Dogwood – 11

 

Later that evening, I begged off going out with Rachel and Chris.  I didn’t know if one or both of them had a crush on me, and truthfully I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to deal with that at the moment.  I had a quiet dinner with Laine during which I repeatedly answered concerned queries about why I wasn’t out with them.  In a vain effort to distract her, I tried to get her to tell me more about the theater’s history, but she didn’t seem to be interested in answering questions about the past.  I could also tell she was tired from our outing earlier.  Her physical therapy had been much more strenuous this week, and I attributed her vagaries to exhaustion.  I put her to bed and went out to walk.  I started towards the theater out of habit, but forced myself to walk past it into the heart of the village.

Few restaurants or bars can survive in Atlanta’s temperate climate without some form of patio or deck, and with warm weather after two weeks of rain all of the city seemed to be dining al fresco.  As I walked past George’s patio a crouton bounced off my head.  I turned to see Clare, Jennifer and Miranda all smiling at me innocently with barely concealed laughter.  I bent down and retrieved the crouton from the ground, sauntered over to the rail running around the patio and leaned across it, holding it out to the three of them. 

“Ladies…by any chance might one of you be able to explain this projectile to me?”

Behind the wide-eyed mock innocence, I could tell that at least two bottles of very mediocre merlot had been consumed.  I leaned down, placed my elbows on the rail and folded my hands beneath my chin, waiting expectantly.  The three of them exchanged glances and suppressed laughter, each expecting the other to come up with some witty bon mot.  None was forthcoming.  Perhaps it was three bottles of merlot.

After a long moment, I ventured.  “Let me tell you what I think.  I think one of the two of you,” I pointed at Jennifer and Clare simultaneously, “pointed me out to Miranda.  But, either you couldn’t get my attention or didn’t try, so Miranda lobbed the crouton at me, thinking that maybe it would stimulate some action on the part of the other two.”

The three of them stared at me wide eyed and dumbfounded.  Finally Miranda broke the silence.  “Wow!  How did you know that?”

I shrugged.  “Secret superhero powers.”

“That was amazing,” she said.  “You could be like a detective or something.”

I held out my hand, and she shook it with a painfully firm handshake.  “Hi Miranda.  I’m Van.”

“Hi.  I’m Miranda.  Well, you already know that.”  She took a sip of her wine.

“Seriously Van.  How did you know that?”

I shrugged again.  “What can I say?  I know the two of them.”

“Not for that long,” Clare ventured.

I gave her what I hoped was a dazzling smile.  “Some things don’t take that long.”

“You know,” Miranda observed.  “I suppose we could invite you to actually join us rather than just make you stay on the sidewalk and watch us drink wine.”

I accepted the invitation and hopped the fence.  Generally, fence-hopping is frowned upon at most dining establishments, but not George’s.  It’s just that kind of place.  Within moments a wineglass was procured and I was toasting them.

“So,” Miranda said flashing a dazzling smile and pale blue-green eyes at me.  “It has become readily apparent to me that the only thing these two have in common to talk about is you.  I hear you are restoring a theater.”

I smiled and gave a sidelong glance at Clare.  I was getting an inkling that Clare found all writers romantic, and anything we did became heavily romanticized.

“I’m not sure I’d say restoring it quite yet.  Cleaning it might be a better description.”

We began discussing the Atlanta theater community, and I quickly learned that Miranda was a rather widely sought-after director among Atlanta’s non-profit theaters.  I knew several directors in New York who were professionals, but I had never met a professional director who made a living by working in community theater.  I was mesmerized.

So, let’s cut to the chase, shall we?  An hour later, the merlot drained, I was unlocking the theater to show it off to Miranda with Jennifer and Clare in tow.  As we toured, I recapped the same conversation I had had with Clare earlier about the theater’s relative merits and faults.  Miranda listened, but also refuted several of them.

“I don’t know, Donovan.  I can see your concerns, but I know several theater troupes that would love to have this as a home.  The stage might be small, but most community theater troupes aren’t staging Forty-Second Street.  Most of the shows in town right now could be adapted to this stage.”

“Ah, well there’s the rub,” I replied sitting on the stage, rather proud of myself for inserting a Shakespearian reference.  I pulled my cigarettes out of my pocket.  “The property is worth an awful lot to turn over to a community theater.  With what rents are in this town, I kind of owe it to my aunt to ensure that the property is profitable.”

Miranda came over and took the cigarettes and lighter away from me before I could light one.  “Never smoke in the theater itself.  The smell lingers forever and actors and actresses will sabotage every show unconsciously because they hate the smell.”

She sat next to me and continued.  “The problem, Van, is that you are confusing the profitability of the venue with the profitability of the troupe.  If you give control of the stage to a theater troupe then, yeah, you are never going to make a dime off of it.  However, if you keep control of the stage, then you can run a for-profit theater.”

“How can I do that if I don’t have a troupe.”

She sat and pondered for a second.  “It’s not unheard of.  I know of a for-profit troupe in San Francisco that has moved from space to space.  They’ve been running one show for over thirty years.”

“Thirty years?”

She nodded.  “Yeah.  It’s called Beach Blanket Babylon.  It’s an ongoing musical revue that celebrates and parodies San Francisco.  I’ve only seen it once. It involves hundreds of giant hats and a Mister Peanut costume.  Anyway, they are performing on a stage not much larger than this one.  The only problem is, do you want to run the same show for a hundred years?”

“Well…”

“What you might want to do is let a theater troupe rent it temporarily, but not make it anyone’s permanent home.  That lets you get shows running in here, but still gives you the flexibility to decide what you want to do with it.”

I was silent for a long time.  Miranda looked at her watch.  “Well gang, I’ve got to get home.  Look, Donovan, think it over.  If you decide you want to do it, let me know and I’ll get you hooked up with a couple of options.”

I promised I would think it over. 

And then it was May.

Dogwood – 9

The next day, I finished up all my usual chores and routines as quickly as possible. Laine also had a nice little stack of rent checks piled up with a deposit slip. I gathered them all up and walked across the street to the bank to deposit them for her. I slipped each into the deposit envelope, counting to make sure I hadn’t dropped one as I walked. They were all there, but I paused on the one signed I. Kersey. It was written in elaborate, old-fashioned script on a plain blue check. I momentarily wondered about him. Was he an international man of intrigue, or just a crazy old coot locked up in his apartment? I began to construct a story in my head about him being both.

When I returned to the building, I gathered a couple of boxes of big garbage bags from the basement and went back across the street. I thought, if nothing else, I could at least start throwing rubbish out. I started in the lobby picking up everything on the floor. Mostly it was newspaper, broken sheet rock, cups, and really, really old porn magazines.

It took about an hour to fill up three trash bags and carry them out to the dumpster behind the theater. (After filling it up, I would later discover that it was not the theater’s dumpster. The coffee house made it pretty clear that I was not to use it again.) I found a broom in a janitor’s closet by the men’s room and was able to sweep up. By the time I was done, I had the lobby and box office, if not clean, at least clear.

They would also be the easiest part of the building to clean up.

Before I could do any more, Clare and Mac knocked on the front door. I went and let them in. Clare was carrying a bottle in a bag. She handed it to me as she walked in, exclaiming, “Happy theater warming!”

I blinked, surprised. “Um well, wow. Thanks. You do realize I’m just cleaning it.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “That’s what you think, sweetie. Per Laine, you are turning the building into something.” She took a step inward, followed by Mac, and gazed around the lobby appreciatively.

“Wow,” she said looking down at the terrazzo floor. “This must have been beautiful.”

“It still is,” Mac replied. “They left it intact in the coffee house. Maybe under the carpet in the flower shop as well.”

I had not realized it, but the floor was indeed still intact in the coffeehouse. I suddenly felt like I had accomplished something. I have no idea why.

I found myself showing Clare and Mac through the theater. I gave them the abbreviated tour – happily discovering I had an abbreviated tour – focusing on the auditorium, backstage, and the balcony. When we had finished, we returned to the stage and stood in front of the silver screen. Clare was talking about the possibilities for the theater, and again reiterated the potential for renting such a place out to local theater companies. At that moment, Rachel and Chris entered the theater noisily, and I realized I had forgot to lock the door when I came in.

“What are you guys doing here?” I asked. “I thought you would be at the festival.”

“We came to help you clean up,” Rachel announced.

“Really?” I asked, looking at Chris with disbelief.

“Hey, I clean,” he protested. “I just don’t like manual labor.”

As I sat pondering that, Clare suggested we open the champagne they had brought and toast the theater. (Conveniently, they had also brought cups.)

The five of us sat on the stage, sipping the champagne and discussing possibilities of what the theater could be. I hadn’t expected to be entertaining. I was glad I cleaned the lobby.

Once we had toasted the theater, the Dogwood Festival, spring and each other, Clare and Mac made their way back to their apartment. Rachel and Chris looked at me expectantly. “Ok,” she asked. “Where do we start?”

“Well, I just finished the lobby. My intent was to do the building from front to back, then clean out the basement.”

“So which is next? The auditorium or upstairs?”

I looked around. “The auditorium I guess. It’s mostly just clutter.”

We got up off the stage. “Hey,” Chris asked, “is the water on?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Why?”

“Need to use the restroom.” He started towards the edge of the stage, but I stopped him by laying my hand on his arm.

“Go across the street,” I advised.

“Why? You just said the water’s on.”

“Have you ever been in a porn theater restroom?” I asked.
It took a moment, but the look of recognition slowly spread across his face, quickly followed by a look of disgust. “Ewe. Even the ladies’ room?”

I nodded.

“I’ll go across the street. Be right back.”

Once he was gone, I turned my attention to the curtains. As soon as I pulled each one down, Rachel pulled it into the center aisle and folded it up. Beneath each we revealed blue walls with silver panels and wall sconces that were still in great shape. The whole place needed a paint job. By the time Chris returned, we had managed to get them all down.

The next day, I rented a dumpster.

The three of us met at the theater again after work. We carried all of the rubbish and garbage out of the auditorium and the balcony. I had retrieved a few tools from the basement of the ‘Hurst. As we were standing on the balcony, on a whim, I handed Rachel a crowbar. She looked at me blankly. “What do you want me to do with this?”

