Azalea – 12

The next morning at breakfast, I pressed Aunt Laine on this.  She admitted, grudgingly, that yes, she had suspected Mr. Kersey was who had left me the two envelopes.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

She grimaced impatiently.  “Of course I know him, Donovan.  He lives in my building, after all.  I just haven’t seen much of him in the last several years.”

“But you do see him,” I pressed.

“I do,” she replied flatly.  “He comes and goes.  He’s getting old but he’s not dead.”

“So why the Boo Radley act?” I asked.

She rolled her eyes upward a little, and nodded knowingly at my comparison. 

“Well, I guess, like Boo Radley, Isadore Kersey is a troubled and melancholy man.  He was a man who lived his life largely though movies.  He was more content to watch than participate.  When the theater closed, he really didn’t have much else.  No family.  No other interests.  Just a tiny pension and a tiny apartment here, across the street.”

She took a sip of her coffee.  “Life, unfortunately, just kind of closed in around him.”

I contemplated Mister Kersey’s lot.  Deep in my mind I suspected a truth, but didn’t know if I should voice it.  What the hell, I decided.

She was spreading cream cheese on her bagel.  I rested my chin on one hand and asked, “He was in love with you, wasn’t he?”

She paused for a moment, but did not look up.  Although she maintained careful control over her expression, I could tell she was contemplating her answer.  Finally, still without looking up, she resumed her knife-work and replied, “Yes, I suspect so.”

I contemplated whether to ask the next question, but she saved me the decision.  “I was not in love with him.  Oh, he’s a kind man, a good man.  And in his own way might have been attractive, even.  But he couldn’t compare to Maurice.  No one could, really.”

That morning, after doing the dishes and getting cleaned up, I took Laine on an excursion.  We packed off in the Rolls for the automotive shop in East Atlanta where the car would be converted to run off of vegetable-based fuel.

I had previously spoken with the shop’s owner a good bit about the cost, the availability of the fuel, and other such practical matters.  Laine had called him separately and discussed the environmental ramifications, the socially conscious decisions one made every day in the products they used, and the relative impact of corn futures on fuel prices.  The decision was made to convert the Corniche.

When you drive a Rolls, you become aware of – and ultimately somewhat revel in- the pointing and stares from other cars.  That was on a normal occasion.  On this particular occasion, Laine had decided to put on her fur coat, despite the temperature in the high seventies and a large pair of sunglasses that even Yoko Ono would have passed on as oversized.  She rounded out the ensemble with a Dior scarf wrapped into a turban and fastened with a rhinestone pin.  To complete the effect, she elected to ride in the back seat with a martini as we drove south at a majestic fifteen miles per hour.  We created a controversy all the way down North Highland.

If we thought the stares and gawking we received on the road was impressive, it was nothing compared to the reaction as we pulled into the garage.  East Atlanta, although largely the same vintage as Virginia Highland, was about fifteen years behind in terms of gentrification.  The action in the garage came to complete halt.  While they might have been accustomed to working on luxury cars, they weren’t accustomed a Rolls-Royce with Norma Desmond in the back seat.

 We met up with Phil, the owner.  I signed the work order and handed over the keys while Laine enthused over the how environmentally responsible she felt.

“Environmental activists seldom wear mink,” I observed, dialing Checker Cab from my cell phone.

I heard a chuckle behind me.  A large African American mechanic whose shirt identified him as George smirked and laughed as he leaned under the hood of a Jetta.  Laine, recognizing she had an audience, immediately turned on the charm and somehow seemed to increase in volume.

“Minks are rodents,” she observed.  “They are a totally replenishable resource.  It’s not like I’m wearing California Condor.”

George laughed again and said something I missed because the cab dispatcher answered.  I gave her the address and was assured that a cab would be there in five minutes.

Forty minutes and two calls back, there was still no cab.  Laine, meanwhile had George in near hysterics over her views on environmental extremism, Republican sexual peccadilloes, Atlanta’s archaic sewer system, and how racial politics influences watershed management policies.

I shut off my phone in disgust.  “You don’t happen to know another cab company’s phone number, do you?”

George shook his head.  “Sorry, no.  Where are you folks headed?”

“The Highlands.”

“Tell you what.  I’m about to go on break.  I can give y’all a lift home in the truck.”

I snickered at the image of my mink attired aunt riding home in a tow truck.  Before I could say anything, however, she told him, “Why thank George.  That’s very generous of you.  We accept.”

George excused himself and disappeared into the building to get the keys to the truck.  I glanced at my aunt, incredulously.  “We do?” I whispered.

“It was a gracious offer.  In the south you’re never to good to refuse someone’s hospitality.  It invites bad karma.  Besides, my drink is empty and the sooner we get home the sooner I can have another.”

George pulled the truck around, and Laine stepped up into the cab with all the aplomb of Queen Victoria.

Azalea – 11

The cast wasn’t really rehearsing.  They were more negotiating how they were going to rehearse.  I was invited into the negotiations, which were often extremely intense, to work out logistics.  We didn’t finish the discussions until after ten, at which time I escorted all of them upstairs and sent them on their way.  Once they were outside, I ran back up to the office, grabbed the file folder and switched out the light.  Glancing out the window, I saw the kid who I suspected was the Phantom.  He was across the street, sitting on a park bench that sat in front of the Italian restaurant next to the apartment building, reading. 

I decided to test my theory.  I nonchalantly descended the stairs, extinguishing lights as I went, and emerged from the front doors.  Once I had made a great show of locking the door, I crossed the street, flipping through the contents of the folder, making sure not to look directly at the kid.  I let myself in the front door, laid the folder on the table next to the mailboxes and then made a mad dash downstairs to the garage.  I let myself out the back door, and then snuck up through the unlit side yard, glancing around the corner of the building.

The kid had put his book back into his backpack and was zipping it shut.  He glanced around.  There were not many people on the street, and the ones that were, were not paying attention to the theater.  He nonchalantly crossed the street, and then purposefully strode around the corner into the alley.

I kicked off my flip-flops so they wouldn’t make any noise and then dashed across the street after him.  I actually crossed to the other side of the alley and squatted down in front of a mailbox.  He had not heard me, and was walking past the stage door to the bulkhead doors that led into the basement.  I watched, perplexed, since I knew the doors were padlocked from the inside. 

