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���������������� �������� ����������� After my old man died I became an orphan.
My Fairy Godmother and that cricket weren�t around anymore to jump in when
things got tough. I guess they figured that once I was a real boy their job
was done and they could relax, for which I don't blame them.������� ����������� When the American troops took Palermo
there wasn't much else to do but steal bicycles. You'd think I'd have learned
by then not to get mixed up with that kind of stuff. I learned all right, but
real boys gotta eat. You remember the sly Fox and that miserable Cat who
repeated everything he said? They were in pretty bad shape back when I became
a real boy, but they bounced back right into the black market, which was like
their natural habitat. They got me into the bicycle stealing business, which
I'd probably still be doing if an American soldier hadn't adopted me. He was
a nice guy, soft heart and all, kinda dumb. One day he left his flashy
American bike on the street in front of a bar, chain-locked of course -- but
what were chains to me? I had it cut through in no time and was on my way
when an MP who didn�t have anything better to do stepped out of the
whorehouse next door and I crashed into him. He grabbed me by the neck and
asked me where I got the bike, which he figured I stole from an American
because no Italian kid had a bike like that, and I said my friend loaned it
to me. I said it in Italian, which he didn�t understand, so he whistled for
an Italian cop who asked me the same thing in Italian and I gave the same
answer. �What friend?� he asked. I pointed to the bar and they dragged me in,
bike and all, and demanded that I point out my friend. I was thinking about
the odds being all against me. Even if I made a lucky guess and pointed to
the bike owner among the twenty or so soldiers in the bar, what�s he going to
say? Just then a guy turned around and saw us. ����������� �Hey, waddya doin with my bike?�
he yelled. ����������� �I caught this kid tryin to steal
it,� the MP said. He didn�t know any Italian, so he hadn�t caught the friend
alibi. ����������� �He says you�re his friend,� the
cop said in Italian, which the guy understood a little, �and you loaned it to
him. These kids are all liars.� ����������� The soldier looked down at me
crying with my head down and wiping my dirty face with my sleeve, and he
said, �Yeah, I�m his friend.� I looked up at him, thinking that maybe my
Fairy Godmother was still around after all. ����������� The cop mumbled something
unprintable in Italian, let go of my collar and stormed out. The MP shrugged
and followed him. ����������� �Why�d you steal my bike?� the
soldier asked me. I bawled some more, which was easy because I learned to do
it when I was still a puppet, while trying to think of something. ����������� �I�m hungry,� I finally said, �and
if I had a bike I could find work delivering things and have some money for
food.� Or something like that. I didn�t mention that I stole about ten bikes
a day, mostly beat up junk, for which the Fox and the Cat gave me cigarettes
and food and even money sometimes. The soldier shook his head sadly and led
me over to the bar and ordered a coke and a hamburger for me. I gobbled it
down as though I hadn�t eaten in a month, although I�d just had breakfast and
wasn�t very hungry. He asked me where I lived and I said on the street, which
was half true because I had no permanent home, although at the moment I was
shacked up with a little whore from Naples who had a pretty nice pad,
considering circumstances. Trouble was I had to disappear whenever she had
customers. Well, to make a long story short so I can get to the point, that
soldier put me up with an army family until he was ready to go back to the
States and he decided to adopt me and take me with him. He was a do-gooder,
in the positive sense. He said he couldn�t help all the poor kids in Sicily,
but he could at least help one -- me. ����������� We went to live in his hometown, a
jerkwater in Nebraska, where he married his childhood sweetheart, a
schoolteacher, and settled down in his father's insurance business. I lived
in a nice house, had plenty to eat, good clothes and even my own new bike. I
had it made, it would seem. A big problem was that the town was 99% fucking
Wasps. ����������� My troubles started in school. The
first day of class the teacher asked me my name. I knew English pretty good,
by the way. Any thief in Naples worth his salt has to know English. I stood
up and answered: �Pinocchio.� There was silence in the classroom for a few
moments, until some wise-ass said, �Pinocchio! Yeah it must be. Look at his
nose!� My nose is somewhat larger than the average Wasp�s, but in Italy a big
nose is nothing to be ashamed of. Someone started to laugh and before I knew
it the whole class was in hysterics. Some kids were even rolling on the floor
holding their stomachs. At first the teacher tried to restore order, but then
the bug got to her too, and she couldn�t help laughing with the rest of them.