I looked past her at the wall dividing the “white’s only” portion of the balcony from the rest. She followed my gaze as I said, “Anything you want.”

A grin crossed her face and she walked over to the wall. Most of the seats had long ago been removed from the balcony, so she had largely unobstructed access to it. She tentatively tapped the wall with the crowbar. All of a sudden, the smile disappeared from her face, she swung the crowbar back and then, with a force I never would have expected she was capable of, she let out a primal yell and swung the bar into the face of the wall. Plaster exploded outwards and lathe cracked beneath.

She continued to smash away at it, often using her bare hands to break down the lathe and the two-by-four supports. Chris and I were forbidden from even picking up the pieces, so we left her to her personal mission and began working in the front offices. Here there were more pieces of memorabilia. Nothing really valuable, mind you, but things that merited looking at and saving. I began cleaning out one of the desks while Chris emptied a closet. The smell of mildew was overpowering.

We worked mostly in silence until I hear Chris mutter “Well, holy shit.”

“What?” I asked as I gingerly relocated a mummified mouse from the desk drawer into the wastebasket using a pair of pencils like chopsticks.

He emerged from the closet holding a chrome-framed, lighted sign, similar to the exit signs in the theater. On the milk-glass panel, stylized art deco letters spelled out Colored Entrance.

I could only stare at it. It was hard for me to reconcile the elegant craftsmanship of the fixture with the ignorance of its message. “What do you want to do with it?” Chris asked.

I took it from him and found a way to open it. I gently slid the lettered glass panel out and laid the fixture itself on the desk. With him in tow, I carried the sign out to the balcony.

The wall had been broken down to its sill plate. Rachel, covered in grime and plaster dust, knelt on the floor, carefully selecting large pieces of the broken plaster and placing them in a plastic garbage bag.

As we came in, she glanced at me over her shoulder and said, “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m taking souvenirs. It’s kind of like my own, personal Berlin wall.”

“Nope,” I told her. “I don’t mind, but if you want souvenirs, you may want to take this.” I held out the glass sign to her. She stared at it with an expression that conveyed both sadness and distaste. Reluctantly, she took it from my hands and stared at it for a long time.

“Chris, do you have your phone?” she asked, without looking up.

“Yeah,” he replied, taking it from his back pocket.

“Take my picture.” She turned and held up the sign. He obliged, snapping the shot twice. As he started to put the camera away, she informed him “Keep shooting. I’ll tell you when you’re done.”

Chris continued to snap shots as she picked up her crow bar. She gently tossed the sign into the air like a softball, and then expertly swung the crowbar around like a bat. She hit the sign squarely, shattering it with a spray of white glass. Chris caught the shot at the moment of impact.

As the shrapnel settled she looked at him triumphantly and said, “Now you are done.”

Dogwood – 8

Once we were inside the park, we visited Brit’s booth on the way to Oak Hill, where the symphony would be performing.  At Brit’s direction, Charles had brought Laine to the park to work the booth with her.  Brit was having a great time, and had moved a lot of inventory.  Laine was having a marvelous (if slightly lubricated) time herself, selling paintings, sipping Manhattans and generally engaging in charming conversations with anyone foolhardy enough to step into the booth.  Charles looked bored, but in that politely engaged manner the British use to mask their boredom in courtesy.

“How have sales been?” I asked Brit.

“Marvelous, darling.  Marvelous.  I might well sell out before the end of the festival.  Auntie Laine is a natural at selling art.”  She came closer and said in a softer, more conspiratorial tone, “To be honest, she has talked up my pedigree way beyond what is even plausible, but hey, it’s moving canvas.”

I smirked.  “I’m sure that’s just the manhattans talking.”

“No doubt.  Who cares?  I’m up almost twelve thousand dollars.”

“Wow.”

She glanced over her shoulder.  “Do me a favor, darlin’?  Take Charles with you to go hear the symphony.  He’s a love to sit here and be supportive, but he’s also bored out of his mind.”

“Sure thing,” I told her and we separated.

Laine rolled herself over to me.  “So, how was the theater?”

“How’d you know we went over there?” I asked.

“I watched you two walk over almost as soon as the utility company left.  So, was it better or worse than you thought?”

I said “better” as Chris said “worse” simultaneously.  We exchanged glances and laughed.

I briefly told her what we had found, and then asked her, “Laine, we found the old marquee, but there was no name on it.  Do you remember what it’s name was?”

She rolled her eyes upwards, trying to remember.  “It had a couple of names.  I think the last one was something like Adult Arts Paradise.”

“Not the porno days.  The original name.”

I saw a glimmer in her eye that was quickly extinguished.  “No, I don’t.”  She looked around and noticed a potential customer and quickly rolled off to sell him argyles across lavender and ochre.

“Hey Charles,” I said, “We’re heading over to hear the symphony.  Want to come join us?”

A flicker of hope passed through his eyes, but then he glanced at Brit.  “Oh, I should stay here and help out.”

Brit spun around, “Oh Charles, you’re sweet.  But we’re fine.  Go.  I know you would you enjoy it.”

“No, no, I’ll stay here.”

“No really, I’m fine.  Go enjoy yourself.”

“God, young love is nauseating,” Jennifer announced and walked towards the next booth.

After another volley, it was decided Charles would join us.  The five of us set out towards Oak Hill.

I had been appalled by the amount of stuff that Rachel and Chris had had us bring.  We had a blanket, candles, five bottles of wine and more food than I typically ate in a week.  Sadly, when I saw how others were picnicking, I realized we looked like poor relations.  There were small tables, low chairs, citronella torches, silver candelabras and ice buckets.  “Atlantans never lose that ol’ southern grandeur.” Rachel explained as we spread out the blanket.  “I once had a sociology professor tell me that it was a characteristic of a conquered people to hold on to whatever elements of pride or glory they could.”

“But that’s over a hundred years ago,” Charles observed as he kicked off his sandals and dropped down onto the blanket.  “No one here is a conquered people.”

“Ah,” She replied as she dropped down next to him and kicked her shoes off as well.  “Doesn’t matter.  They created the culture.  By and large everyone who comes to the city afterwards is indoctrinated to it.”

The five of us spread out our picnic and poured wine into small wineglasses Chris had managed to sneak off an airplane.  We toasted each other. 

As the symphony filed onto the stage, the crowd began to politely applaud as best they could with their hands full of wine glasses and canapés.  We were able to make out Clare as she and the other flautists took up their positions.  Down in front we could see Mac.

The symphony played a wide variety of tunes, from Mahler to Mercury to Lloyd-Webber.  We listened, gossiped among ourselves, and drank wine.  During the intermission, Charles pumped me for every detail about the theater.  I was more than happy to oblige. 

Right before the concert resumed, Mac came by.  We called him over and he sat down and joined us.  We exchanged the usual pleasantries about the concert, and then Mac reported that Clare had told him about the theater.  I happily repeated everything that I had just finished telling Charles.

Towards the end of the concert, Charles excused himself and walked back across the park to rejoin Brit and Laine.  It was time to shut down the booth and Laine would be getting tired.  The four of us finished the last bottle of wine.  It was dark as we folded up our stuff and wandered back towards the ‘Hurst.

Dogwood – 7

This time we walked to the park.  It was a beautiful spring evening, and we sipped our cocktails from plastic tumblers as we walked up Virginia.  Even at this distance you could hear the sounds of music floating over the neighborhood from the festival’s different stages. 

We wandered aimlessly from booth to booth.  Even though I had already scrutinized them with Laine earlier, seeing it with the two of them was like seeing it all new.  Since we were all a bit buzzed from the cocktails, we were also not above quietly making fun of the things we thought were hideous.

The three of us settled on the lawn in front of one of the stages and listened to some mellow jazz while the sun set and the lights in the high-rises surrounding the park flickered to life.  I reflected on what a charming, easy lifestyle this was.  It may have been the drinks or the music, but I felt a surprising wave of affection for these two people I had only known for a month or so.

The next morning, I tried to run but my splitting hangover made me think better of it.  I returned to the apartment after just a mile, and got cleaned up before going in to make breakfast for Laine, who remarked approvingly on my appearance.

As we sat over breakfast, Laine informed me that she had called Georgia Power the previous afternoon and instructed them to turn the power on in the theater.  “They said they should have it switched back on today.”

“On a Sunday?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“What did you have it turned back on for?” I asked, smearing cream cheese onto my bagel.

“Why not?  It’s only a few bucks a month, and if this place seems to talk to you, then at least you should be able to walk around there safely.”

I began to protest.  “It doesn’t talk to me…” But, she held up a hand to silence me.

“Donovan, maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t.  I wouldn’t mind if you cleaned it up while you were trying to decide if so.  But, the fact of the matter is, this is the first thing you’ve shown even a remote interest in since you’ve been here.  In fact, I suspect it’s the first thing you’ve shown an interest in in a very long time.  If you have an interest in it, at least go explore it.”

I wanted to argue with her, but I was more shocked and appalled that she had stumbled on the truth.  I had just been putting in time since, well since I don’t know when.  Certainly since my divorce.  Possibly since Olivia and I had been married, and maybe even since my mother had died.  I could only stare at her for a long time, until at last I could muster, “Laine, what am I going to do with a theater?”

“I don’t know Donovan.  The larger question is, what are you going to do with your life.  I don’t mean to be critical, but you’re thirty-five.  Isn’t it about time you decided how you are going to make a difference?  I don’t know if the theater is your answer.  But it’s as good a place as any to start looking.”

I confided all of this in Chris later that day as we were wandering through the grocery.  He and I had been assigned to put together a picnic dinner for that evening for the four of us to have while listening to the symphony in the park.

Chris was uncharacteristically silent as I prattled on about the fact that I would soon be losing my column, I didn’t know what to do with the rest of my life, and a wide variety of other angst that would have been more characteristic of someone having a midlife crisis.

I had finally reached a stopping point as he was placing an absurdly expensive wedge of chevre into our basket.  He asked quietly, “Van, why is this bugging you so much.  Certainly you know you are not the only person in the world in his thirties to still be wondering what he wants to be when he grows up.”

“No, I know I’m not. But I guess I always wanted to make a difference and I don’t think I do.  I always wanted to feel like I was someone important,” I replied as I added a box of fried chicken.  “Are you living the life you wanted to live?”

