Little Did I Know: A Novel (39 page)

JB got up from her desk then sat again. She stood yet again and walked around her chair three times, sort of the way a dog circles the spot where it intends to pee. She lit a cigarette and leaned across her desk with manic in her dark eyes. “Well, Sammy, it’s eight-seventeen. Your dice.”

I thought for a moment and then sat back down, because my ankle hurt more than my assbone “Fuck me,” I said.

JB walked quickly across the small room to the office door and bolted it shut. She turned back to me and said simply, “Okay.” Then walked over to the chair and dropped into my lap. She sat with her head on my chest and we both breathed deeply. She smelled like an ashtray and I of fear and inexperience. Neither one of us was any picnic.

“You know ‘fuck me’ is just an expression,” I said. “I say it sometimes when I am at a loss for words or when I find myself in a situation where I’d rather have dental surgery up my ass for a week than face the music.”

“You’re never at a loss for words.”

“You’re right. Strip naked now.”

At that, we both laughed so slightly that combined it was a mere chuckle.

It was 8:20. I unbolted the door and looked outside. There were six cars in the lot; Barrows’s red two-seater was parked in the center of the compound. I was certain she had one of those vanity plates that read
I AM ONE GIGANTIC FUCKING ASSHOLE
. There were about eight people lingering in front of the box office. The full complement of staff was around. Ironically, the weather was absolutely stupendous, clear skies and just a soft breeze off the water. If Capra was right, and he usually was, rain would follow.

“JB, this is what I want you to do. First, go tell Diana to explain to the people waiting for standing room that we can’t help them tonight because we have a private group that bought out the whole house. She should apologize for the inconvenience and offer them free seats for any future performance and then get them off the premises. Have Debbie hold the house closed until I’ve finished talking with the company. I want the entire company on stage in five minutes sharp. Tell Jojo to round everyone up and keep them quiet—no incessant chatter. Tell them I’ll explain everything at the meeting. Make sure everyone is in costume and ready to go. You speak to Mrs. Barrows and explain that we’ll be going up a few minutes late. Be nice! If you see Veronica anywhere, tell her I said to go wait on stage with the cast. Do all of this fast. But give me a hug first.”

She stood and we hugged one another as if we were both going off to war.

“Are we doing the show?” she asked.

“I haven’t figured that one out yet. I don’t know how this plays out. We will very shortly, though.”

“I guess so,” she said and headed for the door.

“JB,” I said, “you know you are one beautiful girl.”

Without a word, she left the office and ran across the compound to do my bidding. I watched her and took a moment to think about what I intended to say or do. It was the second time in recent days that I had stared out that window while confusion danced in my head. The first time I thought about a glass of milk. Right now, I thought a Drano on the rocks was far more appropriate. As I thought through my potential actions, I remembered an old, familiar but telling story.

A man is walking along the shores of the beach when he stumbles upon an old-looking lamp bottle. He picks up the bottle and rubs some of the sand off it. Out of the blue, a genie appears! The stunned man asks the genie if this means he gets three wishes.

“Three wishes is only a fable,” responds the genie. “You only get one wish. So what do you wish for?”

The man does not hesitate. “I want peace in the Middle East,” he responds. “See this map? I want these countries to stop fighting with each other and I want all the Arabs to love the Jews and Americans and vice versa.”

The genie looks at the map and exclaims, “Hey, guy, be reasonable. These countries have been at war for thousands of years. I’m out of shape after being in a bottle for five hundred years. I don’t think it can be done. Make another wish and please be reasonable.”

The man thinks for a minute. “Well, I’ve never been able to get my ex-girlfriend and my new girlfriend to be in the same place at the same time even for a minute without pulling each other’s hair out,” he says. “It’s really embarrassing and I don’t know what to do. Couldn’t they just get along when they run into each other and not start World War III? That is what I wish for: make it so my ex-girlfriend doesn’t make my new girlfriend so unhappy all the time.”

The genie lets out a deep sigh and says, “Let me see that friggin’ map again . . .”

I saw Veronica enter the side door of the theater, avoiding Lizzy Barrows. She was clearly unhappy and her face showed recent tears. I had to move so, throwing caution to the wind, I left the office and sprinted across the compound to the theater. I entered through the stage-right door and there in glorious chaos, faces creased with concern, disoriented and befuddled, was the entire PBT company. They were clearly wondering what would happen now that Cruella De Vil had appeared and announced her plan to make trouble. Some were in full costume and makeup, others freakishly unfinished. Several wore their wig caps sans hair. A few were partially dressed or in preshow garb.

It was time to speak like Winston Churchill and save us all from falling apart. No one was dying and no one was in jeopardy. We were all simply facing a new mountain to climb. To my surprise I was actually jazzed; I jumped in full throttle. If I was going to be shot down, let it be Midway rather than Pearl Harbor.

“We have a problem,” I began. “Perhaps ‘problem’ is the wrong word. Rather we have a decision to make, a group decision forced upon us. It is not fair or right or just that you’ve been put in this position. We must choose between art and community. Although I’ll feel the ramifications of whatever action you choose to take, good or bad, I’m prepared for those consequences. First and foremost, I choose all of you.”

For the moment I had everyone’s complete attention.

“The facts are this: several weeks ago a local resident purchased our entire house for tonight. Every seat. In the past thirty minutes, we learned that it had never been her intention to distribute those seats. She purchased them simply to embarrass me by having you all play to a single person.”

I was immediately peppered with angry questions.

“Who did such a thing?”

“What an asshole!”

“What did you do to piss this person off?”

“You don’t expect us to do the show, do you?”

“One person? Come on, Sam, give her back her money.”

“Tell her to go to hell.”

