“Never apologize. Never explain.” He stood. Pushed the top down on the desk and left, brushing dust off his hands.
One of the girls, now behind the bar, poured drinks for everyone. Jericho ate a plate of food.
“This is delicious. I might have to fire you, just to keep you cooking,” Jericho said through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.
“I can cook any time—”
“Don’t worry, kid. The Great Jericho Taylor is yanking your chain,” said the second woman.
“What’s going on here?” Chris took a stool next to Jericho. “Bourbon, Miss.”
“Yes, sir. The name’s Nancy Ann.” She winked and that brought a smile to Chris’ face. “I’ve never been in a bar where none of the liquor bottles have been opened. Everything is clean and new.”
“Well, after someone attempts to poison you, it’s best to start from scratch.” Chris raised his glass in a toast.
“Good thinking!” She raised her glass.
Something about this young woman rang Chris’ memory bell. He studied her features, listened to her voice, watched her lanky frame move. Maybe a past-life experience.
“So, you’ve met my stage manager. She’ll be working with me to mount a show or two here. She has directing dreams, too, so maybe we’ll throw her a bone in a year or two, you know?” Jericho winked at Nancy Ann. “This other lovely lady is my personal assistant, Sarah. She’s been with me for a bit and is more organized than Martha Stewart.”
“Well, that’s organized.” Chris raised his glass to the heavy woman on her phone. “I didn’t know we had a date tonight, Jerry.”
“We got out of rehearsal and the girls wanted to check out the showroom.”
“It’s a nice space, Chris. Can I call you Chris?” Nancy Ann was on the patron’s side of the bar now, standing near Jericho.
“Oh, this isn’t the room.” Chris stood up, picked up his drink, and started to lead the way. “Well, come on.”
Like a caravan, the small group walked through the dining room and into the showroom from the main doors.
“Ingram, be a doll and run and turn the lights on,” said Chris.
“Of course.”
Any weirdness from earlier was gone, or at least buried. Chris and Ingram were once again a team, at least as far as performing and the Tamburlaine were concerned. The club and the opportunity to be on stage came before everything else.
Nancy Ann whistled with a catcall that filled the room.
Chris wished he could whistle like she did. “There’s not much back stage, but we’ve got fly rails for at least five drops. We’ve double rigged the last two rails before. The lighting is limited. The board is ancient.”
“Where’s the booth?” Jericho asked.
“Oh, up there.” He pointed to a window in the corner of the room. “There’s a ladder and a catwalk to get there.”
Chris sat down in an aisle seat while Jericho and the girls went exploring. Ingram hovered near the stage apron. Chris waved him over. “I’m sorry, Ingram.”
“No need. You’ve been through a lot.” Ingram reached for his arm, but withdrew his hand.
“Still, it’s no excuse. You’ve been a doll through all of this. You’ve taken excellent care of me and I really am truly grateful.”
“Hello?” someone called from outside the showroom.
Chris stood.
“No, I’ll go,” said Ingram.
“Stay here and get to know your boss a little better.” He squeezed Ingram’s hand for a moment and made his way out of the room. He felt old, probably for the first time. He went to take care of his patrons.
Jericho returned to the bar. He sat on a stool across from Chris who was butchering a lime on the cutting board. “Oh, hi, Jerry. I’m without a bartender tonight.”
“Well, we have some ideas and would love to talk to you about them.”
“Do you mind speaking here?” He returned his attention to the lime.
“Oh, that poor piece of fruit. No wonder you’re always single.”
“I don’t see a ring on your finger, Mr. Director.” He smiled. “And, at the moment, I’ve got the lad hanging out with me.”
“I’m in search of another lad, too. I was with a guy, an old flame. Nice for a few months, and then I won the Tony Award and was unbearable to live with.”
“I can see that. I remember you weren’t all that humble before you were award winning.” Chris winked. “Want a drink?”
“How about a beer.”
He grabbed two beers from the cooler and opened them.
“You were amazing the other night. I had forgotten how talented you were, are. And, you’re still doing all that Rusty Warren material. You’d think that would get old, but the kids all had a great time.”
“Well, to the wee ones, it’s all new.”
The two men clinked beer bottles.
“So, what do you have in mind for my club?” He tossed the mutilated lime in the trash.
“Good for you. The first step is admitting you have a problem.” Jericho laughed to himself. “Nancy Ann!” he called into the empty club.
The girl arrived in seconds.
“Please, act as bartender for a bit while I talk to Chris.” Jericho pointed.
“Can I drink anything I want?” Nancy Ann headed over the top of the bar with a swing of her long legs.
“Of course,” said Chris. “You, Ingram, and the other girl.”
“Sarah,” supplied Jericho.
“Yes, you, Ingram, and Sarah. And, if a guy named Benny shows up, tell him he’s fired. Oh, and, you’re out of lime.”
“Yes, sir,” said Nancy Ann, who went to work on a fresh fruit.
Chris and Jerry walked into the showroom where Sarah and Ingram sat on the edge of the stage talking and laughing.
“You two, go keep Nancy Ann company in the bar.”