He wouldn’t make eye contact with me, but replied quietly, “No, of course not.  Very few flight attendants do.”

“Well, you see that’s the same thing.  Why do you continue to do it if it’s not what you want?”

He spun on me very suddenly, and I could see something blazing in his eyes I couldn’t recognize, but had definitely never seen there before.  “Look, Donovan.  Here’s the truth of my world.  No one becomes a flight attendant with the idea that they are going to do it forever.  They get in with the idea that they will do it for a year or two, see the world, and then go start their real life.  The problem is, pretty quickly, you’re trapped.  You’re making more money than you can if you go into an entry level job, and you don’t have the skills or the job experience to jump into another job and before you know it, you’re thirty-five and being a flight attendant has become your real life.”

The passion in his voice was not something I ever would have expected.

“The difference between us,” he almost spat, “is that there is nothing standing in your way.  You have no obligations, and you have the desire to do something.  So start doing it.”

He was trembling.  Then, as abruptly as the mood came, it went.  His normal, semi-bemused look dropped into his eyes like a curtain coming down, and he asked me brightly, “Instead of fried chicken, what would you think of getting a sushi platter?”

Later, as we pulled into the building’s parking lot, I noticed a Georgia Power truck pulling away from the theater.  I said something mundane to Chris, and we parted company on the stairs.  I hurriedly climbed the stairs to my place, deposited the groceries in the kitchen, and bolted back downstairs two at a time only to find him waiting for me in the lobby.

“You think I didn’t see that Georgia Power truck?  I knew you wouldn’t wait to go over there.”

I was surprised he would be interested and said so.  “Hey, if this is where you are kicking off your search for your new life, I want to be there.”

We crossed the street and I let us back into the lobby.  Although I didn’t see her at the time, I later learned that Laine was watching us from her apartment balcony, basking in the glow of the gift I had no idea she was giving me.

The lobby was as it was before, except that the exit signs now glowed a dusty green over the doors.  I found a light switch by the door to the ticket booth and switched it on.  A few bulbs in the deco sunburst on the ceiling sprung to life. 

“Where do you think the switches are for the house lights?” Chris asked as he crossed the floor to the auditorium doors.

“Probably up in the projection room,” I replied and walked past him to the staircase.  Another switch illuminated a series of silver deco swags hanging in the gloom above that I had not noticed the first time through the theater.  I climbed the steps and entered the projection room.

I hadn’t really looked in here on my other sojourns through the theater.  All I could tell was that it was ankle deep in garbage.  As I switched the light on, though, I discovered that the garbage was mostly old movie posters.  Even though the ones on top were for pornos, I stepped over them gingerly to the projection window.

The projector had been shoved aside, and the light controls were on a table next to it.  I studied them briefly, trying to decipher the label-tapes caked in dust.

From below I heard Chris call, “Did you find them?”

I leaned out of the projection window but couldn’t see him below me because of the balcony.  “I did,” I replied.  “Ready?”

“Ready.”  I placed my hands on the three rheostats and turned them all the way to the right quickly.  Nothing happened.

I glanced back down and realized I had missed the switch labeled “Master Power.”  I punched it and the lights in the auditorium blazed to life.

I had to blink as my eyes adjusted, but it slowly came into focus.  I was transfixed for a moment.

“Well?” Chris asked.  I glanced downward and saw that he was standing in the lower aisle, smiling up at me broadly.  “You coming down or what?”

I bounded back down the steps and burst into the auditorium.  The stained glass panel over my head glowed merrily, if somewhat dimly, and as I emerged from below the balcony, I could see a larger matching one in the ceiling over the main auditorium was also lit.  I stopped below the balcony edge and surveyed the room.  Despite the leakage stains in the ceiling, despite the torn and dry-rotted curtains on the wall, and even despite the seats, threadbare and stained with God-knows-what, it was impossible to miss the compact grandeur of the place. 

It had not been a large theater in its day, although it was sizeable compared to the long, narrow strip-mall cinemas they build now.  Ten seats spread out to each side of the center aisle, and progressed downward for fifteen rows.  Narrow side aisles wound back against either wall.

I took a step forward.  Chris had already mounted the stage and stood staring out at the seats, smiling absently.  I walked towards him.

On a whim, I crossed over to where the curtains angled inwards towards the stage. 

“What are you doing?” He asked.

I grabbed hold of the curtain, bundled them together and then pulled downward hard.  The dry-rotted curtains tore away from where they had been nailed up and collapsed on top of me.  I dug myself out, sputtering and coughing from the cloud of dust they released, while Chris laughed from the stage.  When I emerged I was greeted by the sight I hoped to see.  The box at stage left, now revealed, had all of its deco grandeur intact.

“I need to tell you right now,” Chris warned, “that if you are planning to make a dress out of those drapes, the gag’s been done to death down here. Plus, it’s not your color.”

I yanked down the curtains at stage right and revealed the other box.  Some of the plaster ornamentation at the front was cracked, but all still there.

We wandered back stage.  With every light switch, we discovered things that we had not noticed the first time.  The stage had actually been designed as a working stage.  It was small, but still useable.  There were a couple of rooms off each side of the stage that may have been intended as shops or dressing rooms.  It was hard to tell with the amount of crap stacked in them.

We also discovered the way down to the basement.  There was a hallway running from the stage back to the front of the building, running just below the one we had found on the second floor.  We had missed it the first time around because the door was partially blocked.  We found that it led to a staircase leading downwards under the main one.

“We’re not going down there, are we?” Chris asked, nervously.

“Why not?” I asked, switching on another light switch.  A bulb hanging from a wire at the bottom of the steps flickered and then stayed lit.

“I dunno.  Rats. Dead bodies. Rats.”

“You can stay here.”

I descended the stairs with him following, reluctantly.

We discovered the furnace room, the water heater and a huge room underneath the stage.  The walls were stacked granite; you couldn’t see the floor.  Again, it was filled with rubbish.  Interestingly, some of it was recent rubbish.  Most of the stuff lying around the building was obviously very old.  But we found chip bags and fast food wrappers that could have been from the last few years.

“Well, someone’s obviously been down here.” I observed, picking up a fairly recent Doritos bag.

“Let’s hope they aren’t still down here,” Chris said, glancing around nervously.

I walked over and tried to switch on the air conditioner.  High above us, we heard a high pitch shriek of metal grinding against metal.  I quickly turned it back off.

“Well, no a.c. for us,” I observed.  Although the basement was cool, I knew the upstairs would quickly become sweltering in the Georgia springtime heat. 

We made our way back to the stage and were preparing to start upstairs when I noticed a glint of metal in the corner.  I walked to where I saw the glint, pulled back some boxes and found the first major treasure we would discover in that building.

“What is it?” Chris asked, coming up behind me.

“I am willing to bet this is the old marquee.”  I was staring at four white glass panels, outlined in gleaming brass styled to match the ticket booth.  I dug beneath and found a panel of light bulb sockets.  It would have not been a big marquee, but it was still a find nonetheless.

Upstairs, we walked into each of the small boxes beside the stage.  They had long ago been stripped of their seats, and one of them creaked alarmingly when I stepped onto it. 

“How in the name of God are you ever going to afford to fix this place up?” Chris asked incredulously. 

“I dunno,” I replied as we started towards the front of the theater.  “Mostly, I imagine I’ll do the work myself.”

He stopped behind me cold.  I turned to look and see what was wrong.  “Yourself?” he asked, his voice dripping with horror.

“Sure.  Why not?”

“Van, this is more than putting a railing up around a deck or fixing a light switch.”

“How would you know how much work it is?” I asked laughing.  “You call me for everything in your apartment short of drawing your bath.”

In the front offices, there were these seemingly indestructible Steelcase desks and chairs that may have been original to the building.  Film reels moldered on one of the desks.  On another was a stack of unpaid invoices next to an ashtray holding a petrified cigar stub.

Chris glanced at his watch.  “We need to go.  Rachel will be looking for us.”

Reluctantly, I agreed and followed him out.  We retraced our steps everywhere except the basement, switching off lights as went.

Jennifer and Rachel were waiting for us on the deck.  We hastily changed clothes, threw the picnic into a rolling cooler that Jennifer had, and walked the ten blocks back to the park.  As we walked, Chris and I told them about the theater.  We kept it up nonstop for six blocks, despite the fact that Rachel made it very clear she was put quite out with us for not waiting to take her as we explored it.

Dogwood – 6

We didn’t discuss it anymore that evening.  We had to go retrieve Brit and move her artwork to the park, and then spend many, many hours arranging and rearranging and rearranging so it fit her thoughts about what had the best fung shui for a good sale.  It was well over midnight before I got home.  Sweaty and exhausted, I collapsed into bed and thought nothing more about the theater.

 The next morning, I went for my usual run and then went about my morning routine quickly, trying hard not to think about the theater.  There was absolutely no reason for me to think about it because doing something with it made absolutely no sense.  I kept repeating that to myself right up until early afternoon when I was loading Laine into the Rolls to take her to the park.  Although I could have probably pushed her wheelchair down to the park and back, I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary.  Plus, it was an opportunity to drive the car, something I never tired of.

“So,” Laine asked as she tied a scarf around her head, “What did you think of the theater?”

I closed the trunk over the wheelchair and came around to the driver’s side.  “It looks like it was masterpiece, once upon a time,” I replied, noting that there was too much enthusiasm in my voice.

“It was,” she said as the car started with a rumble that was the audio equivalent of an erection.  “I wish we could get some use out of it.”

I didn’t take the bait and we drove on to the park. 

It was a gorgeous day out and we chatted about nothing in particular until we reached the park.  I helped her from the car into the wheelchair and then wrapped a wool blanket around her legs.  She primly tucked her thermos of Manhattans under the blanket and I pushed her into the festival.

We spent a pleasant afternoon moving from artist booth to artist booth, with Laine acquiring art at about one out of every three.  I had attached a cup holder to her chair, which held my beer, and Laine sipped her Manhattan as we rolled along. 

By three, we had made one complete loop of the park, and I had deposited about thirty-five hundred dollars of art in the trunk of the car when Laine announced that she needed to make a second circuit.  Even though I had no idea where she was going to put the art we had already acquired, apparently there were two or three items that she still wanted to consider.