He reached the doors and glanced around.  Seeing no one, he bent down to one side of the door and lifted.  The door on the left was off its hinges, and he folded it back over the other.  I could see the padlock I had trusted dangling beneath. 

I shook my head, disgusted.  I was so confident in the padlock, it had never occurred to me to check the hinges.  The kid walked down the steps, and lowered the door back into place.  It came down on it’s rusted frame with the same muffled clang I had heard each of the previous evenings.

I stood up and considered what I should do.  I could follow him, but the fact that he was young didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous; quite possibly the opposite.  I considered calling the police, but then thought better of it.  If he was homeless and about to lose his home, he had more than enough problems, and calling the police would only make it worse.

Ultimately, I shrugged, and went back to the building.  I decided that patience was probably the most appropriate course of action.  I walked back across the street, retrieved my shoes, and then let myself back in the front door.  I came to the table in the lobby and stopped short. 

The folder was gone.

Azalea – 10

Miranda had planned to bring the entire troupe to the theater that evening to see where they would be playing.  She wanted them to get comfortable with me and with the theater.  She had never once mentioned that it was an entirely lesbian cast.

I had donned a pair of white cotton pants, a camp shirt and a pair of flip flops for the first cast meeting, which was a bold move in a theater covered in wet paint.  For all the notice I received from the cast, I could have been wearing nothing but pants made out of toast.  As I came across the street, there were twelve women milling around in front of the theater, several of whom were arguing with Miranda.

Jean Kerr once wrote that a “young person who wants to be an actor has an addiction only slightly less dangerous than heroin.”  Having lived in Manhattan, written for a life-style magazine and been married to an agent, I was accustomed to actors.  Indeed, they formed a major part of the backdrop of my life.  Professional actors, especially on Broadway, I have learned, are a different lot from actors who have decided to “make it” in community theater.  In New York, they are “very serious” about their craft.  You know they are “very serious” because they tell you it frequently in tones that manage to convey the quotation marks.

Community theater actors, especially in a town with a thriving arts scene like Atlanta, are no less serious.  In fact, I have witnessed many performers that would have had bright careers if Liv had managed to get her hands on them.  But they are less uptight about it.  Their interests and personalities are broader because they aren’t trying to market themselves as a type.  They get parts or not based on the type they already are.  There is some argument that they are what theater should truly be.

As I came across the street, a smile lit up Miranda’s face and she immediately lost interest in the woman who had been arguing with her.  She held out her hands wide and announced in a loud, dramatic voice, “Ladies, our savior approaches.”

All of the women turned and looked at me.  Even the ones who had been angry the moment before beamed at me, and a spontaneous round of applause broke out.  I paused in the middle of the street, took a dramatic bow, and then hurried across to avoid being run over by an approaching MARTA bus.

I was introduced to the whole gaggle of them.  (I’m not sure if gaggle is the right collective noun.  I know flock and bevy aren’t right.  Chris has always made it very clear the queens travel in a cadre, and a large number of fag hags travel in a hagella, but he’s never filled me in on lesbians.  I must remember to ask him.  But, I digress.)

Anyway, I was introduced to the cast.  Cara would be playing Groucho’s part, Rufus T. Firefly.  Sarah would be playing Chico’s part, Chicolini.  Tara would assume the role of Pinky, originally played by Harpo.  And, of course, Lara would be playing Zeppo as Lieutenant Bob Roland.

“You’re kidding,” I said, laughing. “Groucho, Harpo, Chico and Zeppo are being played by Cara, Sarah, Tara and Lara?”

C/S/T/Lara failed to see the humor in that.

I was also introduced to the other seven leads, whose names were not nearly as interesting.  They all greeted me in various degrees of warmth, or lack thereof.  The chilliest probably came from Kelly, who would be playing Mrs. Gloria Teasdale, the part originated in the movie by Margaret Dumont. 

I opened the doors and led them into the theater, explaining as we went what changes would be made before the show.  In no time at all, Miranda had the cast marshaled on the stage, and they lost whatever interest they may have had in me, if any.  They disappeared through the side door down into the basement, and I was left alone. 

I wasn’t exactly sure what I should be doing at this point.  I couldn’t very well paint in the clothes I was wearing currently, and besides, everything needed to dry.  I wouldn’t be seeing Chris or Rachel this evening.  He was off flying until Wednesday night, and she had to close the store that evening.  I glanced at the stage.  Certainly there was more work to do up there.  Although we had removed most of the garbage, we still needed to get the marquee moved out of the way so that the troupe could begin building the sets.

At something of a loss, and I returned to the lobby, climbed the stairs and went to the front office.  Cleaning these rooms had been my lowest priority.  So apart from throwing away petrified food products and wildlife, there was still a lot of crap about.  I sat at the desk I had claimed as mine, lit a cigarette, and looked around.  I knew, soon enough, that I would no longer be allowed to smoke in the building in order to comply with fire codes and Georgia workplace laws, so I savored the drag on the cigarette.  Idly, I pulled open the lower left file drawer.

The file folders inside predated manila.  They were a dark brown, almost like a glossy kraft paper.  I pulled out a couple to determine if there was anything worth keeping.

Each folder was a file on different film.  Pretty quickly, I was able to determine that the folder in the front of the drawer was the last film shown in the theater, an artsy little porno titled Whores of Babylon.  In each folder was the receipt logging the film in from the distributor, a copy of the shipping receipt for its return, and tally sheets documenting the audience and revenue for each showing during the film’s run.  The meager take of Whores made it pretty clear why the theater had closed.

I pulled the file at the very back of the drawer.  It was still a porno, so I put it back.  I stood up, my cigarette dangling from my lips, walked over to the file cabinet and pulled open the top drawer.  The foremost file was for a showing of Pillow Talk in 1959.  I pulled it out.  The file told a tale of a happier time.  Higher box office takes, longer runs.  As I flipped through the folder, a photo fell out.  It was a picture of the marquee, advertising Rock Hudson and Doris Day’s film.  There, beneath, Laine stood talking to Uncle Maurice.

