Confessions of a Transylvanian (27 page)

When I was sure they were no longer able to see me, I made my way quickly to the Orphanage. As I approached, the door was flung open, I was dragged inside and immediately swarmed with people, each of whom had a separate series of questions and all of whom wanted their questions answered
first
. Russ rode to the rescue, grabbed me by the collar and hauled me away, finally sealing me off in one of the bedrooms. As he did so, he kindly requested that everyone else, as he put it, “fuck off.”

Russ let me catch my breath and allowed my heart rate to return to normal before asking me what had happened. I related the story to him, just as it had transpired. Before I could finish, though, Ron burst into the room.

“Oh
man
!” he said, grinning madly at me. He was panting and pouring sweat, but also as amped up as
I’
d ever seen him. “That was
awesome
.” He darted across the room and gripped me in a crushing bear hug.

I was hardly ready to let my sudden abandonment be completely forgotten.

“What the hell happened to
you
?” I asked, incredulously. “I
waited
for you. You completely disappeared!”

“I know!” he said without a trace of shame or embarrassment. “It was crazy. I went up another flight or two and then made my way to the other stairwell. I wanted to be sure the coast was clear, so I went all the way to the bottom. I did
n’
t see anyone, but then I thought,
‘
I ca
n’
t go back up there! That would be so
stupid
!’
So I just...took off.”

I was flabbergasted.

“Tha
t’
s it?” I sputtered. “Tha
t’
s your excuse? You left because coming back to get me would be so
stupid for you to do
?”

Ron, either missing my tone of utter outrage or simply ignoring it, continued to revel in our close encounter with the Broward County constabulary. “Did you
see
all those cars?” he said to Russ. “It was in
sane
.” He was practically hopping up and down with excitement. “I was about a block away, watching the cops interrogating Jack, and man, they were just
itching
to take him away. They could
n’
t
wait
to throw him in some cuffs and toss him in a van!” The two of them burst into uncontrollable laughter. Apparently, I was the only one who found my potential incarceration less than amusing.

“Did you see...?” Russ could barely get the words out. “Did you...did you see...?”

“The
stocking
?” Ron interrupted him and they both collapsed on the floor, screaming with uninhibited hilarity.

I could
n’
t believe it. They actually thought this was
funny
? “Hey!” I tried to snap them out of it. “I could have been
arrested
, you know.” This did
n’
t seem to calm them down in the least. Instead, I think Ron started to piss his own pants.

I was starting to get mad. “They asked me for my ID. You know what I had to give them? My
bank card
.”

Ron could
n’
t breathe, he was howling so loudly. “Please...” he begged me. “Please stop....yo
u’
re...yo
u’
re
killing
me.”

And in that moment, at last, the absurdity of the entire situation suddenly hit me.
Bank card
? What the fuck was that?

Involuntarily, I let out a tiny expulsion of laughter. Which evolved into a chuckle. Which then morphed into a gale. Until, at last, the full ridiculousness of the events of that morning finally dawned on me and I joined the two of them, howling with utter abandon on the floor.

When we had recovered and were lying against the wall, wiping the tears from our eyes, Ron turned to me.

“Yo
u’
re my spider-brother now, Jack.
I’
ll never forget it. Ever.” He grinned his wolfish smile.

After that, we were thick as thieves, Ron and I.

After that, we were family.

11

Master, We Have a Visitor

F
riday night, late April, I arrive at the theater and immediately pick up on the fact that the mood surrounding the place is
decidedly
different. There is a tension, some kind of bad mojo, making its way around the Deerfield parking lot but I could
n’
t begin to guess its source. Finally, after watching the eighth or ninth cast member snap at someone over some trivial matter, I pulled Doc aside to get the skinny.

“You did
n’
t hear?” he asked in a hushed tone.

I shook my head. “No. Wha
t’
s up?”

Do
c’
s eyes narrowed and he leaned in close, like he was telling me the secret recipe to KFC chicken. Then he whispered, “
Marshall is coming tonight
.” After delivering this piece of news with the requisite dramatic intensity, he stood up straight and spat on the ground to punctuate the sentence.

So...that explained everything. The Big Bad Wolf was finally coming to the Ultravision and the Clique was going to face their old adversary at last. No wonder everybody was jumpy.

After hearing this, I suppose I shoul
d’
ve been tense like everybody else. Instead, I was loose as a goose. After all, I did
n’
t know the guy. I had zero history with him. And while all the ex-Hollywood cast members sat meticulously applying their makeup and checking (and re-checking) their costumes as if they were doing the show for the last time, I cruised through my pre-show checklist without a qualm. It was nice to be the relaxed one for a change.

