Dorothy on the Rocks (27 page)

“Does anyone have a cigarette?” I say at the top of my lungs to the whole room. “Huh? Does anyone have a fucking cancer stick I can smoke?”

All the activity in the restaurant skids to a stop like in those old E. F. Hutton commercials. Fifty people sit with forkfuls of pancakes suspended in midair. Then a big guy in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out reaches in his breast pocket and pulls out a pack of Camels.

“Here, little lady, have one of mine.”

I walk over, take the pack, and shake out a cigarette.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” And then I turn and make my grand exit out of the restaurant. Prince “Ron” Charming is right on my heels.

“Don't smoke that, Maggie,” Ron says. “Come on, hand it over.”

“If you come near me, I'll bite you,” I say, holding my hand up. “Don't you dare try to stop me!”

“All right I won't get any closer, but let's at least talk this through,” he says. “Look, you had a traumatic experience, and of course you are on edge and want a cigarette, and it's hard I know. I remember when my mother quit.”

“Fuck you. I don't want to hear about your mother.”

“Well, it's just that she's about your age.”

“That does it. I'm not listening to another thing you have to say.” I turn and stomp off in the direction of the motel.

“You're not going to walk, are you? It's more than two miles.”

“You bet I am,” I yell over my shoulder. “These boots were made for walking, kid. Ask your mom about that.”

“You're wearing sandals,” he yells back. “And you're blind as a bat with only one eye.”

I turn around and stomp my foot and say with a snarl, “I'm not listening to you or anyone.”

“All right. Have it your way,” Ron says and starts back into the restaurant. “Oh, FYI, Mom said the first week is the worst.” And he is gone.

Now I have to walk back to the motel. I've made my stand. Damn. Take a deep breath I tell myself. “Drink some hot milk and have a piece of toast,” I hear Brian's voice say. I'll give him a call when and if I get back to the motel without being kidnapped and sold into a white slavery.

I think about Jack and the bird stuck in the chimney. And Mrs. Vianey, old and alone, and up every morning at five a.m. And the whole lousy world that seems so damn . . . lousy.

I start to cry big wet tears out of my one unbandaged eye. I walk against the traffic, crying and cursing. Headlights hit my one eye. I squint and keep walking and keep crying and keep cursing. Then I hear a car horn. It's my merry band of fellow actors. They pull over on the opposite side of the road

“Maggggiiee,” I hear Randall shout out the window. “Come on, get in. This is silly.”

“I am walking!” I yell back. “Just leave me alone!”

They sit for a minute, deciding; then Randall honks twice and off they go. Obviously the group consensus is to let the hellcat rot and that's fine with me.

“And you're welcome,” Helen says out the back window.

“For what?” I say.

“For saving your life, dear, and I'm not going to let you forget it,” she yells as the car speeds off.

Oh my God, if I had any sense I'd lie down in the middle of the road and pray for a six-wheeler to flatten me like an IHOP pancake. Ha, ha. My little joke makes me laugh, which hurts my head and makes my eye throb.

I sing the score to
Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street
as I trudge along the highway. I make it back to the motel in one piece. About halfway there I throw my pilfered cigarette on the ground and stomp it to bits.

When I arrive at the room we are sharing, Helen is sitting on her bed, tweezing her one big eyebrow into two small ladylike ones. I don't say a word.

“So, the prodigal ingénue returns,” she says, not looking up.

I go in the bathroom and sit on the toilet for fifteen minutes. I wash my face, then open the door, and see Helen doing sit-ups, military style,

I grab my wallet and head out of the room to the motel bar I noticed off the wood-paneled lobby. I perch myself on one of the barstools.
The Late Show with David Letterman
is playing on the TV over the bar. The guy at the desk, who is also the bartender, takes my order.

“Scotch on the rocks, please.” He pours me a double.

“Thanks,” I say and stare at the TV. Dave is interviewing some gushing starlet with long blonde hair extensions. I go over to the cigarette machine, fish out a handful of coins from my pocket, and buy a pack of Marlboros. I sit and smoke and drink two more scotches. The desk guy/bartender joins me for a drink.