I carried the file back to the desk and crushed out my cigarette in an old green glass ashtray.  As I studied the receipts in the file, something about the handwriting stuck me as familiar.  At the very bottom of one I realized why.  There, acknowledging the receipt of the film from the distributor was the stylish signature of the theater’s manager, Isadore Kersey.

“So that’s who’s leaving me pictures,” I said aloud.  Laine must have known that.  I quickly dug through the other files, finding many other pictures of Laine beneath that marquee.

At that moment, I heard Miranda call me from the auditorium.  I stuck the picture into the Pillow Talk, folder, and resolved to discuss it with my aunt the next morning.

Azalea – 9

On Monday morning, the serious work of converting the theater into a business got under way.  I first met with the building inspector and came away with a long list of items that would have to be installed, repaired or replaced.  Next came the upholsterer, who left me with a heavy estimate of what new seat covers would cost, and a stack of fabric swatches from which Laine and Clare would pick.

The heating and cooling engineer came and broke the news to me that the air conditioning would have to be replaced entirely, and the warranty had expired sometime during the Eisenhower administration.  And I received a visit from the health inspector with a long list of things I would need in order to be permitted to sell refreshments. 

At lunch, I carried the large sheaf of estimates over to Laine’s and we sat and reviewed them together while she made lunch.  I was taken aback by the amount of money we were looking at spending, almost fifty-thousand.  My aunt shrugged it off.  Yes, it would hurt, she admitted.  But no more so than paying taxes on a property that was moldering into ruins.  She told me to go ahead with everything.

I returned to the theater after lunch.  As I was unlocking the door, a gold Mercedes pulled up and parked directly in front of the fire hydrant that was outside.  I stopped and watched as a tall, leggy blonde in a surprisingly short white leather mini-skirt got out of the car, looked at me, smiled, and said, “I’ll be right back.  Don’t call the cops.”

With that, she was off, walking up the street at a brisk pace.  I chuckled a little, and let myself into the theater, thinking no more about her.  The day was hot, so I left the door open a crack.  I was working alone, painting the left wall of the auditorium.

I had been up on the scaffolding for perhaps ten minutes when I heard a throaty “Hello?” called from the lobby.

Now I, like most northerners, had never known that there was more than one southern accent.  But, after living in the south for a while, I have discovered that a Charleston Battery accent differs from Louisiana Cajun as much as French differs from Mandarin Chinese.  This hello was delivered in the Buckhead accent, an accent that was limited to the native denizens of that wealthy Atlanta neighborhood.  The accent itself is hard to explain.  Almost every word originates in the middle of the throat, and is said with a smile and a slightly clenched jaw.  It sounds very much like Thurston Howell on the old Gilligan’s Island.

“In here,” I called.

I heard the sound of heels striking the floor, and a moment later the blond appeared in the lobby door.  She looked around, saw me, smiled a broad smile with a gleam in her eye, and said, “Oh. Hello.”  She proceeded down the aisle, the sound of her Manolo Blahniks echoing off the walls like gunshots.  “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find the proprietor of this establishment, would you?”

I put down my brush and leaned against the scaffolding.  “I would be him.  How can I help you?”

She cocked her head, still smiling, and winked.  “I think the question may be, how can I help you?” 

I flipped a leg over the scaffolding and slid down the sides.  I turned to shake her hand and introduce myself, and as fast as lightening she had slapped a card into it.

“I’m Talbot Van Hessel.  I’m an account rep for Midtown Wine Wholesalers.”  She looked around.  “Are you, by any chance, turning this place into a restaurant?”

I slid the card into the pocket of my badly paint smeared shorts.  “Why do you ask?”

“Well, this is Virginia Highland. Is anything else financially viable here?”

I laughed.  “Well, I’m hoping a theater will be.”

Her face lit up.  “A theater?  Perfect!  Just exactly what the neighborhood is going to need.  Something to do before or after dining out.  And you, of course, are going to need wine.”

I smiled, crossed my arms and leaned against the scaffolding.  “I am?” I asked coyly.

“Come now,” she replied, making my coyness look shallow and amateurish.  “Of course you are.  What good theater doesn’t have a concession stand?  And what great concession stand in this part of town doesn’t have beer and wine?  It’s a must.”

I hadn’t really considered that, and said so.  I wasn’t even sure we were going to be a theater after the run of Duck Soup finished.  “I don’t know.  I haven’t even considered applying for a liquor license.”

“You’ll get a special event license to start.  Once you’ve been running a show for a couple of weeks, we can apply for a license to serve.  We’ll have to go in front of the neighborhood planning commission, and it’ll be a battle, but ultimately we will win.”

“We?” 

She smiled and shrugged.  “I’m connected, Donovan.  I can help you to navigate Atlanta’s arcane liquor licensing process.”

“And why, pray tell, would you want to do that?”  I have no idea where the pray tell came from.  I never talk like that.

She took a step forward.  “I would do that in exchange for being your exclusive wine distributor.  You buy from me exclusively for three years.”

There was something cunning in her sales approach.  She was not a southern belle, not by a long shot.  She was a different breed of southern woman: one who could dispense with the feminine wiles when she needed to hold her own with the boys.  She had the forthright demeanor of New York women, but without the hard edges.  I couldn’t help but like her.

We talked for perhaps fifteen minutes, and she gave me her wine catalog so I could think about it, and then left just as she was about to get ticketed.  I returned to painting.

By five o’clock that evening, I had a fresh coat of paint on all the walls, and everything trimmed out except the balcony and the boxes.  I was sore, tired, sweaty and very, very dirty.  I also had an appointment, so as soon as I had cleaned the rollers and brushes, I ran across the street, showered and dressed.

At six o’clock the actors were coming.

Azalea – 8

On Sunday, we began painting. Charles, Chris and I succeeded in erecting a rolling scaffolding that we had rented and started with the ceiling. Our intent was to work our way from the top down. Since the air-conditioning still wasn’t working, we opened all of the windows on the second floor and the doors at the back of the stage to try to get some air moving through the theater. Nonetheless the air was still stifling, probably not helped by the number of cigarettes Chris and I were smoking between us, and all of the guys had stripped down to shorts before noon. 

Meanwhile, Clare sewed away diligently on the stage in a tank top and running shorts, and Rachel, wearing cutoffs and a sports bra hauled garbage from the prop rooms and dressing rooms to the dumpster.