I was mortified. When the teacher got control of herself she apologized over
the remaining giggles from the kids and asked me my last name. ����������� �Baccigaluppo,� which was
Gepetto�s name. ����������� �Pinocchio Baccigalupo!� a girl
screamed. ����������� �No!� I shouted. �It�s Poppins,�
which was my new father�s name. ����������� �Pinocchio Poppins!� the bitch
screamed and it started again. Soon the whole class was rolling around on the
floor and I thought the teacher was going to flop down any minute, she was
laughing so hard.� ����������� You can see why I didn�t like
school much. My name was the first obstacle, then I didn�t play baseball,
basketball or football, which is about all those kids did or talked about.
One thing I could do better than them was fight though, and I kicked the shit
out of two of the biggest ones the day after they all laughed at me. They
left me alone after that, too much alone, I guess. There was one girl who
liked me and she told me I should change my name. I agreed, but not there in
Nebraska and give them the satisfaction of knowing I was ashamed of my own
name. ����������� I graduated from high school and
my father wanted me to go to college, the University of Nebraska. I said no,
I was going to New York to be an actor. Back in Italy when I was in that
puppet show I got the bug and I had talent. The puppet-master was a sadist
who wanted to burn me for firewood, but I never forgot the acting experience.
My American father, who I suspect was glad to get rid of me, gave me some
money, a new watch and a handshake and I was on my way. ����������� If I had gone to acting school, as
I had intended, my money would have lasted about three months, so I tried to
get work in theaters on my own. If you ever tried that you know it�s
hopeless. I hadn�t been so depressed since I turned into a donkey. But at
least I was working then. I was wandering around in a funk down on the Lower
East Side where I had my pad when I saw the poster: Caf� Theater. I
must have passed it a dozen times and never noticed it. After all, who would
expect to see a theater in that neighborhood? It was as off Off-Broadway as
you could get without falling into the East River. The poster announced that
they were doing The Glass Menagerie. I�d pawned the watch my Dad gave
me as a going away present, but I figured it must be about eight o�clock. I
was in no condition to pay the price of a ticket and I was standing there
thinking about how I could sneak in, when a guy came storming out mumbling
something about never having seen anything so disgusting in his life. He
tossed his ticket stub over his shoulder and I ran to pick it up before it
blew away. I�d say I went out to take a leak if anyone checked me. The theater was in an old warehouse and you
had to follow arrows pasted on the walls to find it up on the second floor.
There were only about thirty seats crammed into a small space and it was
full. There was a beat up bar near the entrance, which was the
"caf�" part. I saw right away what had upset the guy who left. A
black woman was playing Amanda, the aging white Southern mother, while the rest
of the cast was white. I looked around and saw that the audience was very
attentive. The play was very well done and you forgot after about five
minutes that the actress wasn�t white, which says a lot for the her ability.
