Little Did I Know: A Novel (26 page)

As the days approached, my showdown with Rock Mental on Saturday morning, his legend grew. Yes, his name was truly “Rock Mental.” He had been all-state the past four years and was already guaranteed a free ride to Ohio State. Roosevelt had been undefeated since he’d joined the team. He weighed 250 on Monday and 280 on Wednesday, and by Friday night he tipped the scales at over 300 pounds. He was as fast as Jim Thorpe and as violent as Jim Brown. He never missed a play; those who went against him rarely finished the game. He was a Viking. He was a Hun. He was Paul Bunyan, Ulysses, and Goliath. And I was dead.

I didn’t sleep well leading up to Saturday. I was anxious at the thought of being beaten to death by this thyroid freak, yet determined to show up and do the best I could. I studied my playbook and film on the guy. I figured he was vulnerable to certain trap blocks and that in playing him, the second and third blocks were as important as the first if I intended on making it home. I practiced extra hard with the line coach, ate well, and took all my vitamins. Friday night, I rested and prayed. When Saturday morning arrived, I got on the team bus and headed east to face a most certain and unceremonious ending for an all too brief high school athletic career.

We arrived at Roosevelt high and began our warm-ups. All of my teammates were on the lookout for Rock Mental. They were more nervous than I was about facing this human Loch Ness monster, and their sympathy for me could be inferred from their stoic expressions. But no one sighted him. If he were that enormous, you’d think he would stand out in a crowd, but no one on my side could locate this brooding giant.

Just before kickoff, Coach Serpe approached me with a wide grin. He said, “Sammy, you’re going tear it up out here. I got faith in you.” Then he slapped my butt and moved away. I felt no better about my fate and continued to search the field for Rock Mental.

Unexpectedly, Coach Serpe returned to my side, laughing. “Sammy, Rock Mental graduated last year. He’s starting at middle linebacker for Ohio State this afternoon. Now go make some hay.”

I did make some hay that day. In fact, I played a terrific game. We won the scrimmage by more than thirty points, and the bus ride home was raucous and happy. We had kicked some ass that morning.

Amid all the chaos, I sat alone a while and thought that sometimes when the worst actually happens it’s never as bad as you think it will be. More important, the things in life you most tend to worry about often take you away from the things in life that really need your attention.

I was brooding over these thoughts as I sat on the deck at the Full Sail and sipped tequila a week after our first show had opened. The bar inside was packed, but out on the deck it was quiet and the ocean was almost as smooth as glass. A chilly mist descended from above, casting little shadows on the mirrored seatop. The deck was empty except for two women in their late twenties who were obviously looking for company. As they eyed me, I was tempted to tell them they should take their business inside.

Bobby Stevens pulled up a chair and sat next to me. He had been right about his fair skin; the Cape Cod sun had not been kind to him. His face was bright red. He was in good spirits nevertheless. He told me he thought the show was terrific and I shouldn’t worry about what had been small attendance to this point. It took time for word of mouth to build. He mentioned that the season didn’t really begin till after the Fourth of July, and assured me the crowds would pick up then. He reminded me about all the press we had received and the big article that was to appear in the
Globe
early next week. He added that the goal was to sell thirty thousand tickets over the entire summer and not in the first week and a half, and that he had every confidence we would do so.

I nodded silently and sipped my tequila. I noticed the two ladies had gone inside for better pickings. Maybe Bobby was right, but I didn’t think so. I believed that when you opened, whether on Broadway or in a small town, you should generate some sense of urgency in people to get to the box office and buy a ticket. It was true we were selling more each day, but our increases were nothing for anyone to get particularly excited about.

Then I told him my Rock Mental story. He laughed but didn’t see the connection. I explained that while we were all so concerned about the quality of our product, we had neglected or at least so far failed to let the world know it existed. We were so concerned about being beaten to death by Rock that we overlooked the essential fact that he was now a “Buckeye.”

