Joy’s answer was lost in a shouted version of “The Caissons Go Rolling Along” which I’d never heard before:
“OVERSEXED, OVER-RIPE,
“TAUGHT THAT BOY SCOUTS NEVER GRIPE,
“OUR LIBIDOS GO LOLLING ALONG!
“WARNED OF WARTS ON OUR HANDS,
“FIRES ARE DOUSED TO MARCH TO BANDS,
“OUR LIBIDOS WILL NEVER GO WRONG!
“FOR IT’S HUP-TWO-THREE!
“NEVER GRAB ABOVE THE KNEE!
“SAVE IT TO FIGHT THE VIET CONG!
“AND WHEN WE MATURE,
“YOU MAY E’ER BE SURE
“OUR LIBIDOS WILL KILL FOR A SONG!”
Twenty-odd marching Boy Scouts braked smartly to a halt hallway down the aisle in the auditorium. The drama group’s “friends” stared at them as if they weren’t sure it the Scouts were part of the play or not. In these days of Marat/Sade and Absurd Theatre, I guess they couldn’t really be sure. The Scouts stared back unperturbed. I darted out from behind the curtain to accost the Scout Master. It was easy to spot him from his outsize, khaki-covered girth and the thick clumps of hair around his bare, knobby knees. He had the dampish, humorlessly smiling face of an only half-sublimated faggot. His ears stuck out like handles under a too-young, too-short crew cut. Somehow he managed to look outdoorsy and pasty at the same time.
His expression remained unchanged as I explained the situation to him. “It’s just that we fouled up,” I wheedled, “and I know it’s an imposition, but just for tonight could you meet somewhere else so we can use the hall?”
“Well now, let me talk it over with the boys. Fellas,” he squeaked, “gather ’round for a pow-wow.”
The boys squatted in a circle around him while he explained the situation. “Why can’t we stay an’ watch?” one of the boys demanded. “I wanna stay and watch.”
“We wanna stay an’ watch!” the others chimed in.
“I guess they can stay if you can keep them quiet,” I told the Scout Master. I returned backstage as the boys scrambled for seats.
Behind the curtain the chaos had increased. Will Leigh and Wanda Humphrey were standing nose-to-nose and screaming at each other:
“Mugging is all you’re knowing how to doing!” Wanda was sputtering. “Is ruining what means scene where telling Madam girls are strike!”
“You’re trying to upstage me!” Will yelled back.
“Mr. Powers!” The custodian came running up to me. “That man has to leave!” He pointed a pudgy finger at Cass Novak. “We don’t allow no drinkin’ on the premises!”
“I don’t see him drinking,” I told the caretaker.
“He got a flask in his pocket. I seen him drinkin’ outa it before. When I tol’ him to stop, he just laughed at me.”
“Cass, give it here.” I held out my hand.
“Just direct the play, Powers. That’s enough for you to concentrate on fouling up. Butt out of this.”
“Either I confiscate that flask,” said the custodian from behind me, “or I’ll call the cops and have him put out.”
“Lolly!” I was suddenly distracted. “This is no place to change your blouse! Particularly when you’re not wearing a bra! Suppose one of those Boy Scouts wanders back here.”
Cass spun around to look. I grabbed the flask out of his hip pocket and silently handed it to the custodian.
“Now you’ve confiscated it,” I whispered as I edged him towards the curtain. “So why don’t you just sit down out front and enjoy the show?”
“Vance!” Rusty grabbed my arm. “If you don’t put a gel in that stage-left spot, I refuse to go onstage. It makes me look a hundred-and-ten years old!”
“And that’s not so very far off!” Joy Boxx murmured.
“I heard that!” Rusty wheeled around.
“There you are!” It was a roar from the rear doorway to the stage. Nicholas Taurus, Cleo’s husband, stood there like an enraged bull. He was glaring at Cleo and Phil Anders. In one hamhock of a hand he clutched a tape recorder as if it was a club.
“Oh, dear.” Peter Putter shrank back against the wall and shoved his hands even deeper into his pockets than usual.
“The tape!” Cleo hissed to Phil. “The other night when we were rehearsing, we forgot the tape was on.”
“That’s right!” Nicholas had heard her. “Now I suppose you’re going to tell me that what’s on this tape is part of the play.”
“It is.” Phil kept his cool. “Don’t make a damn fool out of yourself, Nick. Everything on that tape is from the play. Not direct lines, of course. It’s a method warm-up to put us in the mood. Don’t take my word for it. Ask Vance. He’s the director.”
“Oh, yeah? Just listen to this, Powers!” Nicholas Taurus set the machine down and activated it. He continued to glower at Phil and Cleo as the tape began to play.
“Back in the Bronx I never dreamed it was possible for a woman to feel the way you make me feel.” Cleo’s voice, reading from the script.
“Don’t talk any more, Shirley. Just kiss me.” Phil’s voice, also in character and reading the author’s lines.
“Ahh! Perfection! The moon, the desert, the warm air, nestling like this in your arms like a knadlach enveloped in chicken soup.”
“Kiss me again!”
“That’s not it. Your line is——”
A long silence. Then Phil’s voice again. “I’m sure glad you don’t wear a girdle. I can’t stand girdles. I always get my fingers caught!”
“Now you’re going too far!”
“For Pete’s sake, you can’t keep teasing me this way and expecting me to stop!”
“My husband--”
“—will never know! And if he did, it would make damn little difference if he found us like this, or going the limit. Besides, he’s so dense—”
Nicholas Taurus stopped the tape and Phil’s voice died out. “Well?” Taurus asked, enraged. “Is that in the p1ay?”
“It’s in the spirit of the play,” I assured him hastily. “You’re being over-sensitive. You should have more faith in Cleo. That sounds like a perfectly normal improvisation to me. It’s a rehearsal technique. Now why don’t you just simmer down and watch the play from out front?” I took the tape recorder from him, set it down in a corner, and poured on some more soothing syrup as I ushered him offstage. Behind us Cleo and Phil breathed a mutual sigh of relief.
“Places everybody!” I called as I returned. “Let’s get this show going before anything else happens. Quiet on the set now!” The hubbub died down. I killed the house lights and motioned to Cass to wheel the scrim into position for the first scene. When Rusty was in position, I turned the lights up slowly and raised the curtain.
“Mr. Powers!” It was a hiss from right behind me.
I turned around to face the custodian. “What are you doing here?” I asked him. “Why aren’t you out front watching the play?”
Rusty launched into her opening speech.
“There’s a phone call for you down in my office,” he snarled. “I told you I don’t like people gettin’ calls on my phone.” He took a long, surly pull from the mouth of the flask I’d “confiscated” from Cass Novak.
“But I’m the director. This is the dress rehearsal. I have to be here,” I protested.
“Well, I ain’t goin’ down them steps again to hang up the phone.” He took another swig.
“I’m sure glad drinking’s forbidden on these premises,” I told him. Sighing, I trotted out the back exit from the stage and down the stairs to answer the phone.
“Vance!” It was Marcy. “Vance, I-—”
“Look!” I interrupted her. “I’m busy right now. You called at the worst possible time. I’ll get back to you later.”
“No! Wait! Please, Vance! Don’t hang up! I’m in a terrible jam! Please, Vance! I need your help!”
“All right. But make it fast. What is it?”