The program I found on my seat announced that the audience was invited to
wait at the bar to meet the actors, so I decided to wait. Most everyone else
left though and when the actors came out there were only five of us left from
the audience. The other four were at the bar, but I stayed in my seat because
I didn�t want to buy anything. According to the program the actress�s name
was Judy and she was also the Managing Director. She became famous later so I
won�t mention her last name because you�d recognize it. ����������� Without make-up she was twenty years
younger and beautiful. She came out smiling, but not for long. One of the
actors, the one who played the Son, grabbed her by the arm and said: �Ten
bucks? C�mon, Judy, you must have taken in a hundred tonight.�� �Yeah,� the other actor, the one who played
the Gentleman Caller, said, �what are you trying to pull?� The Daughter stood
behind them nodding like a simpleton. She must have been playing herself in
the play. ����������� �And who�s gonna pay the rent and
the expenses and the rights," Judy snarled, "you guys?� ����������� �What rent?� the Son yelled. �You
haven�t paid any rent in six months and you don�t pay for rights anyway.� ����������� They kept yelling at each other
and finally Judy told them if they didn�t like it they could fuck off. The
Son said okay, but he was taking his audio equipment with him -- which he did
-- and they left, just like that. Judy screamed something unprintable � an
exact translation of what the Italian cop said in that bar in Italy -- and
sat down on the floor and cried. By that time a young couple at the bar had
left holding their ears, leaving two guys there, one tall and the other
short, and me scrunched down in my seat. The two guys went over to Judy and
one of them lifted her under her armpits onto her feet. ����������� �There there, my dear,� he said in
an oily voice with an Italian accent, �let us be of service.� ����������� �...my dear, let us be of
service,� the short one repeated. I couldn�t believe my senses. What were the
Fox and the Cat doing in New York? ����������� �You are a wonderful actress and
you are well rid of those rank amateurs,� the Fox said. �Pray do not be sad.� ����������� �...do not be sad.� ����������� �I�m not sad, schmuck,� Judy said.
�I�m furious.� ����������� �And you have every right to be.� ����������� �...every right to be.� ����������� �What am I going to do now? We rehearsed
for three weeks, opened tonight with a hit and those egotistical bastards
leave me flat.� ����������� �Allow me to make a suggestion.�
the Fox said, starting to brush her off. ����������� �...make a suggestion.� ����������� �Go ahead, suggest, but take your
hands off the merchandise.� She went to the bar and poured herself a beer. ����������� �I am a well known director from
Rome visiting New York on a sabbatical. My name is Remus.� ����������� �Remus what?� ����������� �Er..Carolingus Remus. And this is
my assistant, Fidelius Feel. Both at your service.� ����������� �...at your service.� ����������� �My suggestion is to put on a
one-woman play," the Fox said, and paused for effect. "You won't
need to pay actors then. I will wire Rome that my return will be delayed and
I will be the director.� ����������� �...the dir--� ����������� �What one-woman play,� Judy asked,
suspicious but interested. ����������� �Well, how about Giorni Felici?�
����������� �What the fuck is that?� ����������� �Happy Days,� by Samuel Beckett� ����������� �...Samuel Baxit.� ����������� �That has two people,� Judy
objected. ����������� �True, but anyone can play Willie
-- even Feel here.� ����������� �...even Feel here.� ����������� �You must be kidding,� Judy
laughed. �I wouldn�t be seen dead with this runt.� ����������� �Hmm, that does present a problem,
but not an insurmount--� ����������� They hadn�t noticed me till then
so I coughed. ����������� �Who are you?� Judy wanted
to know. ����������� �An actor,� I replied, and stood
up to show how much taller I was than the Cat. ����������� �An actor!� the Fox bellowed.
�Just what we need. What is your name, my friend?� Luckily he didn't
recognize me, probably because I'd put on a lot more pounds and grown about a
foot since he last saw me. That's what I thought then, anyway. ����������� �...your name, my friend?" ����������� "Wood,� I said, thinking
fast. �Montgomery Wood.� So I
played Willie in Happy Days at ten bucks a performance and zip during rehearsals.
The Fox was the director and the Cat was the lighting technician. The Fox
wanted fifty per cent of the house, an outrageous cut, and Judy said okay,
fifty per cent of profits, which she didn�t expect to be much. The Cat was
also the cashier, which I didn�t think was a good idea. The Fox didn�t do
much directing. He just sat on a chair in front of Judy with his leg up on
another chair, in a directorial pose, and said, �Fine, dear. Wonderful,� --
when he showed up. �But what does it mean?� Judy would ask and the Fox
would say it�s absurd theater, dear, it doesn�t mean anything. A minimal set was required -- the mound, the
frame of which was hammered together by an amateur carpenter and covered by a
piece of canvas with a hole in it for Winnie's (Judy�s) head and shoulders.
