The Home For Wayward Ladies (24 page)

“And it’s a good thing too because he can’t have it. I flushed him down the toilet last night after he dripped out the back of me like chocolate/vanilla swirl.”

He throws the shower curtain open sending stray droplets of cold water onto my chest. “Must you always be so vulgar?”

“Look— if you won’t let me fuck a sailor, the least you could do is let me talk like one.”

He climbs in, exiling me from the current of warm water. My skin chills in an instant. “Nick, I’m not trying to change who you are, but sometimes your true colors are a little too vibrant for the professional set. For the sake of our future, please consider being a little less NC-17 and a scosche more PG with Carter Harrigan. If you can handle that, I’m sure you’ll do swell.”

In memoriam for the little part of me that Danny has just killed, I decide to wear black. It’s been years since anybody told me to behave myself, not since I left the strangling grip of Tilly Applebaum and chose to live my life the way I’d always wanted. But according to Danny, with my future at stake, funereal fashion is in vogue. Honestly, if I had a matching birdcage veil with fascinator, you bet your ass I would be wearing that too.

Surprisingly, my ensemble helps me fit right in at the restaurant Mr. Harrigan chose. It’s about as welcoming as a morgue. I can tell that it’s a classy joint because of how it makes me feel like I don’t belong. The mustache on the Maitre d’ looks like he’s grown an eyebrow in the middle of his face. He even holds the chair out for me when I park my keister at the table. Mr. Harrigan doesn’t rise to greet me. Not having seen him for a few weeks, he looks more rigid than I recall.

“Nicholas- it’s a pleasure to see you.” His tone is so dry that it makes me feel parched. 

“Likewise,” I reply. “But, please, call me Nick.”

“I most certainly will not. ‘Nick’ is a moniker for a boy building castles in the sand. You must learn to command respect. Henceforth, you shall be known as ‘Nicholas.’ Your father will thank me.”

I want to tell him that I don’t care who my father has to thank but, per Danny’s orders, I hold my tongue. “As long as Applebaum is carved in stone, we can shake on it.”  

“Real men of business prefer to put things in writing, Mr. Applebaum.” He looks at his menu. I follow his cue. “And where is Mr. Olsen? Danny didn’t want to join us?” He sounds as disappointed as he ought to be.

“Mr. Olsen is otherwise engaged with pressing business matters, however, he sends his regards.” I don’t intend to sound so formal, but being surrounded by gold leaf everything brings forth a conservatism that I didn’t know I had. At this lunch meeting, the role usually played by Nick Applebaum shall be performed by someone that’s not me.

Mr. Harrigan’s necktie is so tight that I’m surprised it doesn’t cause a nose bleed. “Don’t you look smart in black?” he says, taking all of me in.

“How kind of you to say. Although I must admit that wearing black makes me crave un-filtered cigarettes and the work of Allen Ginsberg.” I take his mild titter as a sign that I’m allowed to keep talking. “Maybe after lunch we can stop by the fruit stand next to Carnegie Hall so I can spruce this look up with a hat like Carmen Miranda.” I stop myself  before I make a joke about sitting on a banana.

“Nicholas, my man- you wearing fruit would be a redundancy for the ages. And don’t forget your vegetables; from the show I saw you in, I’d venture to say you’ve ever met a cucumber that you didn’t like.”

I giggle into the champagne the garçon has shuttled over. “You dirty birdie, you. Hopefully after I see this paperwork you’ve got, this fruit won’t be all sour grapes.”

I allow him to order on my behalf. It seems to give him great pleasure to be in charge. And while I’ve never had borscht before, I must admit that it tastes better than it sounds. Between courses, Harrigan presents me with a stack of paperwork. There it is: my future— literally in his hands. I look away from the blinding white so he thinks I’m capable of being nonchalant. Meanwhile, my reflux is bringing up borscht along with Danny’s DNA.

