster,” said a flat nondescript female voice.

  I held for a full ten minutes before Ellie’s father got on. “Bob Foster, here. Who do I have?” His voice was brusque and to the point.

  “Sir, this is Sam August. You were kind enough to return my call.”

  “Right, Sam.” He had no idea who I was. He may have vaguely recognized the name from somewhere. “How can I help you, Sam?”

  “Well, sir, do you know who I am?”

  “Of course,” he lied.

  “I’m working with your daughter up here on the Cape, and I just wanted to let you know how she was doing and how grateful I am for her work and how proud you—”

  He interrupted. “She’s my girl, of course she’s doing well. I got a letter from her just last week.” He sounded as if I was some worthless underling to be placated instead of listened to. He was rich and powerful and his phone rang every sixty seconds. He could write a check for tuition or a house or a hospital wing or . . . As I listened to his bullshit I thanked God he wasn’t my father.

  Then I interrupted, with enough force to be heard. “Sir, I think you should find the time to come up and see what your daughter is doing here. It’s important, sir.” I let that linger for as long as possible, then continued. “You’re busy, sir, I know that, yet I can only stress that Ellie has to see you here even for just one night or it will really damage her.”

  He cut me off as if we were in a negotiation. “Young man, that’s a rather inflammatory comment, a bit presumptuous to say the least.”

  “No, sir, it is not presumptuous. It is profound. I suggest with all respect that you find a way to come up and see your daughter. That’s it. That’s all.”

  “Goodbye, son,” he said, and the phone went dead.

  My face flushed with embarrassment, but it only took a moment for me to realize that it was he who should feel ashamed. Then I had two quick thoughts. One was that part of becoming an adult was having the wisdom to trust when bad behavior was just that and not a reflection on me . . . to learn to trust in my character, my intent, and my decency. The other was an affirmation, a reinterpretation of my dad’s comment about never being too rich or too thin. He was wrong. It was better to be surrounded by those who loved you and remembered your name.

  It was nearly curtain time, and I raced across the compound to see the evening’s performance. Through the grace of God, Bobby Stevens, and Marc Seconds’s article there was not an open seat to be had. I stood at the back of the house next to JB’s Officer Tommy and his partner, the blue-eyed Cutler, who had almost hauled us away some weeks ago.

  “Hey, Sam, I hear we’re all going to P-Town on Sunday. Supposed to be hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire.”

  “Nice image, Tommy,” I replied. “I guess I’m the last to know, but it sounds fun.”

  Cutler chimed in. “So is that dancer going to be naked tonight?”

  Schmuck, I said inside my head. With all decorum, I replied, “Walter, it’s live theater. You never know.”

  Then I settled into a corner to take notes. Little did I know as the overture began that Carol’s bare breasts of last evening would be considered tame compared to what awaited us tonight.

  Heigh-ho the glamorous life.

  71

  The building was buzzing with the energy of great expectation. The soldout crowd had come ready to have a terrific time. The orchestra played the overture. The music was crisp and snappy. The tunes were hummable and danceable, and they set different expectations and promises as to the fun evening about to begin.

  The curtain rose on the first number, which was a silly choral ditty in which all the characters sang about the joy of the Atlantic crossing they were embarking on. The number was contained madness, sort of where the joke holds its breath on the verge of turning blue, then goes bam and the show gets shot out of a cannon. Sixteen bars before the lighting of the fuse to an explosive and wild beginning, the door off stage right opened with a loud jolt. There was split focus among the actors as they wanted to remain in the scene but the distraction in the wings was hard to ignore.

  We had a streaker! A buck-naked, overweight streaker with a large belly, chunky legs, jiggly hairy ass cheeks, and substantial man-boobs. His back could have used a haircut as well but there was no time for grooming. He ran directly to center stage. Shook a few surprised hands, waved at the stunned audience, and began to make his way to the house-right exit at the back of the auditorium.

  Secunda watched him do his shtick at center stage, all the while checking out the gaping jaws of the audience. This guy was no Carol Duteau. As he started to make his way off stage and up the aisle for his escape, Secunda looked into audience with an expression that provoked expectation. He took the streaker’s hand and urged him to bow yet again. “Ladies and gentlemen, my mother-in-law,” he said.

  Then to a cacophony of whistles, catcalls, boos, and applause, the man enjoyed a couple of elaborate bows. He then ran up the aisle naked into the night. Waiting just outside the door was Office Cutler, who had come to see something naked on stage. This was clearly not what he’d had in mind. The streaker burst through the back door and ran right into his arms. The big, sweaty, overweight bowling ball was trapped by a pissed-off cop. As Walter cuffed him and drove away, I felt disappointed for him. He’d gotten a hairy fat-assed guy instead of the cotton candy that was Carol Duteau.