To help make things more bearable for my all-volunteer workforce, I had some reggae playing from a boom-box in the balcony and Laine, who was beginning to feel left out, had a steady stream of food and beverages delivered from the neighboring restaurants.

The old curtains had been removed and the movie screen retracted upwards on its roller, so that one could see all the way through the theater. It was early afternoon and the scaffolding had been placed in front of the proscenium. Charles clung to the top, painting the ceiling and Chris and I hung from each side painting the arch. Subconsciously, I suppose, I heard metal clang and I looked towards the open door at the back of the stage. The kid with the backpack that I had seen the previous evening was outside the door. He was passing slowly, subtly looking inside the theater.

After watching him for a moment, our eyes met, and a spark of recognition passed through his. He hurried on his way, but something on a gut level told me he was the Phantom. I finished the section I was painting and leapt down from the scaffolding. Without explanation, I slipped down to the basement. The note had been moved from the sleeping bag, and there appeared to be fewer things down there. I took comfort in the thought that the Phantom would be moving out, and thought no more about it.

Azalea – 7

For dinner, I made chicken lo mein and vegetable pot-stickers using my brand new Peking pan.  We talked and gossiped during dinner, all the while I drank Bacardis, Rachel drank wine and Chris drank martinis.

After dinner, the three of us sat on the floor sorting through the contents of the two envelopes.  Like the one the previous evening, tonight’s held a wide variety of pictures, programs, and sheet music.  It also contained the warranty on the air-conditioning, which I decided to investigate to see if I could get any financial benefit from it. 

The pictures were far and away the most interesting.  There were several of Laine, all taken seemingly from above.  All of us noticed it, and at one point Rachel stood up and carried one to the French doors.  Looking out, she said, “I am willing to bet this one was taken from up here.  The angles are very similar.”

I stood, looked over her shoulder and had to agree.  It was either taken from the bell tower or from Chris’ balcony one floor below.

Chris had stood as well and went to the kitchen to make us fresh drinks.  The booze was getting to all three of us, but it didn’t really stop any of us from drinking.  “So,” he began.  “What are you going to name the theater?”

I dropped back to the floor and lay on my back.  “I have no friggin’ idea,” I replied.

Rachel dropped down on the floor as well and lay with her head on top of my stomach.  “You could always resurrect one of the earlier names,” she ventured.  “I like the Orion.”

“There’s some merit to that,” Chris added as he returned with the drinks.  I caught a flicker of something in his eye as he handed my drink down to me, but I couldn’t tell what it was.  He dropped to the floor as well, stuck a hand under my head and lifted it, sliding his stomach beneath as he rested his head on Rachel’s.  I smiled inwardly as I remembered doing this with friends in junior high and the sensation of feeling someone laugh in the stomach beneath you.

“Lots of the theaters in town have retained their historic names.  The Fox, the Rialto, the Roxy…”

“The problem is,” I replied, “is that I don’t like the names Orion or the Briarcliff.”

“Okay,” he ventured.  “Let’s just play lightening round.  We’ll take turns saying the first theater name that comes to us.  Rache, you start.”

Rachel was holding up one of the pictures that showed Laine, taken during the porno days.  “Highland Art Cinema,” she replied.

Chris tapped my head, “You,” he replied.  His hand remained lightly on my hair.

“Uh, the Helen Hayes,” I replied.

“The Loews,” he said referring to the long gone landmark where Gone with the Wind had premiered.

“Radio City,” Rachel added.

“The Minscoff.”  I was stuck with New York theaters.

“The Gaiety.”

“Graumann’s Chinese.”

“It’s Mann’s now,” I corrected.  “The Schubert.”

“The Schubert Alley.”

“That’s not a theater,” Rachel objected.

“Shh,” Chris countered.  “Just name a theater.”

A long pause.  “I can’t think of one,” she replied.

“Then just say anything.  You’ve got to keep lightening round going fast.”

She struggled for a minute while still studying the picture and then blurted out “DeLaine.”

“DeLaine?”

I sat upright and looked at the pictures.  The DeLaine?  After all, it was her theater.  She was underwriting this whole project.  Why not the DeLaine?

“We could call it the DeLaine,” I mused. 

“She’ll hate that,” Chris said as he propped himself up on one arm to take a deep draught of his martini.

“Maybe you’re right.”  I immediately forgot all about it.

We chatted for a long time.  Neither of them seemed particularly anxious to leave, but I was getting quite tired.  The conversation drifted into Hollywood gossip, and without intending to, I drifted off to asleep.

I awoke suddenly to Chris’ finger gently playing with the hair on my sternum.  He was next to me on the floor.  My shirt was open and he was propped up on one arm, staring at me intently.  It took a moment for me to figure out what was going on, and as the meaning slowly crept into my sleep addled mind, I was aware enough that I must not over-react.

“Where’s Rachel?” I asked.

“She went home about a half hour ago.”

“Ah.  You didn’t?”

He grinned at me.  “I did.  I came back.”

I pulled my hands up over my eyes.  The action of bringing my arm up gently moved his out of the way.  He pulled it back slowly.

I kept my hands over my eyes and said, “Wow, the rum hit me hard.  I think I better head up to bed.”

There was silent hesitation in the room, and I could tell he was calculating whether that had been an invitation or not, so I added, “You heading back downstairs?”

I felt the sexual tension break.  “Yeah,” he replied cheerily.  “I just didn’t want to leave you on the floor.”

I stood up slowly and offered him a hand, which he accepted.  He walked towards the door, and I followed to lock it behind him.  He turned as he opened the door, and his bare foot came to rest lightly on mine.  “Van…” he began.

I faked a yawn, and then said sleepily, “Yeah?”

He smiled.  “Nothing.  Thanks for dinner.” The he leaned in, gently kissed me on the lips in much the same manner Rachel had the night before.  “Night.”  He turned and walked out.

I locked the door behind him, ran my hands through my hair and said to myself, “Y’know, Donovan old boy.  You always hoped you would have an interesting life.  You ought to be writing this down.”