“Let’s start with the tour schedule on page forty-eight,” he instructs. “Danny and I have had some moderate success in determining appropriate venues for your show. Some of them are more lucrative than others. For example, you’re going to do better in Provincetown than you will in Philadelphia, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t play both. It’s important for you to build as large an audience as possible. And aside from a few quick stops in Florida, it’s best that we pretend Appomatox never happened; it’s open season for homosexuals in the South and you’re of no use to me in a mortuary drawer.”

I picture myself run through with a pitchfork and happily concede. “Yes, the route seems to be very well-considered.”

He attempts a smile. “If nothing else, we plan to keep you busy.”

When I start thumbing backwards to the sections that address the actual business deal, Mr. Harrigan manages to look even less carefree. Just as Danny had mentioned, there are many Post-It flags where my Johnny Hancock has to go if I want my future to happen. Call me naïve, but for some reason, I thought the document might say my name a couple dozen more times. However, the only formal mention of me is at the top of page one; all other references to my existence have reduced me simply to “Client.” As soon as I sign, as I will undoubtedly do, it will be my responsibility to make money for my agent so he can take a bigger cut than he deserves.

Danny’s name, on the other hand, is featured prominently in a section that uses the percent sign more than it does the letter “r.” “What’s this part about here?” I ask.

“I’m sorry- I thought Danny would have already explained that to you. Nicholas, I must admit that it is with some apprehension that I have decided to represent you. Your act is charming, in its own way, but it is hard to determine your expected profitability. In order to keep the cogs in motion, Mr. Olsen has agreed to forfeit an additional 10% of his producer’s royalty to retain my services on your behalf. All I can say is: he must really believe in you.” 

No wonder that son-of-a-bitch Danny didn’t want to come. Harrigan has as much faith in me as I do in the Republican Party, so my boyfriend agreed to pay him extra under the table. And here I am, flying solo, without the vocabulary to refute. I can’t let on to Harrigan that he’s left me blind-sided. I tell him the first lie that comes to mind. “Yes, of course,” I laugh, poo-pooing my own confusion. “Danny has explained the parameters of our deal at great length. And you’re right- he does believe in me. Now, may I please borrow your pen? I believe my signature is required.”

I finish off what’s left in the bottle of bubbly and garçon drops off the check. There are so few people here that it really is wonder how they stay open. I can’t help but take a peek at the price tag as Mr. Harrigan splays out the corporate AmEx. Our meal alone could keep this place’s power running for a week. 

I throw in a handshake for good measure as I bid Carter Harrigan adieu. With nowhere to go until my act hits the road next Friday, I float to Danny’s office in midtown. I feel like I’m almost somebody when I throw open the door. My handsome man is pleasantly surprised. I drop to the floor under his desk and paw at his belt buckle while I work up the spit to offer thanks.

“Nick, darling, I take that it went well?”

“Danny, my love, it was simply grand. But, please… call me ‘Nicholas.’”

29

ELI

“What do you mean Vallenzino didn’t hire a musical director? It’s bad enough he expects us to perform this show with a canned band, but this really takes the fucking cake. Who does that cheap piece of shit think is going to teach the cast their harmonies?”

Hunter intervenes to protect the innocent Mandy from my serpentine tongue. “Eli, look around you. This isn’t a theater: it’s Fallujah. Is it going to take the roof caving in for you to develop the ability to see the forest for the trees?”

“I agree with Hunter,” Mandy proclaims like anyone asked for her opinion, “except for that part about Fallujah. That’s… a little insulting. But, I agree that the best way to move forward is to take a step back and come up with a plan. Now, let’s think. Do either of you play the piano?”

“We were forced to take lessons in college but they were useless,” I tell her. “A cat walking across the keyboard two days before he’s euthanized is more proficient than the two of us combined.” 

“That’s better than nothing,” Mandy says. “Why don’t the two of you take turns? Hunter, do you want the first shift?”