“You got it, Jericho.” Sarah led Ingram out, their heads together conspiratorially by the time they reached the rear door.
“Why all the secrecy.” Chris sat in the same aisle chair he’d been in earlier.
Jericho sat in the row ahead of him, two seats further in, angled toward Chris. “Okay, so my idea is to mount a small show with say a nine o’clock curtain and then a midnight review three or four nights a week. You still perform five or six nights a week out in the bar. I think you should line up a second and then a third piano player for the bar so we don’t work you to death.”
“What shows?”
“I’m thinking Dames at Sea, Little Shop of Horrors, Pajama Game, They’re Playing Our Song, Nunsense. You know, six or eight cast members. Simple sets. A piano player, maybe bass and drums. And, then Trunk Songs or Side By Side By Sondheim or Ain’t Misbehavin’ at midnight.”
“Is that really going to bring in the crowds? Old, tired shows and stuff no one’s heard of? I mean, I love them, too, don’t get me wrong, but still?” Chris was losing faith. This was a drag club. It had always been a drag club. He was about to remind Jericho of this important fact, when—
“Right, but, we’re going to reverse all the roles. We’re going to cast women as men, men as women, white as black, black as Latino. We’re going to gender bend and racial blend everything. The audience is going to need a few minutes to catch up and then they’re going to go nuts. We’re going to be sold out for weeks. And…” Jericho was on a roll. “And, we’re going to work as a company. A company of actors who are going to do it all. Cross dress, gender bend, sing, dance, act. We’re going to mount a new show every four to six weeks. We’re going to alternate that with a new review every few weeks. There’s going to be music and dancing and costumes everywhere. The restaurant will be packed. The bar will be packed. The theater will be sold out.”
“Well, that’s ambitious. It sounds incredibly expensive. Union?”
“LORT?”
“Oh, what does it stand…League of Resident Theaters. You remember unions?”
Union contracts meant bonds and deposits and lawyers.
The two men were quiet for a moment. Chris’ head whirled with all the information he’d received. “You’re talking bonds with Equity. Salaries. Contracts. A lawyer. Stage Managers, designers.” He quickly did some math and added 25% based on the numbers he remembered from his own performance days. “Two-hundred and fifty K to start.”
“Or thereabouts.” Jericho stretched his arms into the air and brought them behind his head. He interlocked his fingers and cradled his cranium.
“Well, you don’t do things small, do you?” Chris took a deep breath. “I’m assuming there’s more?”
“I’m glad you asked. I propose we start a new company, something like the Tamburlaine Players or Tamburlaine Playhouse. The company will lease the space from Tamburlaine to keep things above board. We can work out the details. But, that way, no matter what happens, Tamburlaine is isolated and safe.”
“You said we?” Chris smiled at Jerry’s Cheshire-esque grin.
“Yes, we. We talked about this years ago. A long time ago. I still have the...” Jericho took out faded, crumpled paper napkins from the pizza shop in the Village where the two of them, at four in the morning, drunk, makeup smeared, over drugged, recently sexed, hatched the plan for a theater. At Chris’s suggestion, a gender-bending theater. They’d never followed through with it. Jerry, when sober, said it wouldn’t work. And, here he was, with a plan to make it work.
“Well, well, well.” Chris took the handful of napkin-notes and shook them toward Jericho. “Who knew we’d end up here?” Jericho laughed as Chris continued. “So, you knew it was a good idea. You said it would never… If you didn’t believe, you never would have kept this trash.” He handed the clump back to his friend.
“What I said then was that it wasn’t time, that audiences weren’t ready. I think they are now. And, I think you and I have enough money to give a go of it. If it works, which I think it will, we’ll make some money and, more importantly, have some fun. If it doesn’t go, we lose a hundred grand. Is that really a big deal? Honest. How much have you sunk into this place just to keep it open as a shell.”
There were no smiles now—a moment for honesty, seriousness.
Chris nodded his head. “Too much to openly admit.”
“So, sell another painting. But, not that Picasso I love so much. You still have that one, right?”
“It’s hanging in the same spot it was twenty years ago.” Chris studied Jericho’s face. “We’re really going to do this together? You’re not going to get the thing started and then walk away and leave me holding the bag.” That’s what it had felt like the last time they’d parted company. Sure, they’d seen each other since then, even done favors for one another, but nothing serious, nothing like this.
“I’m in. You have my word.” Jericho Taylor held out his hand. “What do you say, Mr. Marlowe?”
He left Jerry with his hand outstretched. He wanted to dive in. He wanted to profess his love for the handsome man acting as his savior. He wanted to take whatever The Great Jericho Taylor offered. Instead, he calmly raised his hand and the two shook on the agreement.
“We’ll let the lawyers work out the details,” said Chris as they continued to hold their clenched hands.
“Excellent. We should talk about a few details. How do you want to build the company? Do we start with drag queens and turn them into actors or start with actors?”
“Jerry, I think we need alcohol and a stack of paper napkins for this conversation.” Chris laughed. His buzz was waning and he wanted another slug of bourbon.
“Singing drag queen waiters,” said Jericho from behind Chris.
