J. Donleavy - Schultz

Schultz wiping the sweat from his brow. As the clapping outlasted even the paid clackers at the interval. With two boos and a few whistles and someone slamming a door storming out of the theatre. Followed by the harassed theatre manager knocking with news of a problem in row E of the stalls. Schultz peering cautiously out from behind his screen down into the interval emptied seats. With one on the aisle still absolutely full. Of Pricilla’s mother. Who, with two usherettes tugging at her by the arms, could not be budged.

“How dare you sit up here laughing at my mother who could have a heart attack down there. I’ll kill you.”

“Shit honey. Don’t make my life complex as usual. Please.”

At the second interval, Al trying to direct the rescue operation. Pricilla ashen faced, her mother beet red huffing and puffing. With the assistant master carpenter and the chief engineer attempting unsuccessfully to dismantle the seat from around this mass of imprisoned flesh. And only succeeding in stabbing the fat occupant with a screwdriver. Her screams fortunately drowning out Schultz’s hysterical guffaw.

“Holy Jesus christ, this really is one for the fucking books.”

A photographer coining down the aisle to take pictures. Pricilla’s mother heaving a spare box of chocolates at him. Jesus this behemoth bitch while she’s making my laughing muscles sore is also stealing the whole show. I hope the fuck they never get the seat off and shift her with it still attached so she can sit in god damn exile somewhere.

The salvage undertaking interrupted again by the returning audience. Who shushed the protesting prisoner. Lady Audrey and Lady Emeline and husbands sitting viewing just two rows back. And the concerned Ambassador two rows in front turning around to watch with his entire black party. Holy shit, what have I done to myself in the middle of my fast expiring youth to have a hippopotamus anchoring me in a sea of nightmares. With a wife demanding to be loved and then wrecking things all over the house. And speaking of nightmares there’s one from the past, my Doc, from Harley Street. Sour faced Herbie laughed for the first time when the engineer’s screwdriver dug deep into my mother in law. Sylvia going around now whispering insults under her breath. Expects me to leave my prick behind in her when I had to run out on stage to stop a murder. Got to accept people for what they are, dirty rats. While I’m busy in the thankless task of catapulting a gang of unknowns into celebrity orbit. That incredible hulk Magillacurdy going head first. Each potential massive disaster on stage he turns into a mini holocaust which flames up around him in all his burning glory. Only every five minutes now he bothers me to compare the length of pricks.

“Ah now me boyo take out that yoke I know you’ve got there and show it to your regimental sergeant major again. Sure I served two years in the Irish Guards and never did I till now see an organ the likes of which at a stretch might compare with me own.”

Magillacurdy’s finest moment came in the last act in an angry aria, wrecking a table set for tea. With a swipe from the back of his hand sending the china pot smashing into smithereens. And throwing a bottle across the stage at a mirror. The bottle missing and bouncing off the scenery. The mirror two long seconds later, breaking. At the same time a bag of flour plummeted from the flies landing bursting on Magillacurdy’s head. Smilingly he blew the white clouds off his face, bowed and brought the house down with laughter, cheers and applause.

At the final curtain amid the bravos, and shaking fists, two fights broke out. Al flailing his arms in the aisle and creaming someone in his tracks who had punched him in the ear. And as he symbolically wiped his hands in victory, he stepped straight into his girl friend’s open box of chocolates knocked to the floor, tripped, fell and lay on the carpet both hands clutching at his weak heart.

Pricilla’s mother’s dress ripped as she was lifted in her seat by six stage hands out into the aisle. Safely reclining on a couch in a dressing room, a seamstress sewing her up trying to stitch the fabric back together over the roll of fat bursting through. While Mrs. Prune polished off a box of dried figs.

“I’m going to sue the theatre, the management and last but I’m telling you not least, I’m suing the producer.”

After all the horror Schultz reenacting every dance and replaying every note of the show in his head and sneaking to the corner of the stall bar for a quick double scotch and soda. And just as he felt to see if his flies were undone there was a nudge on the elbow. The blond flowing haired bejeweled sparkling eyed Lady Lullabyebaby handing him his wallet.

“Holy jeeze.”

“I’m sorry to be so late in returning this. You lost it at the wedding along with your shoe.”

“Hey wait you look gorgeous, don’t go, Jesus I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Sorry, I must I must.”

Lady Lullabyebaby turned to look back from the door and gave a little smile over her shoulder. Schultz opening his wallet thumbing through the notes. Christ my four different currencies, still ready in case I got to leave at a moment’s notice for a foreign land. And everything else intact. Jesus how honest can somebody be. And a card. White and pristine. Holy cow it’s her phone number. Knightsbridge 1234. At last, something in my love life looks like it’s ready to go right for me.

Schultz turning from the bar to go backstage. Pushing halfway through the smoky crowd. A figure blocking his way.

“You’re Schultz.”

“That’s right.”

“You want to sell this show, kid. I’ll give you a good price right now tonight before the reviews come out in the morning and I’ll take it straight to Broadway.”

“No deal.”

“What’s the matter. I’ll give you more than the show’s worth. It could be worth nothing tomorrow.”

“It’s worth a fortune tonight and it will be priceless in the morning.”

“You know who I am don’t you.”

“Yeah I know who you are. Joe Jewels.”

“Well what’s the matter kid, you like taking risks or something.”

“That’s right.”

Schultz turning away and heading straight into the ever smiling resplendent Ambassador with his towering black lady looming behind him.

“Ah my dear gladiator. A truly magnificent evening. I am so happy to see that all the hard work you do casting and auditioning at your house has produced such marvellous results.”

“You’re too kind, Your Excellency.”

“Ah let me introduce you to my friend.”

“How do you do honey.”

Schultz shaking hands with this long ebony armed amazon as she answered in an unfamiliar drum beat rhythmic tongue.

“Zeek geek goo bug ding doo.”

“And the same to you, honey you’ve said it all.”

Like as if the pair of them had nothing whatever to do with the show, Binky and wife slipped silently away as did his Lordship and his Countess who were catching a train to the country.

“Ah a splendid evening maestro which both I, my dear wife and his and her Royal Graces enjoyed thoroughly.”

“Jesus, Binky you fuckers you’re completely abandoning me.”

“Ah I wouldn’t put it quite as subtly as that Schultz. It’s simply that domesticity calls.”

Al with four tables booked at the Savoy. And with marzipan and crushed rum truffles adhering to the soles of his shoes and his heart beating again as usual, he went backslapping and shepherding his party of show backers growing larger by the second out to his and their limousines.

“Sigmund, put it there, a great show. See you at the Savoy.”

“Thanks Al.”

Schultz from dressing room to dressing room squeezing between the backstage visitors, his head popping in the doors. At least tonight unlike some other nights, it’s not like a morgue backstage. Maybe I stopped the curtain calls too soon. Fuck it. Four should be enough for anybody. Some people don’t know when to stop milking the adulation. It’s like I got to be a father to a bunch of children. Wiping noses. Shaking hands. Waving. Thumbs up.