pain.”
I felt as if I was watching Uta Hagen bitch-slap Marlon Brando. Lucas’s one good eye focused intently on Lorna, while the other one tried desperately to open fully. It was like watching a mildly retarded baby chick being born. But there was beauty within that ghastly looking inflamed eye. And ratings.
“Action!” the director shouted.
There was a kind of hush all over the set and then the magic of soap opera began. Lucas and Lorna as Roger and Ramona played out their scene with more sincerity and passion than either of them had ever previously produced under the harsh, unforgiving studio lights. At the end of the scene Lucas dropped to his knees, not out of thankfulness that he just delivered the performance of his life, but out of anguish as his reddened eye began to swell. This time when the director shouted, it was for an ambulance.
As they wheeled Lucas away on a gurney I waved good-bye, but since I was on the side with the injured eye I’m not sure that he saw my show of support. The director called for an emergency meeting with the writers to write Lucas’s character out of the rest of the script, so I took the opportunity to press speed dial number one on my cell phone and once again call Frank. Just as I was hearing his message I got an incoming call. Could Frank finally be answering one of my many voice messages? Nope, just my mother. Well, if I couldn’t be satisfied, at least I could satisfy.
“She’ll do it,” I said.
My mother and I speak the same language so there was no need for me to explain any further.
“That’s wonderful!” she shrieked. “Paula D’Agostino is going to shit a brick when I tell her I booked Lorna Douglas.”
“I’m so glad I could help.”
“Tell your Lorna dress rehearsal will be the night before the show in the Community Room,” she said. “I’ll make some refreshments and there’ll be a small invited audience so she can get the feel of the room.”
“Ma, when exactly is the show?” I asked, then held my breath.
“The eighteenth,” she replied.
“No!” I shouted, releasing my angry breath into the spiteful, spiteful air. “You have to push it up a week.”
“I can’t do that, December is completely booked. I have the Christmas tree lighting, the nativity play, the children’s pageant starring Lenny Abramawitz as Santa.”
“The gay Jew is playing Santa?”
“The children do not need to know!”
“Ma! Lorna won’t do the show unless it’s before the fourteenth, you have to rearrange your schedule.”
“It’s too late! I’ve already printed up the calendar of events. On heavy bond paper,” she replied. “We’re locked in until the end of the year.”
“Old people need to be flexible! Death is right around the corner.”
“I have no room for death in my date book,” my mother countered, then paused for effect. “Look, Stevie, just tell Lorna to have her girl call my girl and we’ll work this out.”
“I am your girl!” I shouted. “And I’m telling you we can’t work it out unless you change the date of your show.”
“Then get me somebody else. Not for nothing, but Lorna’s looking a little tired lately. She’s always clenching the sides of her eyes. She’s going to wrinkle if she keeps doing that,” my mother informed me. “Honey, Mama has to go. Coco, the seamstress, is here and she’s going to measure me for my Halloween costume. I’m going as Barbra Streisand.”
I involuntarily pulled the phone from my ear when my mother’s voice rose three octaves and twenty decibels.
“Come with me! We can be Barbra: Before and After! You can wear a midi-blouse and be Barbra from Funny Girl and I’ll be Babs from The Prince of Tides. I’m due for a manicure anyway.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Ma, I don’t dress up like a woman.”
“Oh come on! Our only competition for Best Couple will be Sheila and Vinny Caruso; they’re going as Myron and Myra Breckinridge. Vinny’s going to be Myra,
I felt as if I was watching Uta Hagen bitch-slap Marlon Brando. Lucas’s one good eye focused intently on Lorna, while the other one tried desperately to open fully. It was like watching a mildly retarded baby chick being born. But there was beauty within that ghastly looking inflamed eye. And ratings.
“Action!” the director shouted.
There was a kind of hush all over the set and then the magic of soap opera began. Lucas and Lorna as Roger and Ramona played out their scene with more sincerity and passion than either of them had ever previously produced under the harsh, unforgiving studio lights. At the end of the scene Lucas dropped to his knees, not out of thankfulness that he just delivered the performance of his life, but out of anguish as his reddened eye began to swell. This time when the director shouted, it was for an ambulance.
As they wheeled Lucas away on a gurney I waved good-bye, but since I was on the side with the injured eye I’m not sure that he saw my show of support. The director called for an emergency meeting with the writers to write Lucas’s character out of the rest of the script, so I took the opportunity to press speed dial number one on my cell phone and once again call Frank. Just as I was hearing his message I got an incoming call. Could Frank finally be answering one of my many voice messages? Nope, just my mother. Well, if I couldn’t be satisfied, at least I could satisfy.
“She’ll do it,” I said.
My mother and I speak the same language so there was no need for me to explain any further.
“That’s wonderful!” she shrieked. “Paula D’Agostino is going to shit a brick when I tell her I booked Lorna Douglas.”
“I’m so glad I could help.”
“Tell your Lorna dress rehearsal will be the night before the show in the Community Room,” she said. “I’ll make some refreshments and there’ll be a small invited audience so she can get the feel of the room.”
“Ma, when exactly is the show?” I asked, then held my breath.
“The eighteenth,” she replied.
“No!” I shouted, releasing my angry breath into the spiteful, spiteful air. “You have to push it up a week.”
“I can’t do that, December is completely booked. I have the Christmas tree lighting, the nativity play, the children’s pageant starring Lenny Abramawitz as Santa.”
“The gay Jew is playing Santa?”
“The children do not need to know!”
“Ma! Lorna won’t do the show unless it’s before the fourteenth, you have to rearrange your schedule.”
“It’s too late! I’ve already printed up the calendar of events. On heavy bond paper,” she replied. “We’re locked in until the end of the year.”
“Old people need to be flexible! Death is right around the corner.”
“I have no room for death in my date book,” my mother countered, then paused for effect. “Look, Stevie, just tell Lorna to have her girl call my girl and we’ll work this out.”
“I am your girl!” I shouted. “And I’m telling you we can’t work it out unless you change the date of your show.”
“Then get me somebody else. Not for nothing, but Lorna’s looking a little tired lately. She’s always clenching the sides of her eyes. She’s going to wrinkle if she keeps doing that,” my mother informed me. “Honey, Mama has to go. Coco, the seamstress, is here and she’s going to measure me for my Halloween costume. I’m going as Barbra Streisand.”
I involuntarily pulled the phone from my ear when my mother’s voice rose three octaves and twenty decibels.
“Come with me! We can be Barbra: Before and After! You can wear a midi-blouse and be Barbra from Funny Girl and I’ll be Babs from The Prince of Tides. I’m due for a manicure anyway.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Ma, I don’t dress up like a woman.”
“Oh come on! Our only competition for Best Couple will be Sheila and Vinny Caruso; they’re going as Myron and Myra Breckinridge. Vinny’s going to be Myra,
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