I pulled my shirt the rest of the way off and walked to the French doors.  I pulled them open and a rush of cool air flowed into the room.  I leaned out over the rail, letting the night breeze blow over me.  There, below me, the theater gleamed in the bright light of a full moon that was ascending over Druid Hills.  It was just after two, and the bars had all closed, so the streets were pretty much empty.  On the street a couple of people strolled by, and I noticed one, a kid of maybe twenty, wearing a heavy backpack disappear around the corner of the theater into the alley.  A moment later, I heard the same heavy-metal clang I had heard the night before.  I watched for several minutes, but he never came back around the building.

Azalea – 6

Late that afternoon, my friends excused themselves one by one to go about their evening.  I could only marvel that these people, who had not known me from Adam three months earlier, were giving their time and energy to this project.  It wasn’t until years later that I discovered that the denizens of VaHi are a great, underleveraged resource.  They have more spare time and money than most, are more community minded than most, and are more desperate for a creative outlet than all.  I had unwittingly plugged into that dynamic.

Eventually, it was just Chris, Rachel and me.  Each of us was filthy, but it was possible to see some of the impact we had made that day.  The theater was at least clean and ready to begin remodeling.  We had mostly emptied the new rehearsal hall, and I had moved some bookcases to partially conceal the Phantom’s alcove.  The next day we could begin painting.  There was still much to do to make the stage useable, but I was confident we could get there.

“Let me make you two dinner,” I suggested as we stepped outside the front doors.  “I owe you both.  I really appreciate all you two are helping me to do.”

Chris and Rachel exchanged glances.  “Sure,” they both replied in stereo. 

“Great,” I told them.  “Let me check in on Laine and go get a shower.  Meet at my place in, say, an hour?”

They agreed as we crossed the street, and I sent them on their way while I checked on Laine.

She was sufficiently ambulatory to leave the building and had been dying to go out to dinner, so Charles and Brit had retrieved her and were taking her out.  While she got ready, she had me make us each a cocktail and then sit and regale her with the details of everything we had accomplished that day.  It took almost forty-five minutes before the rest of the family arrived and were off on their way to the latest hip restaurant in midtown.

I climbed the stairs to my place.  As I turned the corner on the deck, Chris was sitting at the other end of the breezeway, his back against my front door, sipping a martini and flipping through a stack of paper.

“What are you doing here?” I asked as he stood up.

“I was invited,” he protested.

“I know, but you are early.  You’re never early.  I suspect your mother carried you for eleven months.”

He ignored me.  “When I got up here, there was the envelope full of stuff in front of your door, so I’m reading it.” 

“Another one?” I asked.  There was no point protesting the violation of my privacy or even the legal sanctity of mail.  In Chris’ world, boundaries were strictly one way.

I unlocked the door, and took the stack of paper from him as we went inside.  I sat it on the counter and flipped through it.  More of the same theater memorabilia.

Chris had showered and had put on a pair of cabana pants and a white gauze Henley that laced up from the sternum to the throat.  He smelled of Contradiction.  As he stood next to me, I was acutely aware that I smelled like sweat and industrial solvents, a fact that he confirmed by asking, “You want me to make you a drink while you take a long shower?”

“Sure,” I replied and left my newest stash of memorabilia to head towards the bathroom.

“What do you want?” he asked as I was pulling off my shirt.

“Bacardi and diet,” I replied as I closed the door behind me.

The shower felt incredible.  For an old building, there was no shortage of hot water.  I sighed happily, and the lights flickered briefly, which I took to be a sign of acknowledgement from our resident ghosts.  Although I didn’t really believe in ghosts, the apartment had a habit of doing odd little things that I decided was easier to attribute to them than try to explain myself.  I had begun referring to them as the Feldmans.

As I was rinsing the shampoo out of my hair, I heard the bathroom door open and Chris pulled the shower curtain aside slightly to hand me my drink.

I thanked him, but something about my face must have conveyed my discomfort because he rolled his eyes.  “Jesus, Van.  You’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before.  Hell, you’ve got nothing I probably haven’t had in my mouth before.”  He pulled the shower curtain closed and stepped back out of the bathroom.

It is probably worth digressing a moment to discuss whether I was comfortable with Chris’ sexuality.  I will freely admit I was not a “man’s man” growing up.  At the prep school I had attended in Andover, sports were the dominant interest, and business or law were the dominant career aspirations for boys.  Although I enjoyed being outside, and wasn’t a bad shortstop, I had little interest in the kind of sports that other boys had.  I rowed and sailed in college, but being more interested in writing, music and theater, I had not been one of the “in” crowd.  Granted, I had been popular enough and wasn’t branded “fag” like other outsiders had been, but I certainly felt some camaraderie with them even if I wasn’t.  I didn’t exactly fit in either.

My best friend in college had been gay, and although he had hit on me once at a party, I had never been in the least attracted to him.  I had occasionally wondered what it would be like to be with a man, but had never been tempted to find out.  Then, when Liv and I had married, I had lost all interest in sex with other people.  Candidly, on her worst days, Liv could make you lose all interest in sex, period.

All in all, being gay never bothered me.  It just never interested me, either.

I took a sip of my drink.  It was unbelievably strong.  One of the interesting things about flight attendants I have learned is that most of them are terrible bartenders.  If the liquor doesn’t come prepackaged in mini bottles, they have no idea how to measure it out.

I finished my shower, dried off and wrapped a towel around my waist.  As I came out of the bathroom, he was sitting on the couch, sipping a fresh martini and flipping through the papers from the previous night.  “Looks like quite a lot of memorabilia,” he commented as I padded up the stairs to the loft to change.

“Yeah.”  I felt a little foolish being self conscious in front of him, but was self-conscious nonetheless.   I quickly dropped the towel, pulled on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a baseball jersey.  As I descended the stairs, he smiled mischievously at me and said, “You’re cute when you’re bashful.”

I was saved from answering by a knock on the door.  He went to let Rachel in.

Azalea – 5

The next morning, I was over at the theater early to see if I could catch the phantom.  I knew Rachel would kill me if she found out, but I was obeying the letter of my promise if not the spirit.  It wasn’t night. 

I slipped in the front door and silently crept down the aisle to the stage.  Then, letting myself through the door to the side hallway, I crept along the wall in the dark until I reached the stairs that descended to the basement.  Taking a deep breath, I crept down, feeling my way with my hand until I found the door.  I reached inside and flipped on the light, hoping to gain the advantage by surprising him.