When we had rolled past Brit’s booth the first time, she had been busy with customers.  This time as we rolled by, she recruited us to come in and monitor the booth while she went to the restroom.  Say what you will about Atlanta’s arts community; they find it hard to say no to an eighty-year old woman sitting in a wheel chair sipping a cocktail.  By the time Brit had returned, Laine had sold three pieces for about five hundred each and was busily negotiating with a fifty-something matron from Dunwoody over a fourth.  They settled somewhere in the seven-fifty range.

Once the deal was sealed and my sister’s largest painting was on its way to a Dunwoody dining room, Brit announced, “So, Charles tells me you’re going to fix up the theater.”

“You are?” Laine asked, eyebrows raised over her cocktail.

I shrugged.  “Charles seems to think it is important for my soul to try to rescue the theater.”

“I see.  And is it?”

I tried to vocalize half a dozen different denials, but could not.  All I could say was, “I dunno.”

She stared at me appraisingly for a long moment.  “It might well be.”

“There’s nothing about it that makes sense, and truthfully, I don’t have time to do it.  I don’t even really know what I would do with it.  Besides,” I added, “I’m going home soon.”

“Well, yes,” she acceded, “ but if nothing else, just getting the place cleaned up might help it rent.”

We could take the conversation no further, as one of Brit’s argyles-over-a-still life paintings had attracted the attention of another customer, and Laine was pressed into service to negotiate.

I returned Laine to the ‘Hurst later that afternoon, and then went upstairs to knock out a little bit of writing.  I unexpectedly found Chris on the deck, working on his tan and chatting with Clare O’Toole.

Even though I didn’t know her very well, Clare intrigued me.  She was probably in her mid forties, with dark, dark hair that she wore in a simple pageboy.  She had hazel eyes that just sort of lit up when she spoke, and a deep chesty-alto voice that was both rich and serene at the same time.  Almost everything I knew about her, I had learned while fixing one thing or another in her apartment.  I knew, from seeing the diploma that hung in her dining room while replacing a light switch that she had graduated from a college in Ohio with degrees in music and math.  I knew, from an overheard phone conversation while I replaced her ceiling fan that she disliked most of the soprano section in the symphony chorus.  I knew, from repairing her refrigerator that she had a near fanatical obsession with bread.  I knew, from meeting her husband, that she was attracted to intellectual but slightly goofy guys.

“Donovan,” Chris greeted me.  “Come sit with us.  Or, better yet, make us drinks and then come sit with us.”

Clare looked at Chris, clearly shocked, “My God. You’re awfully demanding for a flight attendant.”

“It’s because he’s a flight attendant that he’s like that, Clare,” I explained.  “By the time he gets back to us, he’s used up whatever stock of charm he has on the plane.”

“I’m glad you understand me,” Chris said, opening his bottle of sun block.  “I’ll have a greyhound.”

I rolled my eyes.  “Clare, can I offer you a drink?”

She smiled brightly and my heart fluttered.  It would be easy to have a crush on her.  “Sure.  Glass of wine?”

I nodded and ducked into my apartment.  I glanced at my laptop, sitting expectantly on my desk, and ignored the pang of guilt.  Instead, I poured her a glass of wine.  I had no idea why Chris thought I could make him a greyhound since I hate grapefruit juice and never buy it.  I just poured him a glass of vodka over ice, poured one for myself, and carried them back out onto the deck. 

He took a sip of his drink and nodded approvingly.  “Good.  Hate to give over glass space to too much grapefruit.”

I sat down across the table from Clare, who thanked me for her wine.  “So, Chris was just telling me you all went and explored the old theater.”

“We did.”

“What’s it like on the inside?”

“Filthy,” Chris replied, flatly. 

It’s hard to tell,” I told her.  “I mean, you can tell it was once a show piece, but the power was off so you only can get a sense of the place.”

“It’s really too bad no one’s ever found a use for it.”

I repeated Laine’s story about how it only really lent itself to a nightclub, which she agreed no one wanted in the neighborhood.

“Why couldn’t it be a theater again?”

I shrugged.  “Is there a need for a theater here?  There are three cinemas within a two miles.”

She shook her head.  “Not a cinema.  A theater.”  She explained that Atlanta was a big theater town.  There were dozens of ensemble troupes, improv comedy groups and professional companies in town, many of whom shared performance spaces. 

“This is a big theater town,” Chris agreed, his only contribution to the conversation.  He held his empty glass out to me and smiled imploringly.

Clare finished her wine.  “I better get going.  I’m meeting Mac at the festival.  Are you coming to the concert tomorrow?”

I nodded.  “All of us.”

She placed her glass on the table, expressed her hope that I would show her the theater one day, and made her way back downstairs.  Chris jingled the ice in his glass, still smiling.  I sighed, took the glass and went back inside to refresh his drink.

Chris was beginning to occupy an odd niche in my life.  He was extraordinarily high maintenance and flakey, but I found I truly enjoyed his company.  There was nothing sexual between us, but he filled some empty companionship role that I had once thought Olivia would occupy.  She never did.  Jennifer had begun to refer to him as my non-sexual lover.

I ignored my laptop again and returned to the deck.  I kicked off my shoes, pulled my shirt off and joined him soaking up the sun.

We were silent for a time, during which I studied the deck.  I was somewhat proud of my handiwork.  The rail was a mixture of wood supports and railings with wrought iron stiles.  While living in Manhattan, and I had always thought I would be good with my hands, but had little opportunity to try it.  I was pleased to know I had been right.

I stood up, lit a cigarette and walked to the edge.  Standing at the rail, I looked down into the light well that separated the front and back apartments.  The area at the bottom was weed choked.  I had removed the old, broken lawn chairs that resided down there.  It cried out for something else.  If I connected the deck to the fire escape, then all the apartments would have access upward to the roof as well as downward to the yard.

“What are you thinking about?” Chris asked.  I turned around.  He had lit a cigarette and had been watching me appraisingly.

“Oh I don’t know,” I said, leaning back against the rail.  “Building stuff mostly.”

            He smiled at me.  “You’re digging this manual labor gig, aren’t you?”

            I shrugged.  “I guess.  It’s nice to discover that I’m good at something.”

            The stair door burst open right then and Rachel emerged, home from work.  “Ugh!” She said in exasperation, regarding us.  “I hate it when you two start cocktail hour without me.”

            Chris gave her a slightly mincing look.  “Cocktail hour waits for no man…or woman.”

            Rachel came over and handed the newest copy of Manhattan Gothic that I had asked her to pick up for me.  As I wandered off to make her a drink, I flipped it open to my column.  My name was still on the byline even though I hadn’t written it.  I hadn’t written any of the columns in months, and I had heard they had replaced the guy who was previously ghosting for me with a new, young staff writer.  Michael somebody.  This was his first column. 

            I was reading it as I returned to the deck.  I handed Rachel her drink and she thanked me.  I replied absently, continuing to read.  Michael somebody’s style was somewhat different from mine.  It was edgier, and peppered with more of the hip lingua franca of the lower east side.  My style was geared more towards the Village.

            He had reviewed two night clubs that had just opened in Chelsea, a gallery opening in the Flat Iron District, and attended a show that was still in try-outs in Scranton, but on it’s final approach to Broadway.  He gave good, balanced reviews but as I read through it a third time, I could sense the unabashed enthusiasm he was bringing to his job.  He loved everything, even the show in Scranton that I had planned on avoiding because I thought it sounded like a dog. 

There was a passion and joy to his writing that I knew had been missing from mine all through the last year of my marriage. 

And that’s when I knew that the magazine would be giving my column to Michael somebody.

I can’t say the realization surprised me.  In fact, it confirmed something I had been thinking for a while. Namely, that reviewing clubs and nightspots and happenings was a young man’s game.  I had reached the point in my career where I should be creating something of substance.

I knew how it would happen; I had seen it happen to other writers before me.  My editor would call me into a meeting.  They would offer me a different assignment.  It would not have the visibility of my column, but would be an acceptable place to camp out while I decided what the next focus of my career needed to be.  Some writers were able to use that role to transition into a different genre.  Some camped out there for the rest of their lives.  Some never recovered from the shock.

I was roused from my reverie by Rachel.  She had asked me a question that I had not heard.  What she had asked was if I was ready to head back to the park.

Dogwood – 5

The next week was a busy one.  Since so many of the neighbors had taken to visiting the deck on the roof – actually, Aunt Laine and Mr. Kersey were the only exceptions – I went ahead and built a sturdier railing around the periphery.  After all, more than a fair amount of vodka and tequila had been consumed up here recently.  There was no sense inviting disaster. 

Meanwhile, that weekend was the Dogwood festival, and much of the building was preparing for it.  Jennifer would be working extra shifts at the bar since a large number of people from the suburbs would be coming into town for it.  The symphony would be playing in the park during the festival, so Clare was coming and going all hours with her flute from one rehearsal or another.  Rachel and Chris were planning which of the related events we would and would not attend.  Brit was busily producing last minute works of argyle to display in her booth.

Laine continued to mend.  We would be taking her to the park on Saturday, her first outing in about twelve weeks.

I didn’t visit the theater that week, but I found myself staring at it often from my balcony in the evening when I should have been writing.

Thursday evening found Charles and I in Piedmont Park setting up Brit’s booth.  Piedmont Park is a masterpiece of city parks; over a hundred acres of lawns, woodlands, and pathways interspersed with athletic fields, tennis courts, and botanical gardens.  A large city pool sits on the shore of a pond in the center called Lake Clara Meer.  (Interestingly, it appears there never was a Clara Meer, since no one knows why it’s called that.)  It reminded me of Central Park, albeit cleaner, brighter, safer and without traffic.

The evening was a warm, clear and slightly humid night.  The park was doing its part for the festival, as the dogwoods were a riot of blooms all up and down the hillsides.  The festival would be much larger than I had anticipated.  Artist booths lined the paths around the athletic fields and the pond, probably two miles in circumference.  There were stages and food courts set up in three different areas of the park.  Everywhere you looked, someone was establishing some form of commercial enterprise.

Brit had rented one of the plastic nylon booths and delegated the setup to Charles and me.  She was still back at their house busily repacking the art she would be bringing.  I must admit that, although I love my sister, I had always missed having a brother.  I was finding that Charles would be quite an acceptable substitute, even though I questioned his sanity for marrying into our family. 

