Little Did I Know: A Novel (22 page)

“I’m sorry, Sid. I am certain you came to help and I am very appreciative. But can I ask you this? You can’t shoot ’em even if they’re about to make you their dinner?”

“Funny,” he said red faced, voice rising. “You think jail is funny?”

I realized this wasn’t amusing anymore. “Okay, guys, what do I do?”

Johnny jumped in. “I can get this all cleaned up and stashed away. Hose down the grounds and disinfect that room there. I can even come back and check the house and the grounds for colonies . . .”

As I was mulling this, a shiny black king-cab Ford raced into our circular driveway and the driver jumped out. He was muscular, wearing a tight white T-shirt, with a Red Sox cap pulled down over his face and shades.

“Pay me three hundred in cash,” Johnny continued. “Less than an hour, this all never happened.”

“Three hundred bucks!” I said. “This is bullshit. I have nothing to do with these raccoons . . . I’m going to speak to the landlord and . . .”

The guy from the black truck had been lurking just outside the circle of our conversation. He now took off his cap and sunglasses. He took a few steps closer to me, and with his arms folded against his chest, nodded in my direction.

“Gary Golden,” he said. “We met the other night at the Moondog. I know the landlord, and he won’t give a shit.”

“Yeah, I understand that you and Barrows are asshole buddies,” I said. I made sure to put special emphasis on the word “asshole.”

Gary ignored my quip and continued. “As your friend, I should tell you three hundred bucks is cheap to stay out of trouble in this town. So is a grand, three to Johnny here and the other seven hundred to me to keep it all under the radar. Trust me, money well spent, especially for the new kid on the block”

I pointed to his left cheek. “Quite a bruise. Did you have an accident?”

“No,” he answered, arms still crossed and with no glint of humor behind his dark eyes. “But it’s a small town. Accidents happen all the time.”

Suddenly, Veronica tripped over something, and as she stumbled, her coffee found its way all over Gary Golden’s crisp clean white tee. “Sorry, friend,” she said.

“I guess you’re right, Gary,” I added. “Accidents
do
happen.”

I
t was midafternoon and the day had settled in better than its promise of early morning. Dead animals, bribes, and coffee spills do not an omelet make.

Johnny Iron erased any remnant of Raccoon Nation and the girls had moved into their bedroom, which was now rodent free and freshly painted. Work on the business of our business was actually getting done.

Earlier in the day, wearing a liter of hot coffee, Gary Golden had looked a lot less tough. I thought that with much of his menace denuded it was a good time for him and me to have a chat. “Hey, Mr. Golden,” I said, “if I actually had a spare seven hundred dollars and if I was crazy enough to agree to give it to you, the only way I would do that would be to shove it up your ass.”

He didn’t seem to appreciate my attitude.

“Additionally,” I added, “you might want to know that my friend Davey Molson has a pair of panties with one of those summer camp name tags sewn on the band that reads ‘Golden.’ I don’t think the panties are yours, Gary—too small, I imagine—but I’m pretty certain they would fit your mom.” He wasn’t wild about that comment either.

“Oh and, Gary, get the fuck out of my face.” As he left I called after him, “Don’t you want your mom’s panties?”

I felt pretty cool about all of this until Sidney put an arm around my shoulder and said, “College boy, you’re a moron.”

Maybe the morning was indeed a portent of the rest of my day.

I
t was early dusk. The sunset was on its best behavior. The breeze off the ocean was scented and cool. The compound was ablaze in pinks, violets, eggnogs, jonquils, and aquamarines, all dazzling in their splendiferous spring grandeur. It was all a delicious buffet of nature. JB, James, Debbie, Diana, Elliot, Jojo, Secunda, and I sat comfortably under the big dogwood tree that stood in front of the theater.