There was no one in the nook, although things had been moved and the sleeping bag was missing.   I looked around the basement again, but was unable to find whoever was living down there.  I occurred to me that they may be elsewhere in the theater and I had now, effectively trapped myself.  If I found myself killed, Rachel would have the right to be pissed at me.  How stupid.

I walked authoritatively to disguise my sudden nervousness and returned to the front of the building as quickly as possible.  I went running and then returned to the ‘Hurst to make Laine breakfast.

Although Laine was becoming able to take care of herself, she had made it clear that she liked being cooked for and so I kept it up.  Typically, each morning she was waiting for me when I came in, and while I made her breakfast, she sat at the dining room table and read the Atlanta Journal-Constitution.  This particular morning, an article in the Metro section held her attention tightly.  I had tried several conversation starters, but none of them really took.  It wasn’t until I sat the eggs benedict down in front of her that she looked up at me, smiled brightly and said, “The Rolls runs off of diesel, right?”

“It does,” I replied as I sat down across from her.

“Good.” She took a bite of her eggs.

“Why?” I asked as I began to cut an English muffin.

She swallowed her eggs and took a sip of coffee.  “I want you to take it in and have it converted to run off of vegetable oil.”

I paused with a bite hovering right in front of my mouth and stared at her.  “I beg your pardon?”

“There’s a place in East Atlanta that coverts diesel cars to run off of recycled vegetable oil.  I want to convert the Rolls.”

Despite having held my breakfast in stasis while waiting for clarity to arrive, clarity failed to do so.  Therefore, I allowed the muffin to resume its course.  Around my mouthful of food, I informed her, “Okay, that’s an interesting opening gambit.  Explain, please.”

She informed me, “Well, apparently this place converts diesel cars so that they run off of a mixture of vegetable oil and eth..eth…”

“Ethanol,” I replied, cutting another bite.

“This says the vegetable oil is recycled from deep fryers at fast food restaurants.  It’s totally natural, and a completely replenishable resource.  Plus, you get to drive in the HOV lane because it’s an alternative fuel.”

I took a sip of my coffee.  “So if it runs off of old fryer oil, I suspect we’ll crave French fries every time we get a whiff of exhaust.”

“Nonsense,” she said dismissively.  “How often do you actually smell your exhaust?”

“Ironic comment considering that we live in the city with the worst air quality in the southeast.”

She ignored me again.  “I want you to call them and have them give us an estimate of how much it will cost to have the car converted.”

Obviously Madame was serious.  “Well, the issue is that there aren’t ethanol-and-veggie-oil stations everywhere in the country.  You’ll limit the Rolls to driving in Atlanta.”

She folded down the paper and stared at me sardonically.  “Van, the Rolls is made out of stainless steal.  It gets about seven miles to the gallon.  I don’t plan to drive it to the west coast anytime soon.”  She laid the paper on the table and took another bite of her breakfast.  “Besides, it’s reversible.  So if you’re worried about the condition it’ll be when you inherit it…”

My fork clattered loudly where I dropped it on my plate.  “Jesus, DeLaine.  How could you say something like that?”

She looked up, startled.  “What?”

“I’ve never thought about an inheritance.  Christ, is that why you think I’m here?”

“No darling, of course not.  But surely you realize that you and Brit are really the only family I have.  All of this will be yours one day,” she gestured broadly.   “Such as it is.”

It had never occurred to me that I might inherit all of Laine’s empire, and I briefly considered what in the world I was going to do with thousands of ceramic salt-and-pepper shakers.  Laine, sensing that she had stepped on a nerve handed the paper across to me.

“Don’t be mad.  Here, read the article.  I think it is actually a very responsible thing to do.”

I accepted the paper sullenly and read the article.  Reluctantly, I had to concede, it did have a certain allure.  I promised her I would call them later that day.

Since it was Saturday, I had the full benefit of everyone in the building waiting at the theater to help out.  Well, apart from Laine and Mister Kersey of course.  All of them, even Christopher, were milling around in front of the theater at ten o’clock waiting for me to let them in.

They went immediately to their tasks.  Clare and Mac had joined the cadre.  Mac had signed up for tracing and labeling the wiring in the building so we could get a sound system working.  Clare, in the meantime, had shown up with her sewing machine and thirty or forty swatches of material.  Clare was, in addition to a professional flautist, a frustrated decorator.  She was forever offering to “do my colors” for the theater.  She planned on making new stage curtains herself, which was no small undertaking.  I spent much of the morning looking at swatches with her, along with a large number of paint chits.  We decided to paint the theater in the same gray with silver metallic trim that it currently sported, so we opted for deep, royal blue curtains with silver piping and a maroon pongee dust ruffle on the bottom.  To be truthful, I had no idea what pongee was – or a dust ruffle for that matter – but she seemed psyched by the concept so I went along with it.

When I finally got Clare off to get the fabric, I found a minute to disappear downstairs.  The basement was empty, although the sleeping bag had returned to its spot next to the rack.  I looked around, but my guest did not seem to be in residence. 

On a whim, I took one of the notebooks off the shelf and opened it.  I briefly considered reading it, but that seemed like a violation of privacy of someone I’d never met…even though he was living in my basement.  Instead, I flipped though the notebook until I found a blank sheet. I ripped it out, pulled a pencil out of my back pocket and wrote a note out to the Phantom.

 

 

 

 

Dear Sir:

 

As you may have noticed, we are in the process of restoring the theater.  This space that you are living in is about to become a rehearsal hall.  As such, it would probably be in your best interest to find other accommodations.   

 

Rehearsals are due to start next week.  Thanks for understanding.

 

All the best…Donovan Ford

 

 

 I sat the note on top of the sleeping bag in a way I was sure he couldn’t possibly miss it, and went about my business for the day.

Azalea – 4

Around eleven, after I sent them on their way, I took a glass of wine and went and sat out on my balcony.  I watched the theater for a few minutes, trying to identify where and how someone was getting inside.  No one stealthily climbed up the drainpipe and let themselves in through the vent stack.  

About thirty minutes later, there was a knock at the door.  I leaned back inside, but before I could call out to whoever it was, the door opened and Rachel let herself in.  She was carrying a bottle of wine and a rolled up magazine. She was barefoot, wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms and a camisole.