“What happened to your eye?” he asks.

“A rat ate it,” I say.

T
HE FIRST SHOW
is at nine the next morning. There are two shows here, and then we will drive for a few hours and do an evening performance in Buckhandle. We arrive at the theater by eight. My head and eye are throbbing in syncopation. The sponsors have provided coffee and two big boxes of breakfast pastries. Everyone is being very nice to me this morning. Helen offers to carry my coffee because of my depth perception handicap. There is one large dressing room, boys on the left and girls on the right sort of thing. I find a spot and start to unload my makeup kit. Helen places my coffee in front of me along with a big sticky bun.

“Thanks,” I say with as much warmth as I can muster, which believe me wouldn't melt a pat of butter.

I squint into the mirror. Which is worse, I wonder, looking like
Baby Jane or like an escapee from a zombie movie? What the hell am I going to do about the big white bandage on my eye? Maybe I could put some pancake makeup on it and then draw an eye. That'll be pretty.

I'm still staring in the mirror when Randall sits down next to me and opens his kit. He roots around for a while.

“Aha, I knew I had one of these,” he says, pulling out a black eye patch. “Here, Mags, try this on. It should do the trick. And I think I have some glitter here somewhere. That with a little spirit gum will do the trick.” He hands me the patch. “I think we'll have to take the bandage off and put some cotton over your eye. Who has some cotton?”

“I have cotton balls,” Eddie pipes up.

“Look, I can do this myself,” I say.

“Shut up, missy,” Randall says. “Now I'm going to apply a little base before we do the patch.” Randall gently covers my face with a layer of makeup. Then he applies the rest of my makeup, including blush and lipstick. And manages to attach plenty of glitter to the patch with spirit gum. I look rather splendid.

“Fifteen minutes, please,” Frank yells into the dressing room.

“Thanks, Randall,” I say.

“My pleasure, sunshine.”

“Goodness,” Helen says. “I haven't even started my hair.”

I make my way to the backstage area where Dee-Honey is setting the props.

“How are you, honey?” she asks. “Oh, I like the eye-patch. I had an uncle who lost an eye in the war.”

“How did that happen?” I ask.

“Bayonet. It just missed his brain. One of the Nazi hordes. Came out right in front of his ear.” She rummages through the
trunk of props. “He used to take his glass eye out and roll it between his fingers and then pop it back in the socket.”

Why did I ask? I wonder. The thought of it makes my eye pulse with pain.

I
GET MY CELL PHONE
and walk out of the building so I can get reception. I call Jack's number.

It rings about five times, then the message plays. “It's Jack. Leave a message and I'll call you back.”

“Jack, it's Maggie. I just want to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. Oh, I don't know what I'm saying. Just wanted to say hello. I'm in West Virginia to do some shows, but I'll be back in New York some time tomorrow. Maybe we could talk. And . . . and . . . I love you, Jack.”

I flip my phone closed as Randall Kent comes around the corner.

“Frank just called five minutes,” Randall says. Then he stops and gets a look at me. “For goodness sake, what's wrong?” he asks.

“I'm having . . . a difficult day.”

“I'll say,” Randall puts his arm around me and walks me back into the building. “Is some of this difficulty in the affairs of the heart?”

“You could say that, definitely the heart.”

“Well, you'll survive, my dear. And you'll live to love another day.”

“Places, please,” Frank yells from stage right. I shake out my hands and stretch my lips. The theater is packed with kids waiting for me and my eye patch. If I can't hold onto prince charming in real life, I can at least snag one onstage.

W
E GET BACK
to New York late the next afternoon. Dee drops me on my corner. When I get home I have a message on my machine from Javan inviting me to the Comic Strip that night to watch his set. There is still no word from Jack. It's been over twenty-four hours since I called him, so I think it's a wrap. He is not going to be calling back and I don't blame him. I think the bird did it. Seeing birdie fly free made Jack want to be free. Free of me. Bixby curls up next to me and makes biscuits on my thigh. I scratch behind his ears the way he likes and we rock back and forth. “I love you, you love me, we're a happy family,” I sing through my tears.

