tedwords

As social a creature as I undoubtedly can be, I must confess, during times of stress...oh, hey, that rhymed! How Cole Porter of me! Anyway, I must admit, during periods of woe, I become a worse hermit than Howard Hughes ever was, except for the long scraggly beard and not bathing thing. It’s something I’ve done since I was a child. Well, middle school can do that to you.

So, that’s exactly what I did that entire week-end. I turned off the cell phone, I unplugged the computer, I deleted my Bear411 app, I bought myself three two-gallon tubs of Edie’s Double Fudge Brownie, and I sat on my couch and watched marathon episodes of the Golden Girls for hours on end, capped off every now and then by some of favorite chick flicks. Never underestimate the power of a strong female lead!

One thing I didn’t do was step onto my balcony. The thought of even having to say a word to Sylvia Mastadore after what had passed between us filled me with a revulsion that burned clear down to my soul. Besides that, I still had her with me: I spent the entire week-end picking silvery public hairs out of my mouth. Gah!

Then the week-end was over, far too quickly, and it was time to face the real world once again. Thankfully, I hadn’t heard a word from Officer Dwight. Maybe he was busy harassing other innocent victims.

Like Sylvia’s silvery pubic hairs, his presence lingered. I still had to deal with the damage my demonic Sir Elton had wrought—namely, I had to face Louise bright and early Monday morning. Knowing that she knew. Even worse, having her wonder whether murder was something I was capable of.

I arrived at my office far earlier than usual: eight in the morning. Theoretically, to work on that proposal for the Winter Fundraiser campaign I had promised Sal. But actually, to try and get there before Louise arrived, to avoid having to see her, with her unbearably perky face, sitting behind her desk.

No such luck. She was there when I arrived. Damn her for being a morning person!

The good news was, I landed with an inch to spare on the good side of Sylvia Mastadore’s balcony. I was safe, I hadn’t plunged to my death. I would live to jump another day.

The bad news: I had nicked my heavy ball sack on her railing as I made my landing. It’s a family curse, D’Agrande men are notoriously low hangers. Just ask my dad, or his before him.

Scrotums are such funny things, really. I remember, as a child, seeing my dad’s ball sack for the first time. We were taking a shower together at the local Y during a Cub Scout outing. At the time, I thought it looked like a lady’s pink handbag, all matted with wiry hair. Alas, now I possess my father’s handbag. Only, trimmer.

The worst part was, I couldn’t scream out in agony! If I said a word, it was a sure thing that the hot cop on the other side of my front door would hear something and get suspicious. As it was, he may have heard the heavy thud of my bear-like body collapsing onto Sylvia’s balcony.

So I lay there, curled into a ball, clutching my privates for dear life and gritting my teeth. Thank God I was half the actor I was. Possessed of the breath and body control I had honed from years on the floorboards, I was surely better equipped than your average low hanger to handle this sordid sort of situation.

At least I made it across, I could be thankful for that. Too bad I didn’t have much time to congratulate myself on my ingenuity, though. For as I lay there, writhing in pain, I heard the shuffle of slippers from inside Sylvia Mastadore’s apartment and realized I WAS NOT ALONE.

Before I could do anything to protect myself, like place one of her medical marijuana plants up against my privates, I heard the clearing of her cigarette-ravaged throat. I looked up to see the old hag standing by her screen door, gazing down upon my naked form with lust in her wrinkled eyes.

“My my my,” she said, and I could just hear the stench of ancient passion in her voice. “What do we have here?”

If poor Louise thought I was insufferable the morning after I didn’t get the lead in Sweeney, she certainly found me doubly detestable the morning after the first rehearsal. Hung over and humiliated, I slunk into the office practically at noontime, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses to hide my bloodshot eyes.
 
Louise sat behind her pristine desk, a model of technical efficiency (I wouldn’t have it any other way), her
wavy red hair neatly coiffed and her perky Irish face (in an Ann B. Davis kind of way) a positive beacon of cheerfulness. “Why, hello, Dante! How are you—!”            

I cut the bitch off at the pass. “Coffee, dear girl. Coffee!” I screamed out and rushed past her, trying to make a beeline to my office.

The poor cow had the nerve to actually rise from her desk and try to follow me into my office. “The thing is, Dante—“

“Louise!” I spun around to face her, angrily. “How many times have I told you NEVER to call me by my first name when I have a hangover?”

Her ever-perky smile dropped just a notch. “Oh, it’s a...a hangover morning...”

The first night of any rehearsal schedule at the Bull Moose Theater Guild in a production directed by that asshole Vern Slater is always a read-through. Always.

Gah, what an enormously boring waste of time! Unless you’re the lead in the show, of course, in which case it’s like knock knock knocking on heaven’s door, because it’s all about you. However, if you’re not one of the lucky one or two chosen few, it’s an evening spent listening to someone else talk while you turn the pages every so often. Boring!

            The evening always starts nicely enough, with polite laughter and a round of introductions, but midway through the evening, the stench of boredom sets in. It’s a long, hard slog from that point, let me tell you. By the end of the evening, you feel like the proverbial roach stuck inside a roach motel.

            At least, though, Bull Moose makes their read-throughs tasty. That is to say, the Board of Directors, in a crass attempt to buy loyalty and generate membership dues, provides the cast with an enormous orgy of desserts on that first night together. Of course, I approve of enormous orgies of any kind, and this one has it all: cookies, jelly rolls, top notch coffee from the Java Bucket...oh, it’s just to die for, capped off by my favorite—delicious, huge pieces of cheesecake, home made by Roz, who grew up in New York on the Jewish side of town. Seriously, for her cheesecake alone, if she wasn’t a bull dyke and I wasn’t a confirmed cocksucker, I would marry that bitch in a heartbeat.

            In fact, given the mixed feelings I had about this particular production, Roz’s cheesecake was the only thing I was looking forward to. And that was the challenge Kevin was confronted with as he drove me to St. Bascilica’s, desperately trying to talk me into behaving.

I felt as if I my life had become a Gloria Gaynor record.  

Skipper Venturini looked as pitiful as I had that day, years ago, when he had taken his leave. Back then, he had been the master, I the pupil, and I had been a quivering overemotional lump of jello. Now, out of the blue, here he was, with that old look upon his face.  

            I hadn’t seen him in almost two decades. To say the passing of time had taken its toll would be giving far too much credit to the toll booth. 

He had thinning blond hair that had once been a gorgeous forest and blue eyes that now contained more baggage under them than a bad Jackie Collins novel. His once-slender frame had grown heavy around the middle. Oh, why can’t the good just die young? When they get older, they always end up looking sad and ugly. Or at least, they become a faded photograph of what they once had been.

           " I did it!

            You know how sometimes you just know, the minute you start a performance, that you’re totally on fire and in the moment?

            Oh, of course, those of you aren’t theatrically inclined wouldn’t, but let me tell you, that’s how I felt the minute I set foot next to the grand piano and turned to face the man in the director’s chair."