J. Donleavy - Schultz

Ten minutes later, his Lordship waving an envelope sailed back into the chairman’s office and for once tripped over his own shotgun cases.

“Schultz I found this on my desk.”

“Yeah what is it.”

“It’s addressed to me. The Earl of Eel Brook Common, secretary to Mr. Sigmund Franz Schultz.”

“Holy shit, why do you have to find such things right this very minute.”

“Because this very minute it was staring me in the face on top of my mail on my desk.”

“Your Lordship I need to see what that letter says. I was just having to look good to somebody for a second. Don’t you understand, you English are ga ga over titles.”

“It would seem Schultz that you are ga ga over titles. And do this once more and you will be ga ga ga forever.”

Magillacurdy was signed. Exactly as he absolutely insisted. Standing in the central avenue of Brompton Cemetery near the mausoleum where he’d recently slept. His signature on the contracts held under an umbrella while surrounded by Al, Schultz, the Agent, plus two lawyers.

“It’s done me boyos. It’s done. I can tell by all your astonished faces you thought I’d be gone to the big money in Hollywood.”

Magillacurdy departing in his own limousine back to Claridge’s Hotel. To later that afternoon arrive in the street below Sperm Productions’ windows, attired in a sandwich board advertising the show and with a street band in tow to sing aria after aria. Binky throwing rose petals out the window to him. Magillacurdy catching each one and eating it and throwing back a kiss. Till the police came to remove the obstruction.

The broken collar boned director was replaced. Instantly giving a press conference to slander the show. His picture in the evening newspapers with his arm in a sling. And suing to have his name removed overnight from all posters and advertising all over town. Schultz on the phone to Al.

“Be thankful Sigmund, his name wasn’t up in lights. At this last minute don’t worry. You could be director of the show.”

“Al I hate directors. I wouldn’t be one of those creeps for all the gross on Broadway. Better make that off Broadway. Yeah.”

“O.K. Sigmund give me a couple of hours.”

Schultz on the pavement outside the theatre overseeing the repainting of signs. And now handed a note by the ever endlessly helpful efficient Rebecca, recently so subdued and saddened by the weddings of Binky and Basil.

At Home

Sylvia and Herbie

Two p.m., Dressing Room Five

Schultz just on the verge of heading back stage. When Al produced out of his limousine a new director. Black leather jacketed, balding in glasses and beard who sported similar suede chukka booted feet to the old one. And smoothly maintained that he had the nerve, courage and sheer insane guts to give Magillacurdy some last minute pointing up of his performance. As even Al warned him to duck deeply when Magillacurdy’s fist whistled over his head. As it invariably would when any director made what the massive Irishman considered a slander. Instead of the suggestion that was meant.

“O.K. fine. O.K. get in there in the ring. I got to rush to an urgent meeting backstage where I don’t want to be disturbed.”

Half an hour later with the second director shaking like jelly, Magillacurdy was equally shaking with rage. The chorus line and Debutant co star cowering behind the scenery through which Magillacurdy’s Welsh mining boot had twice been sent on the end of his foot. And he was now just on the verge of busting the director in the kisser.

“Begorra I’ll kill the ignorant pretentious fucker.”

Schultz in dressing room five on top of Sylvia, having to constantly look over his shoulder at Herbie who was still not averse to attempt a mounting of Schultz by the rear. The drama unfolding on the stage came blaring over the sound monitor. And Sylvia shouting.

“I want all of it, Sigmund, all of it. Shoot. Shoot.”

Schultz listening a second in the blaze of noise. A bloodcurdling scream over the monitor. Letting go of Sylvia. Pulling up his trousers. Jumping in his shoes. Falling over a chair. Getting up and jacket flying rushing out on stage. Fists knotted at his sides as Schultz threw himself between the stagemanager and Magillacurdy who held the stagemanager’s throat in one hand as he shook his other in a fist across the footlights at the director rearranging his misplaced long strands of hair over his bald spot as he stood atop the grand piano in the orchestra pit having leaped there off the stage in his hasty retreat.

“For christ’s sake easy Terence, easy. Before you kill somebody.”

The cast and stage hands slowly showing themselves again from behind the scenery and props. To watch this latest director trembling on the piano.

“Mr. Schultz I absolutely refuse to work with Mr. Magillacurdy unless he takes my direction.”

“Your direction is wrong sonny boy, I got fucking ears. I was listening in on the monitor. I know how that bar should be sung. Just like Magillacurdy is already singing it and my composers want it sung.”

“Mr. Schultz I admire you as a producer but certainly not as a human being who knows anything about musical comedy.”

“Who says it’s musical comedy.”

“Well if it isn’t then you can be sure it’s a musical tragedy. And I refuse to conduct my profession in this violent and grossly obscene environment and I resign.”

“So resign and get the fuck out of this theatre.”

The director stepping down on the keyboard, striking a discordant chord with his foot as Magillacurdy advanced on Schultz his hand held out.

“Ah me old son, you’re a man of principle like meself, to hell with the mediocre.”

Magillacurdy suddenly stopping pointing at Schultz with a finger wagging at the end of his outstretched muscular arm.

“Now that me boyo I’m telling you is by no means mediocre.”

Schultz looking down. His prick hanging loose full length flapping out between the flies of his trouser. Which as he quickly handled it back in, brought an ovation from the entire cast, chorus, musicians and stage hands and a cheer roaring from Magillacurdy.

Begorra

I’ve seen

The origin

Of the

Species

Just as Big Al was at two o’clock that day, forever the patcher up of production problems and the begetter of new ones, he was at four o’clock also forever the doting marriage broker eager to learn how his handiwork was proceeding. Ringing Schultz again at Sperm Productions where he’d retreated for a breather from his recent exposure and new popularity at the theatre. Binky placidly sitting puffing a cheroot his foot up on his gout stool, and handing the phone to Schultz.

“Hi Al.”

“Sigmund. I just heard about the director. That he resigned. That you came rushing out on stage at him with your prick out.”

“Jesus christ Al. That director was a creep. And who told you that load of shit.”

“O yeah, there are people saw you. And their agents, including their lawyers are ringing me. Was your prick out or not.”

“It was out Al. I was taking a pee when I heard a scream on the monitor. How could I remember my prick in such a panic.”

“Reliable witnesses said it was engorged.”

“Holy shit Al, haven’t you heard, I just happen to have through no fucking fault of mine, inherited from my Prague grandfather, a big prick.”

“And you’re not circumcised.”

“Holy shit Al. What are you anyway a kosher fucking Hebrew medical inspector on my trail.”

“It’s sacrilegious you’re not circumcised.”

“Look Al I’m going in two minutes to rush out right now and get circumcised. If it will make you feel any better.”

“Sigmund I just rang case I don’t see you before curtain time. That’s all. To wish you lots of luck for tonight.”