I
GET TO THE
Comic Strip that night about a half hour before Javan's set. He is sitting at the bar drinking a beer.

“Hey, how you doing?” I say, coming up behind him.

“Mags, you made it?” Javan says, getting up and giving me a hug. “I'm trying to get in the zone. I love the eye patch, especially the glitter. It's very sexy.”

“Thanks, it's all the rage in West Virginia,” I say. “Look, I'll leave you alone to prepare. We'll talk after.”

“No, no. It's fine. Sometimes I zone out too much and the set is a real sleeper. I'm always trying to find the absolute best combination of beer, concentration, memorization, visualization, prayer, and sugar. I have to have a candy bar right before I go on. Snickers. And then I say three Hail Marys and—this is very important—I always pick up the microphone with my left hand. That's a must. Oh, and I have to wear red socks.”

“It's amazing you remember all of that
and
your material,” I say.

“Comedy is tough. Believe me.”

I sit down on the barstool next to Javan. The bartender comes over and asks what he can get me.

“I'm just visiting. Here for the show.”

“It's on me,” Javan says. “Have a drink.”

“I'll wait for the show. Don't I have to order something in the club?”

“It's all the same whether you order it out here or in there,” the bartender explains.

“Well then, I'll have a . . .” I hesitate. I can't remember how long it's been. I know I started my count over in West Virginia, but since I've lost track maybe it won't matter. Still I should try, even though a drink and a cigarette seem very attractive right now. “Anytime today,” the bartender says.

“Club soda . . . with a splash of cranberry juice and a twist,” I say.

“One Shirley Temple coming up,” the bartender says.

“Right. Great. That sounds good.” I feel like such a nerd.

Javan looks at his watch. “I better get backstage. We'll talk after my set. Sit up front so I can see you. And be sure to laugh.”

“Of course I will.” And then Javan leans over and kisses me on the lips which throws me completely off. In fact, I almost slide off the barstool. The bartender delivers my Shirley Temple. Javan heads backstage and I try to regain my balance. God, I wish I had a cigarette.

At ten of nine I go into the club with my Shirley Temple and sit at one of the front tables. The room is two-thirds full, mostly with thirty-somethings in suits, all of them drinking too much beer. There are some older folks dressed primarily in synthetic blends, tourists from the polyester belt. A group of Asian couples occupies the table to my left. They are having a lively conversation
in what I think is Japanese. One of them appears to be quite a comedian in his own right, and every time he says something the whole table squeals with delight. Javan definitely has his work cut out for him.

The MC comes on and delivers a couple of lukewarm jokes and then introduces Javan. “Just back from a nationwide tour, shared a bill in Las Vegas with George Carlin, here's the funniest man I ever met from Marysville, Minnesota—Mr. Javan Jones.”

There is a splatter of applause. Javan appears onstage, removes the microphone from the stand with his left hand, swallows the last bite of his Snickers bar and begins.

“So I was in Pennsylvania a few weeks ago and driving behind this Amish buggy.” Javan goes through his Amish material and his Laundromat material and his divorce material. The audience responds here and there and I laugh like a madwoman. The Shirley Temple is starting to kick in; I signal the waitress and order another round.

“And do you have any peanuts or beer pretzels,” I whisper to her when she delivers my drink. Javan glares at me. I guess I was louder than I thought. Then the Asian couples get out their money and begin to tally up their check. Javan is losing us and he knows it, so he pulls out the blue material. He tells a joke about two waitresses with big breasts and a bald short order cook. The Asians laugh. I smile and the folks from the polyester belt signal the waitress for their check. Javan finishes up and exits quickly. The MC comes back and introduces the next act, a woman who appeared on two episodes of
Friends
and opened for Joan Rivers in Atlantic City last month. I meet Javan back at the bar. He is guzzling a beer.

“So what did you think?” he asks.

“Great. You were great,” I say.

“It was a tough crowd. That Amish stuff usually kills and the divorce bit is new, of course. I need to work on that. Well thanks for coming. It was great to have you out there.”