  I had no concerns about the streaker incident. There was a terrific story in the whole deal, and I was certain Bobby would put the correct spin on it. A couple of thoughts flashed through my mind, however. One was to wonder how quickly Cutler could book the naked guy and then get home to shower. The other was to consider whether one could truly take pride in his work if every night brought some sort of outrageousness. Please let tomorrow be just the show, I thought, the simply glorious romp of summer stock without surprises or histrionics. I went back inside to watch the rest of Friday night’s performance. It was a really good show even though everyone remained clothed.

  Saturday morning, the wind whistled off the water. The sky was an unspoiled sapphire blue that blanketed the ocean. The whitecaps were angry across the sea. Gusts hit low and forceful off the ocean making it feel more like November than late July. Doors were slammed shut by the force of the wind, and those scurrying about the compound huddled under sweaters or hooded sweatshirts. It was weird, yet it gave great resonance to the adage “things
can change as quickly as the wind.” I lay in bed next to Veronica and watched her sleep.

  Gary had not spoken to me last night. He had brought a gaggle of friends to see the show and, using his newfound clout as a theater good guy, was able to find nooks and crannies where they could sit. We missed each other at intermission, and postcurtain they all raced out with Ellie for what I hoped was a healthy, happy, and safe evening.

  I could only imagine what past he’d share with me about Veronica when we continued our talk. As I looked at her lying next to me radiating peace and calm, I decided I didn’t care, that I didn’t even want to know. She made me happy. She was a good friend and she was kind and giving. Perhaps I even loved her, if one really knows how to do that at the age of twenty-one. Whatever had happened before I met her was of no concern.

  It was early. I had a little time to myself and elected to take a run to the beach. I dressed quietly and left our room without waking her. Once outside, the wind lashed at me like a whip and howled something indecipherable. I ran hard toward the ocean where the blustery voice of nature made it sound like someone was down there crying. I decided I should listen to the sounds of this strange morning. Perhaps they were trying to convey something I needed to hear.

  That Saturday morning everyone worked, but it was clear they could feel the seconds pass as the clock moved inexorably toward freedom. No rehearsals or responsibilities. Just thirty-six hours of unbridled joy. When you’re twenty-one that adds up to a great many possibilities.

  Our rehearsals were stupendous. We rode the roller coaster of excitement I had hoped to achieve when we worked through Friday. It was a glorious, breathtaking ride as things came together, scenes worked, and little bits of business, color, nuisance, and mischief spiced the whole adventure. It went so well that before lunch we added a wrinkle of an idea to rehearsal. It was an exercise, triple time, in which we played a scene sped up beyond any sort of reasonableness. It was productive because we all found things we hadn’t played before; when you run stuff at triple time you don’t have time to think. As important, it was simply fun and goofy and added a sense of insanity and reverse perspective to hard work and commitment. It was a vacation without responsibility. It was silly, manic, and over the top.

  So as we broke for an hour at two in the afternoon, with our last rehearsal set to go from three to six, I thought of when Veronica had asked how much money I had on our first date and the answer was a mere twenty-three dollars. The amount had grown to something worth millions. The efforts and dedication and effervescence everyone in our company had brought to the table each day had earned them a day of nonsense and abandon. It was just hours away and all of us held our breaths until the clock signaled us free.

  We ran the triple-time rehearsal to end a perfect morning and then broke for lunch. It went so well and so many ideas worked that I felt I was indeed the next George Abbott. During the break I ventured out into the compound for some air. I thought about this morning and the howling wind urging me to listen. What was it trying to say to me?

  72

  The answer blew in all too quickly and without finesse. We had finished our rehearsal at six sharp. The quality and accomplishment of the morning had continued, and we ended the day with smiles and a rocket pocket full of energy and good will. Tonight’s show looked to blow the roof off the old barn and promised a curtain call under the stars.

  I lingered for almost two hours, working through tech issues for the next show with Kasen and Duncan. Duncan was insisting on certain scenic pieces coming up through the stage floor, which, although a charming if not inspired idea, was well beyond the scope of a small summer theater. Such an effect would require a hydraulic lift and substantial rehearsal to make it effective and safe. Kasen insisted we could handle the cueing and Duncan promised he could secure the lift on favor. How could I say no? They both wanted to create something special, so I jumped on board.