The vets were wound up tighter than a tic
k’
s ass. The whole situation would have been funny if they had
n’
t all looked ready to kill someone. I kept my distance, knowing instinctively that attempting to engage any of them would only result in my head getting chomped off. I got changed as quickly and unobtrusively as I could and prepared to start up the pre-show. Before I took the stage, a thought occurred to me and I paused.

Looking for Russ, I found him pacing around the house.

“Wha
t’
s up, Jack?” he growled impatiently. Like everyone else, he seemed a little juiced. The tension was contagious.

“Well, I was wondering,” I said cautiously, “since Marshall is going to be here tonight, do you want Tony to go back to doing the pre-show? I mean...just for this one night? I know you want the show to be the best it can be and everything.”

Russ looked outraged. “No. Fucking. Way. Listen to me, Jack: We do
n’
t change the show one tiny bit for that fat bastard. We do
our
show,
our
way. He does
n’
t like it, he can kiss my furry white ass. We clear?” I nodded. “Good. Now get up there.”

Okay then. I had my orders. On with the show.

Besides the general air of bitchiness that seemed to pervade the cast, nothing else seemed to be out of the ordinary during the pre-show. The cheers went as planned, the virgins were dealt with according to Hoyle and the crowd—an unusually large one, in fact—was primed and ready for the big event. Truth was, I got so caught up in the preparations for the performance that I completely forgot about the source of all the anxiety.

Until he walked in, of course.

Remember, I had never seen this character in my life so there was no guarantee that I would recognize the infamous Marshall when he finally arrived. All I had to go on were the unflattering descriptions, which were likely exaggerated. From all
I’
d been told, it would be hard to miss him when he finally waddled into the room. But how was I to know?

When the time came, however, there was no mistaking him. I could hardly believe my eyes or his
size
.

The Ultravision cast, to be clear, was not unfamiliar with big men. Donny, God knows, was pretty huge. Enormous, in fact. But Marshall was big in a much, much more...
disturbing
way.

See, while Donny was undeniably overweight, he carried himself like an athlete. And when his moment came to perform in the show, he was amazingly graceful. Agile. Almost balletic in his movements. His Eddie zipped across the floor, sashayed with Columbia and glided effortlessly through his entire number with an ease that most people would think impossible for a guy his size.

Marshall, however, was a fucking pig. Seriously. He could barely make it into the theater, he was so obscenely huge. And he just kept
arriving
. He did
n’
t seem to fully enter the room for at least a minute. Naturally, when I spotted him, there was no doubt in my mind that our special guest had arrived.

They say that inside every fat man, there is a skinny man just dying to get out. I think that in Marshal
l’
s case, he had three of
‘
em in there.

He found a seat toward the back of the theater and flopped down. It was at this point, once he was fully situated and had a chance to take in his surroundings, that I first saw him goggle at the crowd. He looked around, taking in the mass of people sprawled before him, and his jaw about hit the floor.

And while I knew that my attention was supposed to be fully and completely directed toward the paid attendees whose pre-show I was conducting, when I saw Marshal
l’
s stunned reaction, a thought occurred to me. I looked around to locate the nearest Hollywood Twin veteran and caught Iri
s’
s attention.

“Hey,” I said under my breath, “this guy Marshall. H
e’
s seen this place before, right?”

“You mean the Ultravision? Fuck no,” Iris shot back. “The little toad probably has
n’
t been north of Pompano Beach his entire life.”

I could hardly believe it. This was the first time that the person actually
responsible
for the formation of the Deerfield cast had ever set foot in this theater? It was
n’
t possible.

Puzzled, I said to Iris, “Hold on, let me ask you: The Hollywood Twin is about the size of this place, right?”

Iris looked at me as if I had grown another head. “Are you out of your fucking mind? The Twin is
n’
t
half
as big as this place. Jesus, Jack, look around. This crowd would
n’
t have fit in that place in a million years.” Iris was in no mood to waste time answering my inane questions and so, with that, she whirled away, nervously prepping for the show to begin.

This last bit of news totally knocked me out. I had always assumed that this cast had migrated up to Deerfield from some sort of theatrical Valhalla down in Hollywood. The Twin, in my mind, was the Rocky Horror Mecca of South Florida. Being banished up to the Ultravision was supposed to be a punishment, not a reward. Had they actually...
upgraded
in coming here?

Time for a little detective work.

The only two people I knew from the Rocky show in Hollywood who were
not
directly involved in the whole Marshall fiasco were Tony and Tom. They had been witnesses to the infamous Saturday Night Massacre, but had
n’
t been a part of Marshal
l’
s cast at the time. Coming down off the pre-show, I briefly corralled them as the previews started up.