The company had been so professional. Our first shows were excellent: crisp, clear, precise, and imbued with a joy that flooded over the floodlights, even though the story itself was about dark things. The crowds were enthusiastic, staying afterward to compliment the young actors. Morale and dedication remained high, but playing in front of less than a hundred people a night—our best was a hundred and seven—had to take its toll. Christ, we only had fifty-three people at our opening!

I walked back into the bar and ordered two shots of Cuervo gold with two beer backs and returned to Bobby. We clinked our glasses and threw back José’s poison; wincing, we chased it with a swig of cold beer. We sat for a while. There was no show tomorrow, since it was July 4, and the company was scheduled for minimum rehearsals. We could stay out late and misbehave if we wanted; there was no homework to do.

“We have to finish these drinks and head back to the theater,” Bobby said with a certain sense of urgency. “We have to round everyone up, even the local kids. Hell, I’ll even call Gary Golden if it will help.”

I went to the bar and came back with two more shots of Mr. Cuervo. I thought if I couldn’t sell tickets sober I might as well try it drunk.

“We have to make a splash.” Bobby continued. “We have to do something they have never seen here in Plymouth. We have to pull off a stunt and make everyone, whether they are locals or just passing through, remember our names.”

“Okay, I’m in, ” I said. “Where do I sign?”

“I signed us up to be a float in the parade tomorrow. I located a big flatbed trailer that will be at the theater in about fifteen minutes—”

I cut him off. “Bobby, this is stupid! Nobody goes to parades anymore.”

“They might in Plymouth on the Fourth of July. It’s the bicentennial, for Christ sake. Even if there aren’t lots of people on the parade route, we will win first prize with our float and that will get us on TV. We need to do this. Otherwise, we are going to play to a lot more empty seats. Trust me on that. I should have realized this sooner, but people aren’t coming because we don’t feel like a winner. The experience we are offering is like kissing your sister or going out with a girl who is your best friend. Everybody knows we are here, but they don’t believe they have to call tonight or they’ll get shut out.”

“Bobby, no one goes to parades. What does the float look like that you’re so sure we’ll win, anyway?”

“The float will be everything we want the public to know about us. Our shows will be represented on the float as miniature versions of our sets, and the van itself will carry a replica of the barn. It will be filled with our chorus girls in skimpy outfits, and who won’t notice that? The entire orchestra will play everything from show tunes, to Sinatra, to the blues, to patriotic melodies. We’ll serve drinks in the heat and sing. Everyone will join in and they’ll hear us in Boston, and they will remember us and talk about us. Those who hear of our day on America’s birthday will buy tickets and tell their friends.”

Man he was good.

“How skimpy will the girl’s clothes be?” I asked.

“Naked. They will be practically naked.”

“That should sell tickets. Naked is good.”

I went to the bar for one last refill, then returned to Bobby.

“I am calling your marker,” he said. “You promised to back me and I’m not letting you say no.”

“I did promise, that’s true.”

I raised my glass and he his. We clinked, winced, and followed with a swig of beer.

“It’s after midnight,” I said. “When does this parade begin?”

“Nine o’clock this morning.”

“Well then, what are we waiting for? There are naked girls waiting to ride this float!”

A
s luck would have it, we were able to round up nearly everybody in the company. Bobby and I recruited JB and Tommy, James, Feston, Debbie, and Ellie. We quickly explained our emergency and they scattered off to the beach, to knock on doors, and to the local watering holes we all seemed to frequent. Within thirty minutes, everyone stood in the parking lot waiting for instructions or at least an explanation.

In the center of our circle was the powder-blue birthday present lit to the tits by a dozen cars whose headlights all pointed directly at the van. It had heated up over the past few hours, and everyone was dressed down in shorts and T-shirts, eager for news about what the fuck was going on. James had put a loop on the sound system, and due to the late hour, it was the soft smooth sounds of Johnny Hartman. The place looked like Area 51; all we needed to complete the picture were a few aliens. Yet I took comfort in the fact that it was early, and who knew what might happen next?

