HiGo2 will be a featured part of the benefit.  We’ll be there selling and signing books from 7:00 – 8:30.  All Royalties from books sold that evening will be donated to the park fund.

More information on the benefit can be found at www.vahi.org.

Buy the book at Amazon by following this link: http://www.amazon.com/Highlands-Go-Go-Virginia-Highland-DM-Paule/dp/1440180571/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1258467150&sr=1-2.

“Do you know him?” I asked.

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

“But you do see him,” I pressed.

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

“So why the Boo Radley act?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The Highlands.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The folder was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In here,” I called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

At six o’clock the actors were coming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh, the Helen Hayes,” I replied.

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

“Radio City,” Rachel added.

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

“The Gaiety.”

“Graumann’s Chinese.”

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

“The Schubert Alley.”

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

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

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

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

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

“DeLaine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Rachel?” I asked.

“She went home about a half hour ago.”

“Ah.  You didn’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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