  I left the building to the sounds of a catfight. Parked in the middle of the compound was the shiny, red Mercedes that belonged to the cat woman herself, Lizzy Barrows. She was standing at the box-office window shouting obscenities at Veronica who manned the fort alongside Diana Cohen. Veronica was returning the volley with equal vigor, throwing haymaker after haymaker. One could easily be convinced that she’d grown up in a truck stop. Everyone on the premises was riveted by this display of mutual ill manners and outright contempt. As entertaining as it might have been, particularly in another time or place, it wasn’t working for me at all. My heart sank as I thought I needed to deal with one more challenge before I could truly say my day was complete.

  JB arrived at the melee, and I stopped to watch rather than enter the fray. If not for the enormous animosity flooding the compound, the sight of these two tall beauties being separated by the diminutive JB would have been comical to watch. The girls shouted at one another, but what they had to say was not important. It was the way they said it that conveyed the power. They looked like a manager and umpire in full dispute. It might have been a bit perverse, but they both looked terrific. I began to find the whole scene somewhat titillating.

  Suddenly it was over. Veronica ran toward the beach with an angry intensity that hung in the air. Lizzy Barrows pushed away JB’s offer of a handshake and without a word hopped into her expensive car and left in a fury of dust, spitting gravel, and rage.

  It took a few moments for everyone to regain a sense of normalcy, almost as if we had all witnessed a mugging or drive-by. JB watched the car fishtail out of sight and looked at me with a mixture of bemusement and defeat. I walked over to her slowly. She grabbed my arm and wordlessly dragged me into the office and slammed the door.

  She was flushed with anger. I stood there waiting as if summoned to the principal’s office for some heinous act. She lit a cigarette and smoked it all within one, two, three puffs. Then she lit another and exhaled so severely I feared for my safety.

  “Did you sleep with Lizzy Barrows?” she asked finally, practically spitting the question in my face.

  “No. No, I did not,” I answered honestly but without a clear or unblemished conscience.

  “Did you come on to her?”

  “No, I did not.”

  She steamed and she smoked. If only we could sell the energy, we’d have been rich.

  “JB, what happened?” I asked.

  “Why are you such a schmuck? Why do you think first with your penis and not of the consequences? Now we have a real problem.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “And pretty girls are the worst. They’re all about their own shit and nothing else. I thought we all came here to work. Why do you only spend time with the beautiful girls?”

  “I spend time with you, JB,” I said, realizing that “schmuck” was applicable as the words left my mouth.

  She lit another butt. I was fortunate it wasn’t me.

  “I like pretty girls because I am a shallow dirtbag,” I said. “Now tell me what the fuck is going on. Stop shouting at me and stop giving me the third degree.” She flopped into her desk chair, swirled around, and looked out the window into the compound. It was after eight and I noticed there were no cars in the lot, no one at the box office.

  “Joanie, what’s going on?” I asked with growing concern.

  She continued to stare out the window. Ronnie Feston was now walking across the compound. There were no other people in sight.

  “JB?” I implored.

  She spun around slowly and stared me down. “Your girlfriend and Mrs. Barrows hate each other. I don’t know why, but they do.”

  “JB, that’s not news. You’ve known that since that first night at the Moondog.”

  She held up her hand to shut me up. “Because they hate each other, Mrs. Barrows bought all the seats for tonight’s performance and came by to inform us, at the eleventh hour, that she would be the only one attending the show. Your girlfriend called her a few unsavory names and then it turned
into a full blown “fuck you” fest with a lot of “bitch” thrown in. Veronica actually bit me when I tried to keep them from beating each other to death with their tits. Can’t we just have the drama on the stage? Do you know how foolish we will look playing in front of her and the few standees who’ll be showing up any minute now?”

  “Hey, enough! You want to shout? Well, I can shout much louder than you!!!”

  Although neither of us spoke, the office was far from silent. You could hear our brains working and stomachs churning. I stewed and grew instantly insane. “Fuck me,” I shouted. “Fuck me!” I picked up the desk phone and threw it against the wall, where it shattered. I kicked the desk chair opposite JB sending my foot through the slats in the back. My ankle got stuck and I lost my balance and fell to the floor, smashing my right cheekbone against the shelf on the wall, then falling on my assbone awkwardly and landing in a cascade of program inserts, which covered me like large snowflakes. This whole thing sucked.

  “Fuck me! Fuck me!” I shouted again as I got up slowly from the floor.

  My ankle might have been broken, but I was too far gone to notice.

  “That’s helpful,” JB said, her words dripping with malevolence. “Do you have anything else to say other than ‘fuck me’?”

  I took my time with that one. Slowly and quietly I answered, “How about ‘fuck you’? Does that work for you?” I said this with a smile.