I felt as if we needed an oversized calendar to check off the day’s goals and accomplishments. We’d had so many over the past few days. Unfortunately, we also had some enormous distractions and unforeseen obstacles. I thought of the many films I loved growing up, all of those great Hitchcock movies about ordinary men placed in extraordinary circumstances. I looked at my friends. We were extraordinary dreamers, yet had enough character to elevate the next four months from the benign to the sublime. We just had to stay the course.

JB laid out the agenda for her crew, which included chores for Debbie, Diana, James, and herself. Jojo updated us on the status of actors’ design issues and scheduling. Secunda had actually met with the licensing libraries and secured the rights to the shows we wanted to do. I don’t know if he overpaid for those rights or offered to send someone’s kid through college, but we were clear.

Doobie, looking very green, had been by earlier in the day and, along with Veronica’s brother Tommy, put together a maintenance crew that would make the place ready for inspection within days. I considered the possibility that we had all read a few too many Winston Churchill speeches in our day, but I liked Winnie, and the allies did win the war.

I felt it important that we figure out Plymouth. Secunda was right: it didn’t matter who was fucking who in this town, or who was corrupt or a saint. Who paid their taxes, hit on underage girls, or tipped less than 10 percent. I knew that at some point our sense of righteousness would get us in trouble. Yet, if I were to be any good at directing this summer, I had to have a clear head to do so. So did my cohorts. We were puppies and we had elected to run with the big dogs.

As we continued our meeting, a Garden cab pulled into the driveway and stopped at the office. A young clean-cut young man wearing jeans, white sneakers, and a powder blue poplin button-down shirt got out and paid the driver. As he surveyed the property, I noticed his body language change from tough to mellow. A smile creased his face and he looked happy. Bobby Stevens appeared pleased to be in Plymouth.

B
obby noticed me across the compound. He was no longer mellow. He walked briskly in my direction and I met him halfway with an extended welcoming hand. “You found us!” I offered, sounding a bit jollier than I intended.

He avoided my proffered hand and said, “You stole my photos. I did a nice thing and then you ripped me off. You’re an asshole.”

“I’m sorry, Bobby, but I didn’t steal your pictures. I had every intention of returning them.”

“When? Before or after I got fired?”

“Neither,” I said, speaking evenly. “Bobby, you made the trip up here. It’s a beautiful evening. Sit for a few minutes and have a beer with me and my friends. If after I explain you still want to punch my face in, I’ll offer you my chin.”

“I came here to keep my job. Maybe have you arrested.”

“Bobby, please have a beer with me.”

He looked as if he had just kissed a lemon. He looked around the grounds and reluctantly agreed to sit. I grabbed a beer and sat across from him at the redwood picnic table. I raised the bottle and gestured for us to clink. We did.

The compound was postcard perfect. The ocean could be heard down the road less than three hundred feet away. Bobby drank a long pull on his beer and ran his hand through his hair. I could sense he didn’t want to remain angry.

“Thank you,” I said. “For sitting with me. Making the trip up here. And letting us steal the pictures.”

“I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone,” he grumbled.

“You know, the beach is just down the road. If you stand on the bench, you can see it.”

“I don’t do that well in the sun. Fair skin.”

“It’s nice at night as well. You should see it. The rocks are phosphorescent. They light up the sea. It’s a little bit sci-fi.”

“Why did you steal my pictures?” He asked this without anger, just really wanting to know. “I could have called the cops.”

“I needed you to come up here and I thought it was the best way to make that happen.”

His brows knit. “Why did you need me to come up here?”

“Because I need to sell thirty thousand tickets this summer and I need to get the newspapers all over the Cape to write about us and I need the
Boston Globe
to say we’re the second coming. You can do that.”

I thought I might have him. A moment passed.

“I have a job. So thanks for the beer. Now give me back my pictures.”

“You don’t have a job like this one. It’s only four months. I would think your internship will be waiting for you after Labor Day. Guys with your skills and vision can find intern gigs every day, but here it’s all yours to make sing. To make our noise. To make a legend.”