She had a two-hour monologue to memorize and I helped her and when I got to
know her better I asked why she played white roles. She said she had been in
plays on Broadway and even movies, but was always cast as a colored maid or a
slave or a half-naked African native, so she decided to have her own theater
and play whatever roles she fucking well pleased. ������ ��������������������� ����������� Every night except Mondays I sat
leaning against the back of the mound playing Willie, while Judy went through
her monologue. I hummed a tune and blew my nose noisily a few times and let
the back of my head be seen occasionally. Once I held up a dirty postcard so
only it and my hand were visible. My big and only scene was at the end when I
crawled out from behind the mound dressed in wedding garb, top hat and all,
with a walrus mustache pasted on my lip. I passed to the front of the stage
in full view of the audience, crawled up the mound toward the toy pistol
lying at the summit an arm's length from Judy's head, rolled down again
before reaching it, reverted to the all-fours position and looked up at
Winnie while she sang the Merry Widow Waltz off key, glaring down at me as
the curtain fell. �� ����������� �In the first act Winnie is supposed to be buried up to her waist
in the mound, in the second act up to her neck. Judy would take her place on
a raised stool inside the mound and put her head through the hole. My
position was under and just behind her. This had its pros and its cons. On
the one hand, it allowed me to gaze up admiringly at her gorgeous ass. The
disadvantage was that she was prone to flatulence when she was nervous,
which, during performances, was always, so I was more or less permanently enveloped
in a fart-cloud. I tried to create tolerable working conditions by holding
the mound's flaps open with my feet and wafting them back and forth, but it
wasn't very efficient. Anyway, Judy complained that it disrupted her
concentration. ����������� I didn't just sit behind the mound
picking my nose (according to script) and waiting for my cue at the end of
the play, I was also the prompter. Once Judy skipped twenty pages and
suddenly, ten pages farther on, realized that something was wrong and kicked
me on the shoulder. I led her back to the point where she had strayed and
when she made up the twenty pages, I deftly skipped her over the ten she had
already recited and she sailed smoothly on from there to the end. The
audience didn't notice anything amiss. It wouldn't have made any difference
if the twenty pages were left out, except that the play would have ended too
early. ����������� Judy is a great actress and she
played the absurd role with such emotion (her face is very expressive), that
the audience was invariably moved and rewarded her with generous applause.
When I joined her at the last curtain call the applause was noticeably
louder, as though some arcane skill were required for my role. Judy didn't
like it very much, I could tell, but she could hardly protest, for I also had
a right to my moment of glory -- well, acknowledgment of my existence at
least.� ����������� Judy's back often ached from being
in the same rigid position for such a long time and I massaged it for her. At
one of the last rehearsals, when the two of us were alone, the Fox and the
Cat having been laid up with hangovers, I extended my massage down to her
buttocks and finally caressed the insides of her thighs. Judy moaned
passionately while continuing to say her lines. She had never been better.
After I rolled down the mound at the end she sprang up from her hole, slid
down the mound and landed on top of me. We struggled, fought, scratched,
screamed, kissed frantically and finally made love at the base of the mound.