“Hey,” she said, as she crossed the room.  “I forgot to give this to you earlier.”  She handed me the magazine.  I was the latest copy of Manhattan Gothic.

“Thanks,” I said,  Then, indicating the wine added  “And, that?”

She smiled shyly.  “I was having a hard time sleeping so I thought I’d see if I couldn’t entice you to have one more glass of wine.”

I held up my nearly full glass.  “I’ve got one, but feel free to pour yourself one and come join me.” 

She went to the kitchen, retrieved a wine glass, filled it with the modest malbec that she had brought, and came over to join me.  Since the balcony is only a French balcony, barely more than a rail running in front of French doors, she sat on the floor in front.  We talked of minor things, while I kept an occasional eye on the theater, watching for the phantom.

I asked her if she had read my column…well, Michael somebody’s column under my name.  She had not.  I flipped the magazine open and, after ensuring my name was still on the masthead, flipped back to my traditional spot, just aft of the full-page Bacardi ad.  My name was still on the column, but my face had been dropped.

“And so it begins…”

“And so what begins?” she asked.  Her hair was beginning to need relaxing, and she worried a curling lock that was brushing her neck intensely.

I explained how I expected to lose the column this month.  In fact, I was sure it had already been promised to Michael somebody, and the publisher and editor were trying hard to figure out what to do with me.  “I suspect, sometime late next week, I’ll get the call telling me they’ve ‘decided to go in a different direction’ and offering me an occasional feature spot.”

Mercifully, Rachel knew enough about the world of publishing that she did not try to soothe me with empty protests that surely they wouldn’t let a brilliant writer like me go.  Brilliant writers, alas, are not that hot a commodity, much less uninspired ones.  Instead, she took her index finger, the one that had teased the wayward curl into an angry kink, and began to stroke it down the top of my bare foot.

The gesture, I’m sure, was meant to be soothing.  It was anything but.  I don’t mean to imply there had never been any physical contact between us.  We had begun to hug chummily, and she more than occasionally punched me.  (Actually, “frequently punched me” is probably a more accurate description.)  But this gesture was just ambiguous enough to draw my attention more to questioning the intent than being soothed.

It actually triggered quite a rush of emotions in my brain.  Liv and I had not slept in the same bed since we separated over a year earlier.  Although I dated occasionally during the separation, I had been chastely faithful until we both agreed that it was probably better to divorce.  Then followed a period of about four months that could only be described as revenge sex.  Although I had never tried the trick before, I experimented with what all columnists knew.  A promised mention in the column was frequently good for meaningless sex.  I had abated a bit during the holidays since they were leading up to the divorce, and I had been largely celibate since, what with an aging aunt to care for and an insane idea of restoring a theater. 

There had not, however, been a relationship since Liv.  There had not even been sex with a person I cared about.  I was very much aware that I had not rebounded.  Now I was receiving a totally ambiguous signal from Rachel, someone who I had begun to think of as a very close friend in a very short period of time.  And, while I had to admit she was incredibly sexy, I also had to ask myself if I needed a friend more than I needed a lover at that moment.

I was fortunately saved from having to decide what to do at that moment by the sound of metal clanging from across the street.  It had not been particularly loud, but in the suddenly intense silence of my apartment, it sounded like a gunshot.  I jumped up and leaned out of the doors, scrutinizing everything about the theater.  Rachel got up and looked with me.

“What was that?” she asked.

I continued to study the theater.  There were a couple of people walking on the street, but nothing really moving.  I could see no one on the roof, nor anyone moving about the doors.

“I dunno,” I replied.  “I thought maybe it was our houseguest, but I don’t see anything.  Do you?”

She studied for a long minute and said “No.”

“Maybe I should go over and see if they are there,” I ventured.

She put her hand on top of mine where it rested on the rail.  “Don’t do that.  If you think they are there, call the police.  Don’t go inside yourself.  It could be a crack den for all we know.  They’ll shoot you.”

I smiled.  “A crack den with textbooks?”

She did not smile back.  “I’m serious.  Promise me you won’t go over there tonight.”

I smirked.

“I mean it, Donovan.  Promise me.”

“Okay.  Not tonight.”

She sighed, satisfied.  She reached down, picked up her wine and drained what was left in the glass.  Whatever moment that may have almost happened was not going to happen now.  “Hate to tell you,” she said walking back inside, “but there is worse news than losing your column.”

“What’s that?” I asked, following her.

“Aidan McInnis is coming to town.”

I stopped and stared at her.  “So?” I said, hopefully nonchalantly.

“So, he’s doing a book signing at the store at the end of the month.  He just published another book and is out promoting it.”

An old, clammy jealous feeling washed over me.  I wasn’t proud of it.  I shrugged.  “Aidan is part of Liv’s life, not part of mine.  Who cares if he comes to town?”

“Well you better be nice to me,” Rachel replied as she crossed the room and put her glass in my sink, “Or I’ll bring him to find you.”

I followed her to the door.  She opened it, then turned and gave me a small, chaste kiss.  Her lips tasted a little of the wine and I could smell the warm, nutty fragrance of her.

“Sleep well,” she said, and was out the door.

I didn’t have the energy to contemplate what might or might not have happened that night.  I closed and locked the door behind her.

Azalea – 3

The next morning I showed the papers and pictures to Laine. She did not know who would have had them or who would have left them for me, but something about her demeanor didn’t convince me. She did confirm that it was indeed her pictured in front of the theater in the one picture.

Laine had been up most of the night thinking about what she had committed us to the previous evening. She gave me a budget to handle the major issues like carpet, paint, and repairing or upgrading the systems. While I was not empowered to spend lavishly, I could at least get it habitable pretty quickly.

Once my daily chores around the building had been completed, I ran across the street and purchased a large double shot latte, and then went to rouse Chris. I knew he was flying a pretty easy schedule that month that gave him weekends free and so I planned to recruit him into the project. Even though he was not particularly handy, he could still cart and carry and clean and paint.

I pounded on his door several times before I heard him yell, “Who is it?”

“Me,” I called. “Go away.” At that point, I figured I could push the envelope of super-tenant relationship a little, so I unlocked his door. “Wake up,” I called in. “I need you.”