Bobby and I stood by the van. I held a large piece of white poster board rolled up in my hand. Bobby held a clipboard and had a whistle around his neck. If it were another time or place, this would look like the beginning of a track meet. Doobie’s Full Sail truck pulled up. He removed three large kegs of beer and placed them on the picnic table, then began to fill plastic cups with the crisp amber brew and pass them around.

“You all know Mr. Bobby Stevens here,” I said. “Tonight he will lead us on an important adventure.” I held up the poster board and turned it a few times to make sure everyone got a good look, then handed it to Bobby and said to the group, “This is Bobby’s marker, and he’s calling it. So whatever Bobby says, we do.” I turned to Bobby. “What do we do?”

Bobby unrolled a huge sheet of paper on which the PBT float had been rendered just as he had described it to me less than an hour ago, although the girls weren’t naked in this version.

Kasen laid out a giant paint-by-numbers set which, when painted in the appropriate colors, would be hoisted together to replicate the big barn theater. Once complete, it was to be worn by the van like a form-fitting jacket and topped with the roof of the building and the high-flying sign that Bobby had designed earlier that week.

Enormous, it would be seen from miles away as it snaked down the parade route. Kasen had hooked it up to a flatbed trailer that must have been the length of half a football field; on this platform were built little replicas of our coming season’s shows. They sprouted up like little cities, a twenties neighborhood that housed
Funny Girl
, an opulent ocean liner where the characters of
Anything Goes
romped, and the modern steel and coldness of seventies Manhattan that acted as the backdrop for
Company
. Germany in the 1930s for
Cabaret
and a minimalist stage set for
The Fantasticks
. Attached to each mini–show city was a pennant flag intended to wave on what promised to be one of the hottest Fourth of July ever.

The entire orchestra had been set on the flatbed and secured in place. The generator Bobby had procured was plugged into the cigarette lighter, which was going to keep that sucker going until Christmas. The float took shape around the band, who were playing a medley of songs and styles. It was like turning the knob on a car radio and you’d catch snippets of different artists and genres. Bebop, swing, raucous jazz, show tunes, and sweet melodies floated up toward the sky and accompanied the stars as they found partners and danced.

Additionally, Kasen and Duncan had strung a series of red, white, and blue Christmas lights to the top of the flatbed, around the replica of the barn, and attached them to the instruments. When the band played hot, the colors were rich and vibrant, dancing on their own like a chorus wearing tap shoes. When the music was soft, the mood and the lights became subtle, just kissing the sky for effect, dancing cheek to cheek, flushed and ready for the next step.

Time flew by, and it was nearing six in the morning. The temperature was already hovering at 80 degrees. By noon it was expected to break the long-standing record of a hundred and six. We gathered around Bobby to receive our final instructions.

“We have to drive like Arnold Palmer, talk like Winston Churchill, fight like George Patton, and ask for forgiveness like Tricky Dicky. Now, let’s go make a new tradition in this town! Girls, be sexy, as if anything else were possible, and, guys, stay out of their way.”

The company roared with approval. Bobby could have run for office.

Bobby had arranged for our float to be the last in the parade, just like Santa’s sleigh is the last attraction of the Thanksgiving Day event. He insisted that no one in town had ever seen what we were about to show them. All the girls were decked out in skimpy, sexy showgirl outfits featuring short-short dance pants, teddies, and thigh-highs from the upcoming show. Mary, the costume designer, had made simple, age-appropriate complementary outfits for everyone else to wear.

Veronica, Diana, Debbie, and JB were suddenly transformed into alluring chorus girls, and playing the part came naturally to them. The guys and the band were dressed in nautical wear to reference
Anything Goes
, and even the dozen young kids who’d been up all night working with us wore little sailor suits with white cropped hats. The band could be heard in Boston and was ready to play a panoply of musical genres and patriotic ditties. Last, Ma and Doobie had fixed up gallons upon gallons of iced lemonade with just a slight spike in it (“for the heat” as Ma explained). We set off to the parade route.