“Hey, Tony, fill me in for a second,” I said. “When Marshall heard about the Ultravision show last year, he did
n’
t just boot everyone out of his cast without investigating this place, did he? I mean, he did
n’
t send them up here without even finding out where the
y’
d be performing, right?”

“Jack,” said Tony, sounding almost exasperated at my stupidity, “Marshall just wanted them
gone
. He did
n’
t give a shit where they went. They could have been offered a Broadway contract, for all Marshall cared. He just wanted these people out of his greasy hair. Get it?” His point having been made, he wandered off.

To my surprise, Tom did
n’
t immediately lope after Tony to the dressing room. Instead, he lingered behind and when Tony appeared to be out of earshot, Tom paused to add his two cents: “Tha
t’
s true, Jack. But tha
t’
s not all there is to it.” Tom looked at the floor and his brows became knotted together. Finally, he spoke and with more emotion than
I’
d expected. “He could
n’
t handle their bullshit. Know what I mean? This cast, the
‘
Cliqu
e’
or whatever, they had this
‘
w
e’
re better than your fucking cas
t’
attitude, right? And he just could
n’
t deal with it. But what could he do, you know? He was stuck with them.”

Tom looked around, lowered his voice and continued: “Finally, this Deerfield show comes up out of nowhere, right? And suddenly he has an opportunity to get rid of these pains in his ass. So, what would you do? He jumped at it. He sent the Clique packing to where he figured the
y’
d do the least amount of harm. Hell, I did
n’
t blame him.
I’
d have done it myself.” He paused, and then added the most insightful comment
I’
d heard him make the entire time
I’
d known him: “He won the battle but...he lost the war. Know what I mean? Sure, they were gone. But the real result was...” he swept his hand around the theater, “this. These people are about to show this guy what a real cast is supposed to be like.” He grinned. “Well, le
t’
s hope so, anyway.”

Without another word, Tom wandered off to man the lights. And with that bit of history under my belt, I grabbed my Transylvanian outfit and I headed to the ladies room to get ready.

Suddenly, a lot of things had become clear. For one, Marshal
l’
s plan to send the Hollywood troublemakers into exile in a hellish, isolated outpost had obviously been an impulsive, ill-conceived plot. If the lazy bastard had bothered to actually
visit
the Ultravision before sending the Clique to what he thought was the Rocky Horror version of Siberia, things might have turned out a hell of a lot differently than they did.

As it was, he was now getting a glimpse of what his life could have been if he had employed just a little bit of foresight. Judging from the expression on his face as he gazed around, Marshall appeared to finally realize the enormity of his mistake. Spread before him was the Rocky Garden of Eden. And he was on the outside looking in.

I had to walk by his seat on my way to the ladies room and as I passed Marshall in the audience, I took a good, long look. Perhaps due to the stories
I’
d been told about his obnoxious personality (or more likely due to the fact that I knew about the pain he had caused all my friends), I could
n’
t help but think:

“Yeah, tha
t’
s right, pal. This could have been yours. This whole fantastic theater. But i
t’
s
ours
now, schmucko. What you gonna do about it?”

This snide, internal aside occurred to me despite the fact that Marshall had done nothing to me at all. He had
n’
t humiliated me, disrespected me or even so much as
noticed
me. I was antagonistic toward him on behalf of my fellow cast members.

I was a proxy hater.

I had little time to glower at him, though. For now, he was just a regular audience member and I had a job to do. I left the big pile of goo right where I found him and went off to get to work.

Pressure,
I’
ve found, is a funny thing.

Some folks, when presented with a situation that is abnormally tense and disconcerting, will react positively, rise to the occasion and prove they have mettle, true grit, balls of steel, that sort of thing. These are those “troopers” that yo
u’
ve heard so much about.

Others, when the moment of truth arrives, have an unfortunate tendency to deflate, become a shell of their former selves, and will disappoint just at the moment they are most needed. This is especially likely if the stakes get too high or the odds seem to be particularly unfavorable. These people, in the parlance of performance anyway, are the infamous “chokers.”

On this night, the pressure to do well was practically pushing the theater doors open. The refugees from the Twin were determined to be at their best, believing that tonigh
t’
s performance would say a lot about whether they deserved their new status as Rocky headliners or if Marshal
l’
s judgment of their unworthiness still held water.

It was odd to think that so much could be riding on one show. After all, the Deerfield cast could just as easily have decided that Marshal
l’
s presence was irrelevant and that they cared not one whit whether he was blown away by what they had put together.

But for some reason, it mattered to them. They collectively felt they had something to prove to the old bastard and they were gonna do it right there and then. The rules had been set, the players were ready to make their entrances and the game was
on
.