JB, Secunda, and the rest of the PBT elite wandered over and surrounded the table. If Stevens was planning to bolt, he’d have to run through them. They introduced themselves and expressed how excited they were that he was thinking of working with us. James replaced his empty beer with a fresh cold one.

We all explained why we were there for the summer. We showed Bobby the theater, the backstage, and the scene and costume shops. We walked to the beach and chatted as we all sat watching the waves and the phosphorescent rocks reflecting against the early night sky.

By nine o’clock we were figuring out how he could ask for a leave of absence and still keep his job. Secunda offered to buy him a lobster, show him the wharf, and welcome him big time. Bobby agreed, but asked to speak with me for a minute in private. The girls suggested they pick up Veronica and head downtown. Bobby and I could follow and talk on the way. We’d all meet at Souza’s.

As Bobby and I drove, I rehashed much of what we had discussed over the past few hours. “One of my professors did his graduate work at Colgate University then took his first teaching job at Tufts. You know him. He was at Colgate during your senior year. Gerry Collins. When I told Gerry what I was doing this summer, he insisted that I had to get you to play. After all, you put the Colgate 13 on the map. You made it matter. When I found out you sang with the group, I knew I could win you over. I mean, your own press office, on the beach, free reign, and you can be in the shows. All I needed to do was get you up here.”

“You sure are a confident guy,” Bobby said. “It’s more than obnoxious, you know.”

“Yes, to the latter. It’s all a front, to the former. But, Bobby, I know this: if you work with us, everyone will know our names. We will leap to the front of the pack, and I guarantee it will be one terrific ride.”

“I believe you,” he said. “But the audacity of stealing my pictures works once. You better do for me what you promise, because I need the tools to win.”

“I promise. To keep my promise.”

In that moment, the bar got higher. We had a true professional on board, and he was giving up something of value to play in our sandbox. The risk was shared, and winning the game now offered even greater potential for reward.

“How big are the lobsters at this place?” he asked.

“As big as they need to be for you, Bobby. I promise.”

We stayed in town till the place closed. Anything with a shell on it we ate. Sweet crisp lobsters, succulent pink shrimp, clams and oysters bathed in fresh horseradish and Tabasco. We all wore bibs that captured the drawn butter as it ran down our appreciative, happy chins.

When I played football, I learned that “chemistry” was when your team won. Chemistry in the theater was fallacy. Sure, it was good to get along, but it was always art before community. If the work was good then the community thrived. Despite the best of intentions, loyalties in the theater are found in the length of applause, and when that fades, so does the rest.

Bobby’s complete focus was on achievement. His goal was to sell seats and put our troop on the map. Yet as the evening grew late, it was evident that behind his eyes were intentions far greater and far more ambitious than I had ever seen in anyone. He had a look of raw ambition, as if he were saying, “This gets me to where I want to be. This offers a path to who I want to become.” To see that in a stranger’s eyes was scary.

We all toasted Bobby Stevens with one last iced brew at Souza’s. I caught his expression as the glasses clinked. It was calculating, where I expected warmth. Looking at him, I felt older, as if I had lost something held dear. Innocence.

S
ecunda, James, and I each did our daily chores from dawn to dusk. We were like Paul Muni in
I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang
. Tough, back-breaking labor all day that left us broken and spent by evening. True, JB and the “women” were strained to the limit as well, but their tasks were more cerebral. Kasen, Duncan, Holly, and their crews had jobs to do to make the shows happen on time. All that tomorrow offered to us, the three schmucks with aching backs, was more of the same. It was fun, though, and we had our share of laughs.

One early, damp morning, with sunrise at least an hour away, we tackled some of the shrubbery, clipping back rose bushes whose thorns painted pictures in red upon our faces. That afternoon, hundreds of pounds of fertilizer arrived for us to spread. The three of us looked at one another and I said, “What, and give up show business?”