Confessions of the Diva Rotundo (Chapter Ten, Part Two)

What does one wear for a date with local law enforcement?

I used to date a cop once, so you think I would know. He called himself Officer Badley. The thing is, though, they weren’t really dates more than role playing exercises. Usually, he would stay in character and play the authority figure, while I would play...oh, you name it. A street thug. A pimp. A southern belle with a strap-on under her gown. Now, now, sweet Scarlett, I suppose that wouldn’t be the best outfit...

Once I had climbed back to my balcony (keeping a careful hold on my equipment, this time), I tell you, I poured through my wardrobe, trying to decide what would make the best impression. My seersucker suit? Heavens, no, not after Labor day. A business suit? Perhaps, but if they locked me up, it would really stand out. Something urban? Perhaps. Maybe even a little militaristic? Most cops are former military, after all. Officer Badley was, and my star turn with him as a jihadist horny for the opposition had been one of my best acting jobs, ever.

Sadly, I wasn’t much into fatigues and camouflage. The closest thing I had in my entire ensemble was a knock-off of the red jacket Michael Jackson had worn during his Thriller video. It had been a gift from a grateful director, after I had taken over the role of the Scarecrow in an all-white version of The Wiz. Don’t ask, it was dreadful.

So I put that on, along with a crisp blue pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. Then, I took my Lexus out of the parking lot and programmed in directions for the police station closest to Beacon Hill.

(P.S.: For those wondering why Kevin drove me to rehearsal in his far inferior cheap foreign import, let me remind you that the parking lot at St. Basilica’s is about the size of a postage stamp and there was the distinct possibility my Lexus might get nicked. Besides, Kevin likes playing chauffer. It allows him to pretend we’re still a couple.)

Beacon Hill’s district station is on New Sudbury Street. It’s a drab brick building located next to a huge parking garage. By the time I arrived, it was already eight at night and the sun had long since set in the sky. I had yet to eat anything, unless you counted Sylvia Mastadore’s quivering minge as supper. Which I certainly didn’t.

I have to admit, as I pulled into that lot to park the car, my stomach was a complete mess. It felt worse than an opening night, frankly. At least the worst than could happen then is that you bomb. If I uttered the wrong line here, I could get locked away. For life!

No, I had to put that out of my head. I had to remember, I was an innocent man, more innocent than Jean Valjean stealing a loaf of bread at the start of Les Miz. I hadn’t stolen any loaf of bread, all I did was threaten to kill RJ.

Gasp! TWICE!

( Caution: Tales of extreme police brutality... )