There were other comments as well, all of them troubled and angered at the pettiness of the whole thing. Even those who supported playing in front of only one person were fuming, sensing a certain violation of their growing professionalism.

“The person causing all this commotion is Lizzy Barrows aka, ‘fucking bitch with a hole in her heart.’ But please don’t allow me to color your opinion of the woman.”

There followed murmurs acknowledging the problem. Comments of dismay blended with a few small chuckles as to my description of our adversary. Then the company’s gaze returned to me. Furtive, distracted, and edgy.

“The way I see it is that she sucks, and whatever you choose to do tonight, she’ll still suck tomorrow while you are all enjoying a well-deserved day off.”

“We should begin our day off right now!”

“I don’t think we should play to this freakoid.”

“Let her ride her broom somewhere else and fuck with somebody else.”

The words came, fast and hard. And all on top of one another. It wasn’t clear who said them, yet it was a point of view shared by many.

“I can tell her there is no show this evening because some of you are sick and can’t go on. For what it is worth, I think that approach puts us in the pigsty right along with Mrs. Barrows.”

There were some head bobs of acquiescence, many more of discontent.

“Or I can tell her to ‘eat shit and die,’ give her a refund, and explain that we won’t be played in this way. I would probably leave out the ‘eat shit and die’ part, but the intent would be clear.”

The responses to this suggestion were filled with concern as to the loss of money, our pride, our dignity. I swelled with relief and gratitude.

Veronica raised her hand to speak. She began awkwardly. “Lizzy Barrows is someone I have known for a long time. We used to be the best of friends. Then, well . . . she took a wrong turn and I guess she got lost. She has done terrible things to people who are close to me. I do know that her behavior is intended to hurt me and not you . . . All of you, my new friends, are the unfortunate conduit for pain inflicted long ago. I wouldn’t let her in the building at all. She will never find her way back to some sort of grace or decency. Her wealth has left her without a . . . a moral compass, and although I am trying to understand you all and what is important to you as performers, I’m sorry, but I believe that redemption of any kind for her is hopeless. She’s the devil. Please stay away from Lizzy Barrows.”

Secunda seemed more agitated than usual. “I don’t think we should play tonight.”

There followed a chorus of whys.

“To me it’s about our community, our family. Barrows is trying to fuck with all of that and we, all of us, must take a stand against anyone endeavoring to damage what we’ve been building here. We’re all part of this community. From the day each of us arrived and signed on, it was to work and expect each other’s support. To perform tonight would break the cycle of the respect we’ve been promised. And Veronica is so upset I’d rather heal her then be noble.”

“I’m sorry, Veronica, but this is BS,” said Elliot. “Is it about this sick joke being played on us or is it about doing our job? If it’s the former, then she’s already won. We’re all upset and wringing our hands and wasting time.”

“I should go talk with her,” I suggested.

“To what end?” I was asked in a chorus of escalating frustration.

“Or we could all be Joe DiMaggio.”

There were expressions of confusion as if asking, “Joe DiMaggio again?”, so I continued.

“Joe DiMaggio once played in a meaningless spring game in Florida. He was Joe DiMaggio. He was the biggest star going. In the bottom of the last inning, he led off with a single. Then he stole second. The Yankees were losing thirteen-to-nothing and he chose to steal second base. He then advanced to third on a ground ball to the right side. So there he is, ninety feet from home with one out and the Yankees down by thirteen runs. Maybe there are three hundred people left in the ballpark. The next batter hits a short fly to the outfield and DiMaggio tags up and runs like the wind and smashes into the catcher as he receives the throw from the right fielder. They both go down in a heap, dust is everywhere, and then the ball is seen rolling away from the collision. The ump calls DiMaggio safe and the Yankees now trail by only twelve runs. They lost the game by that margin.”

I still had their attention.

“Stay with me, this is leading somewhere. After the game, all the sportswriters questioned Joe D. on why he had played a meaningless game with such foolish abandon. They said, ‘You’re Joe DiMaggio! What would have happened if you got hurt and missed the season?’

“‘Because I am Joe DiMaggio,’ he said, ‘there are people in the stands today who came to see me play. Maybe it is the only time they have or will ever see me play. They deserve my best effort. They deserve the real Joe DiMaggio. Because whether there are tens of thousands of people in the stands or a single one, I always have to be me.’

“The sportswriters were chastened and wrote the story having learned something about greatness.”

There was silence on the stage. No one looked at one another..

Kopit stepped forward and said, “I am Joe DiMaggio.”

Then others followed. Rush. Trudy. Feston. Fitzgerald. The doctor. Carol Duteau and Janet Kessler. All repeated the mantra “I am Joe DiMaggio.” And as each person spoke the words, a defiance grew within the company, a defiance and charge that greatness had to be part of their work ethic. It was found in one’s heart as well as one’s skill. It was the brass ring we were all chasing.

Practically the entire company was now wearing virtual pinstripes. Then Veronica stepped up and joined the ranks. She too was for performing, even if it meant allowing Lizzy Barrows to win her stupid, infantile game.

Secunda walked center stage, turned and faced the group. “I am Spartacus,” he declared.

In succession everyone started to repeat Secunda’s nonsense. Everyone was now Spartacus. Laughter replaced the tension of minutes ago. We were all Spartacus and we had a show to do.

Jojo quieted everyone and said, “Places in ten. And I am glad to be on this team. I too am Spartacus.”

The cast went to finish getting ready. JB shouted to Debbie, “Open the house! Let the crowd in.” Then to Veronica, “Open the concession stand.” Finally to me she said, “Sammy, I’ll find you an empty seat so you can take notes. Oh, and I’ll be right out to let Mrs. Barrows know she can take any seat she wants, but with the reminder that there is not a bad one in the whole place.”