Read Kissing in Manhattan Online

Authors: David Schickler

Kissing in Manhattan (7 page)

Jeremy drank Cutty Sark at Cherrywood’s, sitting at the bar, glaring at the stand-up comedians who tried to take Robby Jax’s place on the stage. The comedians were male, in their mid-thirties, with thinning hair and decent suits. They rolled their eyes and quibbled about women.

“Comedians aren’t men,” said Jeremy Jax. He was speaking to his old Hobart roommate, Patrick Rigg. Patrick was on Wall Street now. He lived in the Preemption apartment building, he was famous for his handsome bones, and he carried a gun.

“Russians are men,” said Jeremy.

Patrick shrugged.

“Look at this guy.” Jeremy nodded toward the stage, where the comedian was making baby sounds in the microphone.

“He’s doing a bit about dating,” explained Patrick.

Jeremy sucked ice and Scotch. He sucked till the cold hurt his teeth.

“He’s mocking idyllic romance,” said Patrick.

Russians, thought Jeremy, do not do bits.

 

 

It was on an ordinary Wednesday that Jeremy Jax became Fourth Angry Mouse. It happened quickly, and if Jeremy had had time to consult the darkness within him, he probably would have refused the role. But he was groggy from lunch when Michael Hye ran into the office.

“Call an ambulance,” panted Michael. “Fourth Angry Mouse is down. Unconscious.”

“What happened?” said Jeremy.

Michael shook his head. “He was berating First Kindly Mouse, and he collapsed. Hyperventilated or something.”

Of Mice And Mice
had eight characters, Four Kindly Mice and Four Angry Mice. All eight actors wore identically sized mouse outfits, but the mice were distinguishable by the colors of their trousers and their habits of movement. Second Kindly Mouse, for instance, was partial to softshoe. Third Angry Mouse rode other mice piggyback.

It turned out that things were serious. Fourth Angry Mouse, a habitual smoker, had suffered a collapsed lung.

“Jeremy.” Michael pulled Jeremy into the office. It was four o’clock, still Wednesday. The ambulance had come and gone.

“Jeremy,” said Michael. He spoke quietly, reverently. “The Lucas needs you.”

“How’s that?” said Jeremy.

Michael gripped Jeremy’s arm. “You’ve got to be Fourth Angry Mouse.”

“Like hell I do.”

Michael’s face was grave. “We have no understudy. The show opens Friday.”

“Call Equity,” said Jeremy.

Michael frowned. “Whenever it’s possible, the Lucas does things in-house.”

“Whenever it’s possible,” said Jeremy, “I don’t play rodents.”

“Don’t be flip, Jeremy.” Michael punched a calculator. “I’ll give you one hundred and fifty dollars a night till we can train a professional in the role, if that’s necessary. It’s virtually a nonspeaking part, it’s only a two-month run, and you know the show cold. Plus . . .”

“Plus what?”

“Plus, I suspect you understand Fourth Angry’s sensibility.”

“He doesn’t have a sensibility, Michael. He’s a fucking
mouse
.”

Michael snapped his fingers. “That. Right there. The way you just spoke to me. That’s Fourth Angry’s tone. His Weltanschauung.”

“Forget it,” said Jeremy.

“Three hundred a night,” said Michael.

“Done,” said Jeremy.

Rehearsals began twenty minutes later. Jeremy suited up in a giant mouse outfit and took the stage. The other mice gathered around.

“Who’s this guy?” they asked.

“It’s me,” said Jeremy. His breath felt warm and close inside the mouse head, which was held to the costume’s body by hinges. Jeremy’s eyes peeked out through a grille in the costume’s mouth.

“I’m Jeremy Jax,” said Jeremy.

Third Kindly Mouse put his paws on his hips. “Michael. This is absurd.”

“Yeah,” said First Angry Mouse. “We’re professionals. You can’t just stick some random employee into—”

“The kid knows the part,” said Michael Hye. “Besides, Fourth Angry only has one line.”

Fourth Kindly Mouse patted Jeremy’s back. “Let’s give him a chance.”

“What’s his background?” said Third Angry Mouse.

“He’s Robby Jax’s grandson,” said Michael.

The mice all nodded, impressed.

“Let’s hear him,” said First Angry. “Let’s hear him try his one line.”

Michael urged Jeremy onto the roof, which was a giant promontory piece of the set. It was from this roof that Fourth Angry Mouse proclaimed his line.

“Go on, Jax,” said Michael.