I heard a heavy sigh from the back bedroom. I let myself in and went to his bedroom door. He was splayed across the bed, nude, with a sheet barely covering his butt. “Seriously,” I said. “Get up.”

He rolled on his side. Flight attendants, as a rule, are not big on modesty. “What?” he asked in a mixture of irritation and resignation.

“We’re going into the theater business.”

He stared at me for a long minute, trying to decide what his reaction was. Curiosity won out over agitation. He pulled his cigarettes off his night stand and got up to go pee. “Give me a minute.”

He emerged from the bathroom a moment later, now with a towel wrapped around his waist and accepted the latte’. “Okay, I’m listening.”

I explained the entire situation I found myself in. Although I couldn’t describe him as a willing volunteer, he grudgingly agreed to help. His participation secured, I left him to get dressed and went immediately across the street to the theater.

Charles and Brit met me there and together we began to lay out a plan of attack for getting the theater up-to-snuff. The troupe needed rehearsal space, so our highest priority was to get the stage and auditorium cleaned up and presentable. While we were working on that, we could clean out the basement and they could hold rehearsals there until the stage was ready to be occupied. Once Chris arrived, we divided forces. Brit would get to work painting the restrooms. Chris and Charles would begin cleaning out the basement. I would find contractors to get the air conditioning fixed, and then arrange to have the sprinkler systems checked.

I laid claim to one of the offices upstairs and sat down to work with my newly recharged cell phone. By four o’clock, I had not only lined up the contractors I needed to come out and provide estimates, but I had also made appointments to get a bid on re-carpeting the auditorium. I was beginning to turn my attention to trying to figure out how I would get a couple hundred seats reupholstered, when Chris and Charles appeared at my door.

The theater had grown stuffy in the hot midday and both of them were bare-chested, sweaty and grime covered. Much to my surprise, Chris was not complaining about the physical labor. They waited patiently until I got off the phone. As soon as I pushed the end call button, Charles said, “You probably need to come downstairs and see something.”

Perhaps it was his British accent that made is sound sinister so I asked, “It’s not a dead body, is it?”

He chuckled. “No, not a dead one. A live one perhaps.” I crushed out my cigarette and followed both of them back downstairs. As we entered the basement, I was impressed by how much rubbish they had removed. They had also uncovered many things that they had elected to leave, including an old, battered leather chesterfield sofa and some sturdy metal cabinets that might be good to hold costumes.

Charles led me to a small alcove that they had discovered while moving the metal cabinets. It was directly under the ticket booth. Inside were perhaps ten milk crates, all stacked neatly three high. In a couple were clothes, neatly folded. In others were a few six-packs of sodas, some crackers, a few cans of spray-cheese, a box of Pop-Tarts and a box of cereal. There were also a few bowls and some plastic silverware. On top of the rack were some textbooks, notebooks, a couple of candles and a lighter. A sleeping bag was neatly rolled up and leaning next to the shelves.

I turned and exchanged glances with Chris and Charles. “It would appear we have a boarder.”

“Do you think they’ve been here recently?” Chris asked, a little uncomfortably. I checked the expiration date on the Pop-Tarts. It was several months in the future. “

Yep. Possibly very recently.”

“How do you suppose they got in here?” Charles asked. We all looked around. There was nothing readily apparent. There was a bulkhead entrance that opened to the parking lot behind the building, but I knew it was padlocked. I even walked over, and pulled on the lock and it was still secured. In fact, it was so rusty I imagined I would have to cut it off.

I turned back to the guys. “No idea. Maybe through the roof?”

After a long pause, Charles ventured, “Should we, um, throw this person’s stuff away.”

That would, of course, be the logical course of action. However, something about the meager collection of personal belongings spoke to me. “Not yet,” I said. “Let’s figure out who he is first.”

“How do you know it’s a he?” Chris asked. I pointed to a pair of jockey shorts half folded over in one of the crates. Chris ventured, “You don’t, uh, suppose he’s still here, do you?”

We all glanced around. In the long, ensuing silence, no one moved. All of us listened intensely. There was no sound save our own breathing. If our guest was in there, he would have been a fool to have moved. He wasn’t in there.

“Well,” I said. “Let’s leave our phantom’s stuff alone right now. Let’s get everything else cleaned out. Maybe, when he sees we’re on to his lair, he’ll relocate someplace else.”

The level of energy was pretty intense that afternoon. As soon as Rachel got off of work, she was included in the story and pressed into service as well. Brit, much to my amazement, took my Jeep and returned with several sheets of sheetrock, which she then proceeded to hang, finishing the walls that divided the coffee house and the ice-cream shop.

“When did you learn to do that?” I asked her incredulously.

“That summer I spent with dad after the divorce,” she said more lightly then the comment deserved.

Our parents’ divorce had been particularly contentious. It had surprised everyone as my otherwise mild-mannered and polite mother had sweetly leveraged her role as the woman scorned to litigate one hell of a divorce settlement. (Years later, she would give Laine credit for her transformation during that period by teaching her the “southern art of passive-aggressive womanhood.”)

Anyway, Dad’s affair had rallied Brit and me around our mother. However, while I tried to emotionally separate myself from the whole scene, Brit could not help but feel sorry for my father. She saw a once successful lawyer lose his home, his family and much of his wealth. I would hardly have described him as a tragic figure; he still had his law practice and his girlfriend, Ansley, who had graduated two years ahead of me from the same high school. But, Brit saw him as broken. So, when he bought a rundown row house in downtown Baltimore, Brit had spent a lot of time with him, helping him renovate it. At least, until she was so fed up with the non-stop inane drivel coming from Ansley that she had gone back to Mom, never to return. It was nice to see that she had at least gained a skill for all the heartache.

Meanwhile, in the auditorium itself, Rachel had managed to get most of the tattered upholstery off the chairs. She had worn enormous rubber gloves while working on them to avoid the “genetic remnants of porn audiences.”

The interesting thing was, although the work was hard, hot and dirty, we all had a ball. All of us came out of the theater at ten that evening, sweaty, filthy and babbling happily about what we were going to do the next day. Both Rachel and Chris separately asked me to go get dinner. Instead, I invited both up to my apartment and made them Chinese. They were both polite, but I sensed maybe just a hint of tension between them. I decided I was flattering myself, and that Clare was full of shit.