He had, however, surprised me when he showed up at the ‘Hurst to pick me up.  Charles always looked like he had been mugged by Brooks Brothers.  Suits, button-downs, tassel loafers.  I suspected he even owned a cravat.  I was therefore totally unprepared when he pulled up in my Jeep (which he had borrowed the previous evening) wearing a tank top, denim shorts and flip-flops.  (Conversely, I’m sure the fact that I was attired in much the same manner came as no surprise to him, since that is what he usually saw me wearing.)

Charles was a year older than me, but because he was British, he seemed much older.  Or, more worldly at least.  For those reasons, I assume I projected higher expectations on him than maybe was appropriate, because I was shocked to discover that, mechanically, he was totally inept.

“You should worry about my contribution in this venture,” he shrugged as he handed me two support poles he couldn’t latch together.  “Why do you think people get Ph.D.s?  It’s because, unlike you, they have no useful skills.”

I chuckled a sardonic little chuckle and showed him how the poles fit together.  “I don’t now that I would say I have many useful skills.  Being a writer is only useful if you are successful.”

Perhaps there was something in the tone of my voice, because he gave a concerned look.  “Well, I was referring more to the fact that you know how to do things, like build a porch or fix a leak.  That said, is there some reason you don’t feel successful as a writer?”

1. Good bean that he is, Charles listened intently the entire time, but never ventured false sympathy or protest.

My litany of woe ended with me explaining that “I would have thought, by thirty-five, I would be able to point to some accomplishment I felt proud of.”  We were pulling the fabric over the frame by that point, so I couldn’t see him.  As I was tying down the tarp to footers, I realized he was standing above me instead of doing the same thing on the other side.  “You need to tie down your side,” I told him.

“Got it.  Van, after we’re through here.  Would you show me this theater you mentioned?”

“Sure,” I told him.  “Why?”

“Well, I’m just wondering something.  I’ll explain when we get there.”

We finished shortly after, and the sun was starting to set when we drove back to the building.  We parked and walked directly across to the theater.  (I had put its key on my keychain.)  Inside, I took on him on the tour, pointing out features and discussing how I thought it must have looked or worked.  He followed me around obediently, listening to everything I said.  About an hour later, we had completed our tour and were sitting on the stage, illuminated only by the ambient glow of the flashlight.

I had been discussing something when I noticed Charles was staring at me intently.  “What?” I asked him.

“Van, have you been listening to yourself?”

“Yeah.  I was explaining how someone should pull down the curtains and restore the walls.”

“Yeah, you were.  But you’ve been full of ideas and opinions about this place the entire time we’ve been walking through here.  This place has you totally animated.”

“So?”

“So?  I’ve not seen you animated about anything since you got here.”

I shrugged, again indicating, so?

“So, this place represents something to you.  You said it yourself; you might be projecting your own feelings of unrealized potential on it.  So do something about it.”

“Like what?”

It was his turn to shrug.  “I don’t know.  But if this place represents your own feelings of failure or inadequacy, quit staring at it.  Toy with it.  Look, no one is going to rent this place.  It is going to just sit here and rot.  It’s paid for.  There’s no reason you can’t make something out of it.”

“But what could I do with it short of turning it back into a theater?”

“Why not turn it back into a theater?”

“And do what with it?”

“Who knows?  Maybe nothing.  Maybe rent it out.  Maybe start your own theater troupe.  Quit over analyzing.  You do not realize unrealized potential unless you start doing something.”

I started to protest.  “I dunno Charles.  I’m only going to be down here a couple of months and I’m supposed to be working on the book…”

I stared at him for a long moment.  He was smiling broadly.

“Quit looking for reasons not to try.  You know you want to tackle this place.”

“Sure I want to tackle it, but for what?  I don’t even know what it needs.”

He stood up, walked towards me and laid a hand on my shoulder.  “You now the nice thing about unrealized potential Van?”  I shook my head no.  “If it’s unrealized, then it can still be realized.”

I could only stare at him. 

He shrugged again.  “Why not?” he said.

Why not, indeed?

Dogwood – 4

The three of them returned.  Rachel carried a backpack stuffed with cheeses, crackers and a summer sausage.  Jennifer had two thermoses of martinis.  Chris brought a bottle of suntan lotion and a new club mix cd, and was horrified to discover that the car had nothing more than an AM radio.  They all piled inside and off we went.

 

An hour later we were seated on a small beach on Lake Allatoona just below Red Top Mountain, talking about life.  Well, Jennifer and Rachel were talking about life.  Chris and I were mostly smoking cigarettes and listening. 

 

Well, Chris was listening.  I was mostly thinking about the theater.

 

“So here’s a question for you,” Rachel asked as she cut a piece of summer sausage and meticulously placed it on a cracker.  “When you think about the person you were at twenty, how much of that person is still alive now?”

 

No one answered.  A deep, contemplative silence ensued.

 

Who had I been at twenty?  I turned twenty during the summer between my sophomore and junior years at Dartmouth.  My parents had divorced during the previous year and things were just too weird and tense in Baltimore.  So, instead of going home, I had taken a job as a tour guide with a company that led bicycle tours through France.  (I hadn’t started smoking back then.)  It had been a great job.  Twenty miles on a bike each day through the French countryside, good red wine in the evenings, Paris on the weekends. 

 

Of course, that had nothing to do with who I had been, per se.  I was pretty enthusiastic about everything back in those days.  Life had seemed like one great adventure.  I had dreams of myself as a renaissance man.  I was going to be a great writer or journalist.  I was going to move to Manhattan and write cutting edge works about modern society.  My life in those days was rooted in the creative. 

 

At twenty, I was someone who had laughed often.  At twenty, I was someone who was up for any idea, any creative venture.  At twenty, I was someone who took risks.

 

And at thirty-five?  I was writing a column that I was truly too old to write about a social scene I was rapidly aging out of.  I had not written one damn word I had been proud of in years.  Truth be told, I was more proud of the fact that I could rewire a light fixture or repair a toilet than I was of my work.  I was also a refugee from a failed marriage, living off a small trust fund, who couldn’t remember the last time he took a chance.

 

Oh, let’s be honest.  I was a man who had deliberately chosen not to take chances since college.

 

Worse, I was not a man who laughed often anymore.  Laughing was banal.  My job had been to be a hip and sarcastic observer.

 

Holy Christ! I thought to myself.  When did I become this person?  It was as if I began a midlife crisis at that moment.  I realized Rachel was watching my intensely, waiting for me to answer.

 

“I’m not sure,” I admitted.

 

“Really?” Rachel asked.  “Why not?”

 

“I’m not sure I remember who I was at twenty.  I know I don’t know who I am right now.”

 

She stared at me intensely.  I smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

 

“Well,” Chris interjected.  “I still have the same boyish good looks and charm I had at twenty.”

 

Rachel turned her attention towards him.  “So, you were prematurely graying even back then?”

 

He threw a small block of Colby at her.  It bounced off her forehead and landed in the sand.

 

We spent several hours at the lake.  Occasionally we would wade in, but the water wasn’t really warm enough for us to stay long.  Mostly, we just talked and joked and told stories.  Since I was the designated driver, I got the added pleasure of watching the three of them get sloshed.  They mostly slept on the long drive back home.

 

The days were getting longer, and the sun was still high and bright when we arrived home at six.  The three of them all disappeared upstairs into their apartments.  I checked on Laine, who had spent the day with Brit, and then left her apartment with every intention of going upstairs to get cleaned up.  Instead, I found myself crossing the street, heading right back towards the theater.

 

I let myself in and stood in the door of the auditorium for a long time.  I felt the same sense of melancholy that I had experienced the previous evening.  Now, however, I wondered if it was for the unrealized potential of this place, or if I was instead just acutely aware of the unrealized potential of my own life.

 

 

 

 

Dogwood – 3

 

The air inside was thick and musty, and dust shimmered in the sunlight that streamed in past us.  I took a step forward.  The three of them simultaneously took sips of their cocktails, and then followed me in.  The door swung shut behind us.

 

“This is exciting,” Jennifer mused.  “I feel like I’m Daphne in Scooby-Doo.”

 

“Does that make me Fred or Shaggy?” Chris asked.

 

“It makes you Velma,” the three of us replied simultaneously.

 

I imagine the lobby must have once been a grand affair.  Below the rubbish on the floor you could see mosaic tile spreading out to the left and right, and then ending abruptly at the exposed stud walls for the shops that now occupied either end.  Above our heads, a fantastic deco silver sunburst light fixture hung, dirt encrusted but still grand.  The door of the box office stood open, and I could see that the ugly plywood posting board outside was doing an admirable job of protecting the elaborate bronze grill over the window. 

 

We turned out attention forward and I switched on the fluorescent torch on my flashlight.  To our left, a broad terrazzo staircase with silver railings ascended upwards just past the back wall of the flower shop.  To our right were doors to the restrooms.  Ahead of us, the doors to the theater were propped open: red and gold gates to a yawning dark abyss beyond.  We walked towards them.

 

There was the unmistakable sound of a rat squealing and scurrying away, followed by a shriek.  Three of us turned and stared at Chris.  He shrugged apologetically and said, “Sorry to yell.  I hate rats.”

 

“You didn’t just yell,” Jennifer announced.  “You sounded just like Janet Leigh in Psycho.”

 

We proceeded forward.  At the door, I shined my light into the auditorium.  In front of us, dark seat backs marched forward in orderly rows towards the giant, silent silver screen glowing faintly in the distance.  I shined my light upwards to see if there were bats.  Mercifully there were none hanging above us.  Instead, stained glass reflected the light back dully from some form of panel fixture mounted in a low ceiling.  I followed the ceiling forward to its end and realized that it was the balcony.  We walked inside, Chris clinging tightly to me lest there be more rats. 

 

As our eyes adjusted to the gloom, we could make out more details.  Stained and dry-rotted curtains covered the walls.  But in many places, where they had fallen or disintegrated, they revealed the walls behind, which were covered with deco plasterwork.  We reached the front and walked up onto the small stage that jutted out in front of the screen.  Above us, the proscenium of three concentric squares with rounded corners gleamed a pale silver, and I could see chains hanging down on either side ending in bare, exposed light bulbs.