I should add for historical accuracy that Gepetto used only the finest,
hardest wood: quebracho, imported from Argentina, and somehow the
molecules transferred to my flesh-and-blood pecker. ����� ����� Afterwards,
still lying on her back with her black dress bunched up over her waist, Judy
said, "Oh, Montgomery, that was extraordinary...marvelous...But
it must never happen again." ����������� "But Judy, I thought we could
include it, you know, change the ending." ����������� "No! The theater is sacred, a
temple, as is the play." ����������� I knew she got that stuff from the
Fox, and directors are personages to be feared, so I said nothing, which
didn't mean that I agreed. ����������� We had performed the play in public a dozen
times when it happened. During the middle of the second act I began to stroke
Judy's right leg. She missed a beat and tried to pull her leg away, but of
course she had nowhere to go. She kicked me in the head with her other foot
and I gave her her line without having to consult the script, which I knew by
heart. Then I crawled under the stool and caressed the insides of her thighs,
working my way up until my fingers were gently, expertly, massaging her
"pleasure pinnacle" as Confucius called it. She moaned her lines
for a few minutes, then lifted her face to the ceiling and cried, quite
sincerely: "I - can't - go - on!" and farted so exuberantly that I
was afraid the audience would hear it despite the canvas mound. It was a
mistake though. I should have restrained myself before her orgasm, I realized
later. I slipped quickly back to my accustomed place, wafted the flaps and whispered:
"Yes, Yes, I - must - go - on!"���������������������������������������� ����������� "Yes, yes, I - must -
go - on!" Judy emoted. I gave her the next line and she picked up the
rest of the text from there. It was the dramatic climax that the play
lacked.� ����������� Toward the end, after I rolled
down the mound and stood on all fours gazing up at her, I knew what we must
do to make theatrical history: exactly what we had rehearsed that fateful
day. I was ready. ����������� "Come!" I mouthed
silently up at her. Judy sang a few notes of the Merry Widow and broke off
with a sob. She knew, too. She thrust her right arm up out of the mound and
picked up the pistol. Slowly and deliberately she aimed at me and pulled the
trigger. The retort was deafening in that small enclosure and the audience
recoiled as though the bullet had pierced its own collective heart. I
twitched, arched my back like a menaced cat and flopped down. The Fox, who
had been lounging in the last row, sprang to his feet and signaled for the
curtain to fall. As he ran backstage the stunned audience broke into
thunderous applause. Judy took fourteen curtain calls, thirteen alone and one
with the Fox. If she hadn't had an orgasm a few minutes
before, she would have jumped out of her hole and we would have made ecstatic
love at the base of the mound just like in rehearsal, and I would have been
up there with them taking bows instead of being whisked away to the
waterfront by the Cat. ����������� A critic from a leading newspaper
happened to be in the theater that night because he had seen everything else
in town and was bored. His review was ecstatic. The Fox took credit for the
New Ending and it made his reputation. He returned to Sicily, then Rome, and
embarked on a brilliant career, with the Cat as his lackey. Beckett's estate
sued the Caf� Theater and won of course, but that only served to make it so
famous and well attended that Judy was able to move to a bigger theater
Off-Broadway. It is virtually certain that once Beckett's plays enter the
public domain the New Ending will be the standard version. ����������� And me? The puppet who had such
high hopes when he became a real boy? Still dressed in my wedding tux and top
hat, with the walrus mustache in place, a bullet hole where my left eye once
goggled at Winnie's ass and a cement block encasing my feet, I rested
vertically at the bottom of Long Island Sound with my hair streaming up like
spaghetti. Once again the Fox and the Cat had done me in. Somehow -- maybe
using ESP, more likely eavesdropping -- they anticipated what would happen.
Who else could have replaced that toy with a loaded pistol? I watched the giant shark approaching from a
vantage point above the water. (We hang around as spirits for three days
after death, you know; that�s why wakes last so long.) It couldn�t have been
the same one that swallowed Gepetto and me back in the Bay of Naples, but
basically they�re all one big family--una gran famiglia. This time I
was digestible. ����������� The advantage in being a real boy
instead of an immortal literary puppet is that I�m still around (up here),
waiting to be born again one day and win, I hope, the final round against my
two old antagonists. Whereas a puppet, once it hits the junk pile, is Wood. |
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�2002 Frank Thomas Smith |
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Frank Thomas Smith is, we
hope you've noticed by now, the editor of Southern Cross Review. This is one
of his stories included in the e-book "The Girl in the Floppy Hat and
Other Stories" in our E-Book Library. It was first published in The Barcelona Review |