“Absolutely not. My chief concern right now is getting Vicki Vallenzino to do a box step before Labor Day. I’m pulling her from vocal rehearsal and making her dance until her feet bleed.”

”Fine by me,” Mandy says, “Eli?”

“Since it looks like I don’t have a fucking choice, I guess we have a plan. Somebody tell me all their goddamn names before I go back in there.”

Mandy reports, “Mickey is the handsome one with curly hair, Carolyn is the pregnant one, and Robin is, well, Robin is really something else.”

“He certainly is,” I say. “Okay, let’s synchronize our watches. And—  break.”

Sitting at a piano feels as foreign to me as cooking myself a meal. While our sight signing class at Mackinaw taught me how to read music, it did not teach the ability to be patient with those who can’t. I try not to look intimidated; actors can smell fear.

“Hi, folks. As you might have guessed, they’ve got me wearing a hat that doesn’t fit so well. I’m going to have to ask you to bear with me. Let’s start with the opening of the show. Everyone turn in their score to ‘Mountain Greenery.’” Carolyn and Mickey are already there, ever at the ready. Robin, however, is distracted beyond belief. He rummages through his purse until he produces a large cassette player that I’m assuming he bought back in the late 60’s to take lecture notes during his undergrad at Vassar. Once he has inserted a fresh tape, he gives me the thumbs up that I may proceed.  

“Great, now that I have everyone’s attention, let’s skip the intro since I can’t play it anyway and pick-up at measure twenty-four. Oh, Robin, would you prefer to sing tenor or bass?”

He replies coyly, “I always do better on top.”

“I’ll bet you do, cowgirl. Mickey, does bass work for you?”

“You better believe it. I’ll show that bass who’s boss.” Mickey’s smile is practically phosphorescent. It’s no wonder Hunter nearly fell over his own tongue at the sight of him this morning. From here on out, it’s my responsibility to hate Mickey on that solitary principle alone. 

The pregnant one has her feet up on a folding chair when she asks, “And which part would you like me to sing?”

I turn back around. “Oh, right, there’s more of you. Carolyn- learn the alto part. When we get Vicki back in here, sing whatever notes she’s not.”

“Ay-ay,” she says, as she pulls the pencil from her wiry hair and makes a note in her score. I remind myself to dig through costume storage later. This girl is definitely going to need to wear a wig.

“So, let me try to play your first chord. Let’s see. What key are we in? That’s… hm. Let me remember. You take the circle of fifths and, uh, you carry the two. Then you do the Hokey Pokey and we’re in…” I hit a chord that doesn’t sound entirely wrong. “F major. Bam. Suck my dick, C+ in Diatonic Harmony. Okay, Mickey- this part is you.” I struggle to play a few bars. “And Robin- here you are.” I play and he nods. Carolyn sings her part pitch-perfect without hearing it at all. “Great. I guess let’s see what happens if we try to sing it under tempo from measure twenty-four. And-a-one, and-a-two…”

Robin drags the proceedings to a halt. “I’m sorry- where are we?”

“We’re at the Pocono Show Barn struggling to put on a show. Would you care to join us?” While I idolize his commitment to beaver pelt in July, I would rather sit through a middle school production of
Camelot
than deal with his shenanigans. When he showed up late to our first rehearsal, his name was already signed in the devil’s black book. In my world, he shall remain guilty until proven innocent. Mickey cheerfully points to measure twenty-four in Robin’s score as I strum the chord again. “And-a-one, and-a-two…” 

This time, they sing- metaphorically speaking. In actuality, I’ve heard turtles fucking on YouTube that sound more harmonic. Mickey and Carolyn are accurate but tentative. Robin, on the other hand, seems to be matching the pitch of the box fan that does nothing to stop beads of sweat from pouring down my brow. I don’t know how to admit that one measure in, I already want to die. Instead, I stop playing and smile at them like an idiot. “That’s a great start, everyone. Why don’t we take ten?”