 

“Wow,” Jennifer said in hushed reverence.  “This place must have been fantastic in its heyday.”

 

“Absolutely grand,” Rachel concurred. 

 

Chris leaned back against the screen to look upwards at the ceiling, which had a larger silver deco fixture similar to the one in the lobby.  Much to our surprise, the screen was not mounted against a wall, but rather fitted to the proscenium.  It swung back and Chris was swallowed up behind it.  He was too embarrassed to shriek a second time.  We pushed around the edge of the screen and found ourselves in a small back-stage space.  Just past the arch at stage right, a wrought iron spiral staircase wound upwards to a catwalk.  Rubbish was everywhere.

 

We climbed up the steps and followed the catwalk.  It led to the door of a narrow hallway which, in turn, led back towards the front of the theater, but behind the auditorium’s left wall.  Much to our surprise, it opened to a theater box that was concealed from the auditorium by the curtain wall.  (We would later discover that it had a twin on the other side of the proscenium.)

 

“You can almost picture Stadler and Waldorf sitting up here ridiculing Fozzie Bear,” Rachel said, laughing.

 

We followed the hallway all the way back to the front of the building.  It ended at the top of the grand staircase from the lobby.  Here we found a smaller second floor lobby for the left two-thirds of the balcony.  The seats had been removed long ago, but a narrow barrier ran down the balcony.  It would have divided the seats on right hand side from the left.  There was no access to that side except from a fire exit.

 

“That’s weird,” Chris observed.  “Why would you divide up the balcony?”

 

“Easy,” Rachel said darkly.  “Remember when this theater was built.  See that door over there?” She pointed to what I assumed was a fire door in the far wall.   “I’m sure once upon a time that door had a sign over it readin’ colored entrance.”

 

The reality of that legacy hit the three of us simultaneously.  “Hell,” she added, “the fact that this place even allowed us in the same auditorium is pretty amazing.  Most southern theaters were totally segregated in those days.  This place was way progressive.”

 

At the front of the building we found three old rooms that must have been used as offices. Up a short flight of steps on the other side of the lobby, we found the old projection room, dominated by a massive, ancient projector.  Everything was full of rubbish and dust covered.

 

We must have spent an hour exploring that place, except for the creepy old basement that none of us had the nerve to go down into.  I could have spent the entire day there, but Chris felt dirty, their cocktails were empty and I had promised Rachel a ride.  So, I reluctantly locked the front doors, pocketed the key, and we made our way back across the street.

 

Chris, having been exposed to dust, had to change clothes; Rachel and Jennifer decided we needed to have a picnic, so they all disappeared into the building.  I checked on Laine and then went downstairs to retrieve the car.  As I sat in front of the ‘Hurst waiting for the gang to rejoin me, I stared at the theater and pondered it.  For some reason, going inside had not quelled my curiosity about it.  It had, instead, increased it.

 

 

 

Dogwood – 2

I had taken a southerly route through the neighborhood, which was bringing me home directly past the theater.  It was a pleasant and unusually quiet morning.  The streets were littered with the fallen petals from the Bradford Pears, and the dogwoods were transitioning from blossom to bloom.  I slowed to a walk for the last two hundred feet to walk off my run.  As I reached the theater, I stopped and stretched against the streetlight.  As I did, I studied the building itself. 

 

The lobby had been partitioned so that the flower shop had one third and the coffee house had most of the other.  Although I had never noticed before, what I thought was a posting board for various band posters was actually a boarded-up ticket window.  Despite the fact that I hate chain coffee houses, I crossed the street on a whim to buy a latte and check out the building, a little more closely. 

 

There had originally been double doors on each side of the ticket window, but drawing up close I noticed that each double door had been divided with a wall. On either side, one half opened into their respective shop.  But the doors on either side of the ticket window opened into a dark portion of the remaining lobby behind the box office.  I tried to peer in, but the glass doors had been soaped and I couldn’t see much in the gloom.

 

Inside the coffee house, any trace of the original lobby had been covered over long ago with standard issue “Seattle uber hip” accessories that chain coffee houses use to decorate.  I paid for my absurdly overpriced latte and returned to the ‘Hurst to get Aunt Laine up and moving.

 

After weeks of physical therapy, Laine was now somewhat able to get around her apartment with a walker, but still required the wheelchair for anything more than a few feet.  As I came into the apartment, she was easing herself out of the bathroom, festively arrayed in a pair of burgundy silk lounging pajamas.

 

“I wish you wouldn’t try to get around with the walker without me being here,” I informed her.

 

“If I don’t try to get better, I’m not going to,” she replied cheerily.  She eased herself into the wheel chair and rolled herself into the dining room.  As her strength was starting to return, she was in high spirits and found it very easy to dismiss me.  I considered that I might be returning to New York in another three or four weeks.

 

I set about making breakfast while she opened the paper.  “How was your run?” she asked as she spread out the front page.

 

“Nice,” I said, bringing her a cup of coffee.  “The dogwoods are beginning to open.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

I returned to the kitchen and began to beat the eggs.  “Jennifer pointed out something last night I had never noticed before.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“The coffee house and flower shop across the street are actually in the lobby of an old theater.”

 

“Old being the operative word,” she said absently.  “It hasn’t been a theater for almost thirty years.  And even then, it spent the last couple of years of its life showing porn.”

 

“Really?” I asked, laughing slightly at the thought of a porno theater in this neighborhood. 

 

“Yep.  The problem with it is that the space just doesn’t lend itself to much of anything.  That’s the reason the lobby was subdivided.  So we could at least get some income out of it.”

 

I walked back to the dining room door and leaned against the frame.  “We?”

 

She looked up from her paper as she took a sip of her coffee, leaving a bright red lipstick mark on the cup.  “Mo and I.”

 

“Wait a minute, you own that building?”

 

She nodded again.  “That one.  This one. The gas station down the street, and that little free-standing dress shop up the block.”  The shock on my face must have been readily apparent, since she added, “Didn’t you know that?”

 

“How would I?” I asked, returning to the eggs. 

 

“I don’t know.  I guess I just thought your mother would have probably told you.”  It was a reasonable assumption, and for all I know Mother may have told me, but it didn’t register.  Mother certainly never told me that Laine was sitting on several million dollars worth of real estate.

 

As I sat breakfast down in front of her I asked, “So why doesn’t the space lend itself to anything?”

 

She shrugged.  “It’s a theater.  The space is huge.  The only people who ever want to rent it are nightclubs.  Unfortunately, it has almost no parking, and we have minimum parking requirements in this area to get a liquor license for a nightclub. Besides, even if we didn’t, I wouldn’t rent it to a nightclub.  I don’t want all that mess right across the street.”

 

“No one else could use that space?”

 

“I’m sure somebody could, but it’s a theater.  It would cost a lot to rework it into anything besides a theater.  I’ve never found another application for it.  Maybe you can think of something.  The keys are in the desk in the living room.”

 

I had a lot of work to do that day, so exploring abandoned theaters was not high on my list.  Nonetheless, it stayed on my mind.  Theaters have always held a special place in my heart.  In college, even though I had majored in journalism, I had taken every possible theater class I could.  I was only one class shy of being able to declare it as a minor.  Indeed, as I was busy replacing the light fixture on Mac and Clare’s porch, I found my attention repeatedly drawn across the street to where that ticket window was hidden behind thirty years worth of concert flyers.

 

Once I had finished work, I went over to Brit and Charles’ house to help her pack up artwork for the Dogwood Festival.  It was late when I returned and found Rachel and Chris on the roof sharing a bottle of wine and watching the lights of the city.  I had began to sense that the deck was becoming less my space and more of the building’s space.  I wasn’t sure I was happy about that.  I did notice that a pink plastic flamingo had now joined us on the roof.

I sat down to join them, slipping off my shoes and lighting a cigarette simultaneously.  Mostly Rachel and Chris were maintaining their mindless banter about the things that were exceedingly important to them, so I found my mind drifting off.  I didn’t actually emerge from my reverie until Rachel said “Van?” and I realized she must have asked me a question.

 

“Sorry Rach.  My mind was elsewhere.  What did you say?”

 

“I asked how the book was going.”

 

“Oh.”  I grimaced.  The book was going, but I couldn’t say it was going well.  A week in the life was a witty, urbane set of observations, hints and gossip in the front part of the magazine.  It all dealt with what was new in New York and why the reader should do it before anyone else. At least it had been when I was writing it.  The guy who was currently ghost writing the column under my name was more bitchy than urbane, judging by that month’s column.  My publisher had envisioned the book to be sort of a hip tourist guide for New York.  Unfortunately, as I went back through the columns, not much that had been hip still was, so I was struggling with the conversion to book form.

I explained all this to Rachel, who listened attentively and Chris who looked slightly bored.  “Sadly, not much about my work could be characterized as timeless journalism.”

 

“Is there such a thing?” Chris asked.

 

“No, I suppose there isn’t.  Journalism is not the same as literature.”

 

Rachel looked at me quizzically.  “Is this the kind of journalism you always wanted to do?” she asked.   “This…I dunno.  Does it even have a name?”

 

I shrugged.  “It’s called gonzo journalism.  I’m not sure I ever knew what I wanted to do.  I was always impressed by the hard-hitting, timely writing of the great gonzos like Hunter S. Thompson.  I kind of thought the column might be my gateway to similar writings.  But, I found that maybe I just can’t sustain that level of rebellion.  It’s hard to keep a sardonic nature alive past thirty without just sounding bitter.”

 

“Did you ever want to write something else?”

 

I shrugged.  “Sure.  Novels, plays.  What writer doesn’t?  Unfortunately making a living stood in the way.”

 

“Others manage to do both,” Rachel observed.  Of course I knew she was right.  But I didn’t feel like sharing with her that I had always been afraid to take the risk of creating fiction.  You put a lot of your personal ego on the line when you try to tell a story.  Sarcasm is much more defensible, even if it isn’t terribly fulfilling.  I decided to change the subject.  I told them instead that Laine owned the theater.  They feigned polite interest.