Jeremy climbed the roof, looked out at the empty seats of the Lucas. A spotlight came on in the ceiling, singled him out.

Three hundred a night, Jeremy told himself.

“Do it up, kid,” yelled Fourth Kindly Mouse.

Jeremy took a breath.

“ ‘I have arrived!’ “ he shouted.

 

 

Within two weeks an extraordinary thing happened. New York City fell in love with
Of Mice And Mice
.

There was no rational accounting for it. Manhattan’s theater tastes had ranged over the preceding decade from men drenched in blue paint to maniacs thumping garbage cans, so the popularity of eight giant mice was perhaps only a matter of savvy timing. On the other hand,
Of Mice And Mice
’s playwright was furious. He’d intended
Of Mice And Mice
as a somber allegory about the divisiveness of the human heart, and audiences were finding the play outrageously funny. Children and adults loved the show with equal ardor, the way they might a classic Looney Tunes. Susan March, who wrote the editorial column “March Madness” for
The New York Times,
claimed that “these eight mice show us, with their tongues in their divine little cheeks, how laughable are all our attempts at serious human contention. Who would’ve expected such charm from the Lucas?”

Receiving particular laud was the character of Fourth Angry Mouse. He wore unassuming blue trousers and had only one line, but there was something about his befuddled manner, his confused scampering to and fro among his fellow mice, that endeared him to audiences and won him standing ovations.

“Fourth Angry Mouse,” wrote Susan March, “is petulant, skittish, bent on private designs. But he is so convincingly lost in his own antics that we can’t help but laugh at the little guy. He could be any one of us, plucked off the street, tossed into public scrutiny. Would any of us seem less goofy, less hysterically at sea?”

Compounding the intrigue around Fourth Angry Mouse was the fact that the program listed his actor’s name as Anonymous. This was unheard of. Benny Demarco, the character actor of film and stage fame, was carrying the role of First Kindly Mouse, and garnering good reviews. Trisha Vera, as First Angry Mouse, had some brilliant moments, including a Velcro routine on the walls. But it was the unknown man behind Fourth Angry Mouse that Manhattan wanted to meet most. Some critics speculated that it was Christian Frick, reprising his Tony-award-winning role as the Familiar in
Coven
. Most reviewers, though, suspected that a newcomer lurked behind Fourth Angry Mouse, a dark-horse tyro with few credentials beyond instinct.

As for Jeremy Jax, he was flabbergasted. He tried in each performance to implement the critical notes he’d been given by Michael Hye and
Of Mice And Mice
’s livid playwright. However, Jeremy was no actor. He had no knack for detail, no timing, no sense of his body as perceived by others, and so no clear motives for how to move when dressed as a seven-foot mouse. He got upset at the laughter he aroused—he didn’t want his fellow mice to think him a showboat—but the more upset he got, the harder people laughed and the more money the Lucas made.

Relax,
Jeremy told himself.
Relax.

But Jeremy couldn’t relax. His fame was a farce to him. He wanted no one to acknowledge it until he decided if it was shameful. If he’d been a praying man, Jeremy might’ve consulted the spirit of his dead grandfather directly for some assurance that he was authentically comic. Instead, he stood in the lobby of the Preemption, staring at the four portraits that hung on the wall over Sender’s desk. These portraits were of the Rooks—Elias, Hatter, Joseph, and Johann—who had, in succession, owned the Preemption since Elias Rook built it in 1890. The portraits showed four men of unsmiling German lineage. Jeremy respected their shared, serious countenance and the fact that they all looked like svelter versions of his grandfather Robby. Each Rook wore a dark suit or tuxedo, and each, except Johann, had his date of birth and death engraved beneath his name.

Jeremy was particularly taken with the portrait of Johann Rook, the Preemption’s current owner. This man was known for his secrecy and spectacular wealth, and his image carried a severe aspect. He had a full head of shock white hair, and wore a black tuxedo, and rumor went that Johann Rook traveled the world under various aliases, now practicing medicine in Paris, now mining diamonds in Johannesburg, and occasionally intervening in the lives of his Preemption residents. Jeremy, though, studied Johann’s portrait only because, of the four Rooks, this man looked most like Robby Jax, the one soul whose approval Jeremy most craved.

Am I funny? Jeremy thought, staring at the portrait when the lobby was empty. Deep down, am I?

Of course, he got no spoken answer from Johann Rook. So, frustrated, Jeremy got drunk at Cherrywood’s with Patrick Rigg.