“Waitresses. If they’re drag queens, they’re waitresses. And, that’s not a bad idea. That’s how we audition them for the company.” Chris’ head was awash with possibilities. There were so many plans and thoughts he’d had over the years for the place that had never before come to fruition. Now was the time to trot them all out and see what might work. “What do you want? Beer, whiskey, scotch.”
“A beer would be great.” Jericho walked into the barroom and took up a table near the little barroom stage. He pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket and screwed the top off a fountain pen.
Chris set beers and glasses on the table. He left again, returned with a bottle of bourbon. He poured shots for them and sat down. “Oh, notes. Maybe I’ll take some notes.”
“When was the last time you took notes on anything?” Jericho downed the shot. “Set me up again.”
Chris drank off his own shot and poured two fingers into the glasses. They raised them to each other and downed the mellow liquor. He watched as Ingram wiped a table clean nearby. “What, boy? The men are working here.” His tone was playful, but Chris felt annoyed that the kid hovered.
“Chris, you really haven’t eaten anything.” Ingram came nearer.
“I’m fine, boy.” Chris waved him off. He softened his tone. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”
Ingram backed away and went over to the bar. A moment later, he and one of the girls were cackling together over something. It was nice to hear some laughter in the place.
“Well, first off, I need to hire a new bartender, two.”
“Yeah, my stage manager usually has a job to do for me. And, at the moment at least, I’m sure I’m paying better.” Jericho raised his beer bottle toward Chris and drank. “So, I’m envisioning a company of eight that we occasionally expand if we do something bigger. We could go all men and allow them to play all the roles.”
“Very Shakespearian,” said Chris as he felt a bit lost in Jericho’s eyes.
“But, I think we should have a group of boys and girls, with a little age range, and that will give us more options.”
“And better vocals,” said Chris.
“I think that takes us up to ten though. Of course, they won’t all be in every performance, but it will also give us some crossover, some understudies. That would be good.”
“It’s a company, right, so they’re all on salary?” Chris drank more bourbon.
“We’ll have to work that out with Equity. It might be a salary and then performance pay. That would probably be cheaper…”
Jericho continued to talk about LORT contracts, showcases, union scale, stage crew. It all became a jumble in Chris’s mind as he drank more deconstructed boilermakers. It didn’t really matter. He wanted to perform. He wanted to write a check and have Jericho or someone else take care of the details.
Chris liked the idea of a company of actors. They all had friends, right? And, roommates and day jobs and families who would come to see them. He liked the idea of a restaurant filled with diners and a bar filled with folks before the show and having nightcaps after shows. He wondered if they’d get a cab stand going again. He wondered if they’d be returning to linen service for the restaurant. He wondered if drag queens would again flock to be singing waitresses and performers at Tamburlaine. That’s how it had once been. But, for now, it was just a string of ideas in his head matched up with page after page of notes in Jericho’s little notebook.
“So, how does that sound?” Jericho looked up at Chris for the first time in thirty minutes.
“Frankly, I stopped listening when you started talking about contracts. You know me, Jerry. I don’t want to think about these details. I want a club filled with people having a great time. I want a staff who loves coming to work every day. And, I want patrons who come again and again.”
“Well, that’s what I want to build here, too.” Jericho stood up. “But, I have an early morning tomorrow. W
e’re going to finish casting, I think. And, there’s lots to do.”
Chris stood up, he was drunk and wobbly. “Well, thanks for everything. I couldn’t do this all on my own. Hell, I can’t do anything like this ever.”
“You’ll see. It’s going to be fabulous.” Jericho hugged Chris tight. He kissed his cheek. “So, me and the girls are off. Will you and Ingram be okay?”
“Yes.” Chris followed Jericho to the door and made some pleasant conversation with the girls. He escorted them out to the street and closed and locked the gates. He then waved the others off on the street and reentered the bar from the alley.
There was a full meal put together in the pots on the stove in the kitchen. He took up a plate and dished up beef, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Everything was cold, but it tasted good all the same. He sat on a stool and ate alone. There were things he needed to clean up. There were unkept promises, even all these years later, and it was time to make it right; to finish what he’d promised he would do.
“Chris, let me heat that up for you.” Ingram sounded like a tired mother speaking to a small, out of control child. He had a resolve in his voice that was both comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.
“No, it’s perfect just the way it is.” He shoved another fork filled with food into his mouth. “This may be the best pot roast I’ve ever had.”
“You’re just being nice.” Ingram perched on the stool next to Chris.
“So what if I am? But, no, this is very good and I really do appreciate that you made it for me. That’s not lost on me.”
Ingram bowed his head.
“Listen, I’m used to being alone. I’m used to having space. I’m used to processing my emotions with a thick helping of booze. I don’t see that changing any time soon. I know I don’t always appreciate people in the moment. It doesn’t make it right just to say that, but it is true. I get caught up in my own crap and ignore others. I was a diva for a very long time before I strove to be a person and this is what you get.”
“I’m starting to understand that.” Ingram explored his feet.
Tamburlaine: A Broadway Revival Page 6