 

I didn’t sleep well that night.  Around two I got up and tried to work on the book, but nothing about it appealed to me.  By two-thirty, I was seated on the balcony in a pair of boxers, smoking a cigarette, the brick of the building cool against my back.  Saturday night in the Highlands was winding down below me.  The bars had closed, and their patrons and employees wandered home, singularly or in small groups.  The night above was clear and a full moon sailed high over Virginia Avenue.  I stared at the theater. 

 

Something about the boarded up ticket window, and the dark vacant arched windows above spoke to me.  The whole place seemed sad and lonely.  No, it was more than sad and lonely.  Somehow, I sensed from it the melancholy of unrealized – and worse, unappreciated – potential. 

 

I sat there and studied it for a long time, well over two hours.  For some reason, it was drawing on me.  It was more than intrigue.  I almost felt like it was calling me. 

 

Behind me in the apartment, the toilet flushed itself.  Despite replacing the seals twice, the toilet continued to flush itself.  I had resolved myself to the fact that this was the work of our resident dull ghosts.  I did, however, decide that this was their way of telling me to go to bed.

 

Sundays were relatively easy workdays around the building.  Everyone was off work and none of them were particularly anxious to have me poking around their apartments, so I usually had a lot of free time.  As such, I intended to go check out the theater as soon as I had Laine settled and got myself cleaned up.  

            It was a little after ten when I had finished my shower.  I had just slipped on a pair of shorts when I heard voices outside.  I peaked through the door and saw Jennifer, Rachel and Chris all seated around the table apparently enjoying brunch.  A silver champagne bucket and stand had joined the accoutrements.  I made a mental note that, with all the drinking that was taking place out there, I needed to install sturdier rails.  I grabbed my shirt and shoes and walked outside to join them.

 

Rachel greeted me with a “Hail and well met, good fellow.”

 

“Howyadoin?” Jennifer asked as she sipped a mimosa.

 

“Hi doll,” Chris contributed.

 

“Brunching?” I asked as I dropped into the fourth chair and began to put on my shoes.

 

“Absolutely!” Rachel replied.  “Would you care for a mimosa?

 

I shook my head no. 

 

“What are you up to today?” Chris asked.  Then without waiting for me to answer said, “If you aren’t doing anything you should take me shopping.”

 

I smiled at him.  “I had actually promised Miz Abernathy that I would take her out for a spin in Laine’s Rolls.”

 

Rachel smiled, happy that I remembered.

 

“I wanna go,” Chris whined.

 

“So do I,” Jennifer announced.

 

Rachel and I exchanged glances.  She shrugged.  “I suppose so.”  Then, glancing at me asked, “When do you want to go?”

 

I answered as I pulled my shirt on.  “After you all finish here, I guess.  While you eat, I’m going to go across the street and check out the theater.” 

 

“Are you going to break in?” Jennifer asked excitedly.  “Can I come watch?”

 

“Not break in,” I told her.  “Laine actually owns it.  But you can come with me if you want.”

 

“I’m coming, too,” Rachel announced.

 

“I’ll stay up here and get some sun,” Chris replied. 

 

“You’re coming with us,” Rachel informed him.

 

I stood and all of them joined me.  I retrieved a flashlight since Laine had informed me that the power wasn’t on.  We then trouped downstairs – me with the key and the three of them with fresh mimosas – and crossed the street to the theater.

 

The doors were tarnished silver art deco.  I had to unlock a deadbolt on the door on the one to the right of the ticket window plus a padlock.  It swung open grudgingly, probably for the first time in years. 

 

 

Dogwood – 1

The Dogwood

 

As March turned to April, the blossoms fell from the Bradford pears, while small brown and green buds on the dogwoods began to split into four segments.  I was settled into my apartment and into my routine.  Despite my relatively unenthusiastic efforts, I had made some progress on the book.  After a slightly menacing discussion with my publisher, I was motivated enough to knock out a detailed outline and synopsis. 

The weather was beginning to turn warm, and I couldn’t spend enough time outside.  I trimmed the bushes and cleaned out the weed-choked courtyard at the bottom of the light well.  In my spare time, I had managed to get Laine’s Rolls cleaned up.  It hadn’t been driven in ages.  Although I know almost nothing about car engines, I tried to get her in good, running condition.  Grand old gal that she is, she suffered my ministrations good-naturedly, but I think she was relieved when I finally drove her into a local garage for a thorough servicing.

Much of my writing took place in the early afternoons on the rooftop deck outside my apartment, which now enjoyed a smattering of patio furniture.  I had originally intended to just buy some cheap PVC furniture from the local hardware store.  Chris instead convinced me that only solid wood, white, Adirondack chairs were acceptable.  I had purchased four of these along with a matching cocktail table, and they now sat in a semi-circle facing west towards the midtown skyline.  I began to notice, however, that whenever I went out there, there was thick, yellowish powder covering all of them, even if I had just wiped them down a few minutes earlier.  I also noticed it on my car and, occasionally in the apartment.  I asked Aunt Laine about it one Thursday evening as I was preparing a brisket for her, Charles, and Brit.

“That, darlin’, is the cruelest irony of life in Atlanta.  Pollen!” 

“Pollen?” I asked in disbelief, coming into the dining room.  Beyond the arch, Brit was in the living room watching Entertainment Tonight on the television.

“It’s true,” Charles offered as he set the table.  “Spring is so long and pleasant that it seems like the perfect season to have your windows open.  Unfortunately, the air quality is absolutely abysmal at this time of year.  I think air quality is considered unhealthful at something like two hundred parts-per-million.  This time of year, our air quality will max out at something like almost three-thousand.”

I shook my head.  “Pollen is microscopic.”

“Not here.  You will typically find that pine, oak and birch are the worst offenders.”

            He finished setting the table.  Brit’s contribution to the conversation was, “Is there anything as traumatizing as looking at Paul Simon and realizing he’s starting to look a lot like Mel Brooks?”

            Charles came into the kitchen.  “What can I do to help?”

I was chopping mushrooms for my gravy and pointed to the potatoes in the sink.  “Peel those?”

            “Right.”  He tied on an apron and began chopping.  I should mention that I was not wearing an apron.  I was wearing running shorts, a golf shirt and flip-flops.  It was only about fifty outside, but considering that the news reported snow in New York, I was feeling like I was on vacation.  Charles however was dressed immaculately – and what else would you expect from the British? – so the apron complimented the look rather nicely.  I was sure Chris would approve.

            While we cooked, we chatted about an odd variety of subjects, from pollen to papacy.  He had an extremely dry sense of humor, and we enjoyed trading puns and double entendres immensely.  While I was busy trying to get my garlic-teriyaki-mushroom-and-ginger gravy to thicken perfectly, I told him the story of how Brit, at seven, had finished all of the leftover cocktails from a party my parents had thrown, and had become so ill we had not only been forced to throw away her pajamas but all of her bedding, and had given serious consideration to the mattress as well.  He laughed and, while completing the mashed potatoes countered with a story of a colleague who had come to a meeting drunk and proceeded to pick a fight with the dean.

            “The sad thing is,” he told me as he followed me into the dining room with the platters and bowls, “is that because of all the tension, they kept focusing all their attention on me, and I was the least important person in the room.”

            “Oh, you’re being modest…” I began to protest.

            “No I’m not.  I didn’t know shit about the subject.  I had nothing valuable to contribute to the conversation.  I was simply there to add some color and flavor to the meeting.  I was like, like…” he struggled for the word as I rolled Laine up to the table.  “I was like oregano!  Don’t get me wrong, everyone enjoys it in small quantities when you add it to something of substance, but no one wants to sit down to a big bowl of oregano.”

            Brit joined us while I was laughing and all of us took our seats.  We were appropriately somber for the few minutes it took Aunt Laine to rattle off grace, and then we began to pass and serve.

            “Well,” Brit announced grandly and she ladled gravy onto her potatoes, brisket, green beans and, probably, her Jell-O, “Although none of you have bothered to ask me, I had a simply marvelous day.”

            “I beg your pardon,” I protested.  “I asked you when you came in how your day was, but you had to watch that damned…”

            “My day,” she interrupted, “was just grand because I am going to have a booth at the Dogwood Festival.”

            “That’s marvelous, darling,” Charles told her as he grasped her arm.

            “How exciting!” Laine observed.

            “What’s the Dogwood Festival?” I asked.

            As they explained it to me, the Dogwood was the festival of the springtime.  I have since come to learn that it is not the festival in the strictest sense that italics would imply.  In fact, there are festivals nearly every weekend in the springtime, including the Candler Park festival, the Decatur Arts Festival, the Yellow Daisy festival, the Atlanta Jazz festival, and so forth.  The Dogwood is the one that really gets the season going, however.

            “During the Dogwood, all the pathways in Piedmont Park are lined with artist booths.   You can really buy anything there,” Laine explained as she held out her glass so Brit could refill it from the pitcher of manhattans perched on the sideboard.  “Paintings, pottery, jewelry.  And of course the park is just awash in dogwoods, which makes it that much more festive.”

            “So what are you going to exhibit, darling?” Charles asked.

            “I’m thinking just my paintings.  I thought about some of the tilework, but I don’t think I have enough of it to last three whole days.”

            I should probably explain that my sister’s art is… well, I guess abstract is the appropriate term.  Frankly, argyle seems more appropriate.  All of her paintings (and her pottery and her tiles and her painted furniture) are all dominated with random stripes of color, punctuated with diamonds.  Lots of diamonds, in very strictly regimented rows marching across random flowing fields of color.  Argyle.

            The topic of Brit’s art came up again later that evening.  Once Laine had been tucked away for the night, Brit had decided to pop around the corner for cigarettes.  (Actually, her decision was just as much at my direction as she had finished my last pack without asking.)  Charles and I took the bottle of cabernet that we had been drinking and carried it up to the roof to finish it.  The night was clear and cool, so I added a sweatshirt to my meager attire, and we sat in the Adirondack chairs and watched the lights of the city.

            “So,” I asked as I sipped my wine.  “Will Brit actually sell anything at this show?  Or is exhibiting her art just a wild part of her hobby?”

            He shrugged.  “You are too cynical where your sister is concerned, Donovan.  She’ll sell something, I’m sure.  Her art can be very powerful.”

            “I’m not cynical about her, per se,” I protested.  “But I guess I’ve never really seen her work to develop her art.  She’s been painting diamonds for fifteen years now.”