“You no longer suck,” said Patrick. “Why not spill your name?”

“Because,” hissed Jeremy. “Because I’m a fucking mouse, that’s why.”

Patrick shrugged. Outside of Michael Hye and the other cast members—whom Michael had contracted into secrecy—only Patrick knew Jeremy’s alter ego.

“You might be a mouse,” said Patrick, “but you’re definitely the man. Everybody loves you.”

Jeremy scowled. If I were a man, he thought, I’d be drinking vodka in Siberia. I’d be living on tundra, with a beefy wife.

To cheer his buddy up Patrick dragged Jeremy to Minotaur’s, a basement nightclub in the meatpacking district. Minotaur’s was a labyrinth of halls and dark corners. There were doors off the halls, some of which led to rooms of bliss. Other doors led nowhere. If you got separated from someone at Minotaur’s, you might not see him or her till morning or ever again. The idea, though, was to dabble in as many corners as you could, then follow the maze to its center, a wide clearing called the Forum. In this room were several bars, a high ceiling, a dance floor, and a stage that had revolving entertainment: house on Mondays, blues on Tuesdays, swingon Thursdays, ska on Fridays. Patrick brought Jeremy tothe Forum on a Wednesday. Wednesday was Anything-Can-Happen Night.

Jeremy groaned again. “Why am I here?”

Patrick whinnied a high, eerie laugh. He pointed at the stage.

“Watch,” he said.

Jeremy watched. A person named Harold read erotica. A girl named Tsunami danced.

“They suck,” said Jeremy.

“Watch,” insisted Patrick.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the MC, “please welcome back to Minotaur’s The Great Unwashed.”

A whoop went up. The lights dimmed. Three young women took the stage, one at the drums, two on guitar. The girl on lead guitar had long black hair combed over one eye in a sickle that hid most of her face. Seconds later she and her band were at it. They played simple, throbbing music, but what got Jeremy’s ear was the singer, the lead guitarist. Her face was hidden by her sickle, and her voice was awful butarresting, like Lou Reed’s. She told lyrics in a simple monotone,then her words rose and cracked and broke your heart. Jeremy felt the hairs on his neck ripple. He turned to Patrick.

“She’s . . . she’s . . .” Jeremy wanted to say she was terrible. He wanted it to be a compliment.

“She’s Freida,” said Patrick. “Freida from Hobart.”

Jeremy’s mouth opened. Patrick was right. It was Freida.

“She’s great,” whispered Jeremy.

“I know,” said Patrick. “I saw her here last month.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Patrick grinned, sly and easy. He knew things about Manhattan that only dead people should know.

Jeremy found Freida after the show. She remembered him, and shook his hand. They went through a door, bought some drinks, went through another door, sat on a couch.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” said Jeremy. “You were great out there.”

Freida brushed back her sickle. “Your hair got gray,” she said.

“So what do you do with yourself now?” asked Jeremy.

Freida tapped her guitar. “I do this, stupid. I sing.”

“Full time?”

“Well, I’m a saleswoman at Saks. But who cares about that?”

Jeremy stared at her. He wanted to tell her how supple her thighs looked under her miniskirt, how terrific it was that she was profiting from her awful voice.

“What are you doing?” asked Freida.

Jeremy downed some Ballantine. “I’m assistant to the director at— Well, I work at the Lucas Theater.”

Freida nodded. “The Mouseketeer Club.”

“Ha,” said Jeremy. He took another look at Freida’s thighs, which, if he remembered right, had a tiny spray of freckles on them up around the hips. He remembered his grandfather, who’d loved whispering to pretty girls. Jeremy glanced around. The room they were in was dark and empty.

“Freida,” he whispered. He placed his hand on her thigh.

Freida immediately removed it. “Nope,” she said. She smoothed her skirt, and looked at Jeremy, her eyes all business.

Jeremy was surprised. He’d heard anything went in the back rooms at Minotaur’s, and he’d once taken this girl quite aggressively. He reached toward Freida’s lap again. Freida slapped his hand easily away. She made a little sound that could have been a laugh, then stood up.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Jeremy.

Freida shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, stupid.” She picked up her guitar and walked away.

 

 

The more Jeremy thought about Freida, the madder he got.

“She called me stupid,” Jeremy muttered. “Twice.”

“What are you mumbling about?” asked First Angry Mouse.

The mice were backstage, in the green room, stretching, getting their heads on straight. The Saturday-evening curtain was rising in five minutes, and rumor had it that Mayor Fillipone was in the audience.

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