            He shrugged again.  “Some people like diamonds.  Donovan, when you look at her paintings, you see diamonds.  When I look at her paintings, I see her and me.”

            That one caught me totally off guard.  “How?”

            “Argyles painted over rainbows.  Two totally unrelated concepts in what should be imperfect juxtaposition, but which rather combine in harmony to form something totally unexpected.”

            Not the answer I was expecting.  I had to think about that for a long moment.  Before I could counter, however, the door from the stairs burst open and Rachel and Jennifer emerged.  Rachel was carrying several large torches and a jug of some kind, while Jennifer was carrying a cocktail shaker and some glasses.  Jennifer had not been up to the deck before and looked around.  Her eyes met mine and she said, “Hey.  This is nice up here.  I approve.”

            “We brought you a gift,” Rachel announced.  “Citronella torches.  You will need them soon enough up here.”

            I examined the torches.  They were designed to be stuck directly into the ground.  “Hey, thanks.  That’s great.  Although I don’t think Chris would approve of me poking these through his ceiling.  Tomorrow, I’ll figure out a way to secure them, somehow.”

            Jennifer and Rachel settled into two of the chairs, and Jennifer began rattling the shaker and asked, “Can I interest you gentlemen in a martini?”

            We both declined.  She shrugged and began to pour one for Rachel and one for herself.

            “Donovan,” Rachel said, “Jennifer and I were talking at dinner.  Since she’s off tomorrow night, and Chris is off all of us need to go out.  You have to go with us.  Charles, you and Brit should come too.”  Rachel and Chris had, to a certain degree, adopted me as their pet project.  Chris had, on several occasions, made me go shopping for new clothes with him, while Rachel had insisted I discover all forms of Atlanta nightlife.  In the beginning, I believed it was because they felt I was the emotional cripple that my aunt had portrayed me to be, and they were doing it as a favor to her.  It took me some time to realize that neither of them was all that magnanimous, and that they seemed to genuinely like me for myself.

            “Alas, we cannot,” Charles replied.  “Dinner with the dean tomorrow evening.  Dreadful affair, but sadly unavoidable.”

            “Nor, I,” I replied.  “We’ve been going out quite a lot lately and I’m feeling the financial strain of it.”

            “But it’s Friday,” Rachel protested.

            “Ah, God bless ya’,” Jennifer replied.  “I know exactly how you feel.  It can get expensive.  Tell ya what.  We don’t need to go out.  Let’s meet up here tomorrow night.  I’ll make it an easy, inexpensive evening.”

            I shrugged.  “Okay, as long as it’s inexpensive.”

            There were relatively few projects to do the next day, so I spent some time securing the torches to the corners of the deck, Since there was no railing, I ran a rope between them.  It wasn’t strong enough to stop someone from falling over, but hopefully it was visible enough to keep them from at least straying too close.  As I was finishing off the last one, I heard the phone ring in my apartment.  It was the mechanic, calling to let me know that the Rolls was finally ready and I could pick it up any time before five. 

            Excitedly, I set off to walk the mile to Ansley mall, where it was waiting.  The day had been cloudy and gloomy, with occasional lackluster showers, but I managed to stay dry and made it there around four-thirty.  The car sat in front, gleaming, the rainwater beading up on its highly waxed hood and fenders.

            I paid the small ransom that the mechanics demanded, and set out for home.  At just that moment, it began to pour.  Remembering that Rachel typically walked to work, I decided to swing by Ponce Pages and pick her up so that she didn’t have to walk home in the mess.

            The car started with a rumble that was pure testosterone.  I slipped her into gear and slowly guided her out onto Monroe Drive.  As we cruised south, I could feel not only the power of the car, but also the weight of it.  I had been in office buildings that didn’t feel as solid as that car. 

            I stayed on Monroe until I reached Ponce de Leon, rather than meandering though the quiet neighborhood streets as I might ordinarily do.  As I turned left, I could see drivers in other cars turning to admire.  While waiting at a stoplight at the corner of Ponce and Freedom Parkway, I looked to my left.  An elderly African-American man smiled widely at me and gave me a thumbs-up from within a bus stop.  I smiled back and gave him a little salute of gratitude.

            I pulled up in front of the bookstore just as Rachel was coming out and fumbling with her umbrella.  I glided up in front and opened the passenger side door.  She recognized me and came forward, smiling.

            “Hey lady,” I said.  “Need a cab?”

            “Wow.  She cleaned up beautifully.”

            “Get in.  I’ll give you a lift home.”

            “Gladly.”  She got in, shaking her small umbrella out the door before closing it.  We slid away from the curb.

            “Wow, this is pure sex,” she said as we circled the block and emerged onto North Highland.

            “Tell me about it.  Of course, I imagine we burn a gallon of gas with every block we cover.”

            “Don’t bother me with political correctness.  I’m willing to bet I’m the first black passenger this car ever had.”

            I laughed.  “I don’t know about that.  Laine and Maurice were liberal far before it was fashionable.”  I did have to agree with her comment about the car.  Driving that sleek piece of engineering artwork with a beautiful women next to me through this trendy neighborhood was pure sex. 

            As we approached the turn onto Virginia, she glanced sideways at me.  “I’m not in any hurry to get home if you are looking to put her through her paces.”

            I considered the offer briefly.  “I really want to, but rush-hour in the rain isn’t exactly the best opportunity.  What about Sunday?  You’re off this weekend, right?”

            “I am.  Perhaps we can drive up to the lake.”

            I pulled down the narrow driveway and executed the tight three-point turn required to berth the car in the garage.  As I did so, Rachel rattled off who was in residence by noting whose cars were present.  Chris was home, as was Jennifer.  Mac and Clare’s cars were both absent.  Mister Kersey, not having a car, was assumed to be present.

            We parted company on the stairs and I went in to make Laine dinner and get her settled for the evening.  I didn’t make it upstairs until about seven forty-five, which gave me fifteen minutes to get cleaned up before meeting everyone on the deck at eight.

            As I came off the steps, I came onto a totally different deck than I had left.  The rain had let up, and all of the torches burned brightly in the moist air.  Jennifer had strung dozens of strings of Christmas lights over the deck, which gave it a bright, festive air.  In the center, she had set up a card table and four folding chairs.  She was nowhere to be seen.

            I ducked into my apartment and changed clothes.  Since the evening was cool and since we were apparently going to be doing something outside, I put on fresh jeans and a sweater that Chris had recently insisted I buy.  As I was lacing on my shoes, I heard the faint sounds of jazz float in through the open door.

            When I returned to the deck, David Sanborne was revving up Bang Bang on a boom box next to the elevator machinery flat.  Somehow, Jennifer had succeeded in getting a rolling bar cart up to the deck and had quite an elaborate setup on it.  As I emerged, she was busy applying salt to the rim of a margarita glass.  “You like salt with your margaritas?” she asked.

            “No, thanks.  Jennifer, this looks fantastic out here.”

            She smiled and blushed, which I would never have expected from her.  “Just a few things I pulled up from my apartment.  I never knew this deck was up here.  It’s got a lot of potential.”

            “It does,” I admitted.  “You’ve already made it look like a different place.”

            She came from behind the drink cart and handed me a margarita, sans salt.  I accepted and held it out for a silent toast.  She clinked her glass to mine and said, “Here’s to ya,” and drank.  Then she looked around the deck.             

            “Yeah, that’s what’s great about these old buildings.  If they survive, they can be reinvented into anything.  It’s almost like they’re people, you know?”  I didn’t know, but I nodded enthusiastically to be polite. 

            At that moment Rachel and Chris joined us on the deck.  Unlike Jennifer, Rachel and I who were all dressed extremely casual, Chris was entirely overdressed.  Jennifer got excited when she saw them.  “Hey!  Welcome to Jennifer’s rooftop casino.  Can I get you a margarita?”

            Rachel smiled and agreed.  Chris also agreed, although looked around a bit more dubiously.  “What are we doing tonight?” he asked.

            Jennifer mixed the drinks enthusiastically.  “We are playing Uno!”  She announced.

            The drinks were served and we took our places around the table.  From someplace Jennifer produced a deck of cards and a green eyeshade, and the game was afoot. If you are not familiar with Uno, you may not understand the sheer emotional toll it can take on the player.  The ability of other players to screw you just when you are about to win is actually a good metaphor for corporate America.  We spent two abusive hours playing cards on the roof, talking and, of course, drinking margaritas.

            Sometime after the third or fourth hand it had become apparent that Chris was going to come out the big loser, and his original skepticism towards the game had turned into sarcastic bitchiness.  Once he realized that he couldn’t win, he had changed his strategy to a strict “screw your neighbor” approach.  The game grew progressively more raucous, with the laughter and joking and abuse climbing in fever and pitch until Chris fell over backwards in his chair, spilling margarita all over himself.

            As I noted earlier, he was extremely overdressed for playing cards on the roof.  He had also been shivering for a while due to the light weight of his camp shirt.  Since he had been cold to begin with, we took a break from the game so he could go downstairs and change.  The rest of us stepped into my apartment, allowing Rachel the opportunity to use the bathroom and Jennifer to replenish the ice bucket.  While we were in there, we talked of idle things.  Jennifer, who had not been in the apartment before, meandered over to the French doors, opened them and stepped out onto the small balcony that overlooks the street.  I stepped out and joined her.

            “Quite a view you got up here,” she observed.

            “Yeah,” I said.  “’Course, it has it’s downside.  I can hear every loud-mouthed drunk on the street after the bars close.”

            She shrugged. “Ah, God love ya.  I didn’t realize that you could see the top of the old theater up here.”

            “Old theater?” I asked.

            She pointed across the street.  The theater wasn’t terribly obvious from the street itself.  Its lobby had long ago been converted to a coffee house and a flower shop, obliterating most of its street presence, save some boarded-up doors.  However, from up here you could make out the mass of the building behind those small storefronts.  And, above their signs were grand old Victorian windows which may have once demarked offices or dressing rooms.  I could even make out the poles that had probably held up the marquee, hanging listlessly against the building.

            Before I could ask more questions, Chris returned, drier, more warmly dressed and apparently in a much better mood.  We resumed the game and I thought no more about the theater until the next day when I was returning from my run.