New Story

The play’s the thing…
The readiness is all.
William Shakespeare

All the world practices the art of acting.
Petronius Arbiter

Every performance is like a ghost – it’s there and then it’s gone.
Maggie Smith

The Play’s the Thing in Treydon

The citizenry of Treydon, a small municipality on highway sixty-five among upper Indiana farm communities, turned out in record numbers each May. The occasion was always a play at the local high school. By word of mouth, this year’s annual event had taken on heightened life.

Students talked to parents, parents to each other, neighbors to neighbors the way an artist such as Norman Rockwell might depict, spreading the news. It concerned William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, being performed by the Treydon High Drama Club. The whole thing, uncut, to a rock-band score. That was not, however, the only motivating factor to the auditorium’s being sold out for two performances (unprecedented). No, a goodly part of the event’s draw hinged on the students who had the roles of Oberon and Puck, one American, the other Malaysian.

Treyton High’s only foreigner ever, sixteen-year-old Shantanu Chaudary, had arrived officially at mid-year to board with well-known spinster, Agatha Cobb, aunt of the town’s only celebrity, Young Edwin Owen. He had made international news as an art prodigy in the  months before. Chaudary, it seemed, created his own sensation almost from day one. He knew cold the entire play – everyone’s lines – at every rehearsal, had crisp, British-accented delivery, and enjoyed already a reputation for outstanding competitive swimming.

Enrolled in some tenth grade classes and several in the eleventh grade, Chaudary, whom everyone called Shan, had excelled, along with senior Caswell Carter, in the recent All-State Swimathon at Hoosier State College. Blue ribbons for both had netted them a front page photo in The Treydon Journal. Side by side in their form-revealing white swim suits, the boys were shown holding up the team’s trophy, a triumph worthy of such attention – the first ever won by the local team. Basketball trophies were plentiful, displayed with pride in a glass case in the front hall of Treydon High. But this brass cup had been destined for City Hall where it was received with ceremony. What scored additionally with readers’ eyes was the perfection of the students’ physiques. Afternoon sun had cast certain shadows that, as captured by the picture, heightened the boys’ endowments, the Malaysian’s in particular.

“Damn nigh ob-scene,” Mary Ashley’s father said at breakfast. His wife, Loretta, looked and backed away in disbelief. Their daughter bothered not to show interest.

She said merely, “He’s way cool. Nicest boy at school. He treats us girls really special. And, he’s smart.”

“Oh?”

“Daddy, I told you about him last term, when he was visiting here. He did the most amazing stuff in English class, you know, when we were studying Julius Caesar. And a lot of other stuff. He can memorize ’most anything. He’s hot, hot, hot. All the girls are mad about him.”

“Well, you better stay clear, young lady. That type’ll be all over you.”

Mary laughed, “No he won’t. He’s not permitted to date. Ms. Cobb has an agreement with him about that. He’s, like, celibate or something. That’s rad! She lets him go to movies with us or hang out sometimes but only when Jesse Boyd or Caswell is there to keep an eye on him. They’re, like, her spies or something.”

Slow to react, Mr. Ashley, thought back before Christmas, “I remember Carl’s father telling me there’d been a fight of some sort back a while.”

“Yeah, and Carl got creamed.”

“For?”

“For picking on Jesse Boyd.” Mary looked at her mother and said, “You know how Carl and Harry and Tom have always bullied him. He’s so mild and they’re so mean. If Caswell hadn’t stepped in, Carl might have really been hurt. Shan’s like a martial arts guy.”

“Bill, I played bridge back then with Jesse’s mother, Sally, and heard all about it. Those boys have gotten worse since reaching high school,” Loretta Ashley said. “They target little Jesse because he’s sort of a runt. He hasn’t grown the way they have and he isn’t athletic. Aggie Cobb was in the game that day, so I heard her opinion.”

“And what was that?”

“I know,” Mary cut in. “You told me, Mom. Ms. Cobb called Carl ‘a re-tard with unresolved gender issues.’ I asked Mrs. Wolfe at school, she’s our counselor and knows about things like that. She said Carl’s ‘mental maturity’ wasn’t ‘fully adjusted to his physical maturity yet,’ but she said not to tell.”

Bill Ashley – whose thoughts usually ran to concerns for crop production and animal husbandry before turning to problems of municipal operations – headed for Town Hall. At nine sharp, the Council met. He wanted to see that trophy cup thing and speak with the mayor. The man he ran into was an old buddy, police captain Sam Wright, the swim team’s original coach. “Sam, what can you tell me about the swim team’s prize? Saw it this morning in the paper.”

They shook hands.

“I wuz there. Shoulda seen it y’self. The whole team ain’t worth very much but them two, Caswell and Shan, man, they killed it. Y’couldn’t imagine how good they done got to be.”

“How good?”

“Talk to the reverend. He’ll tell ya. Cas-well’s gittin’ a scholarship at Hoosier state fer his swimmin’ and his academics. He kin do a lot with that.”

“What about that foreign kid?”

“Shan-tanu? Trained the whole time he wuz away after his visit here las’ Fall. Had some famous coach in Pe-nang. Took it serious. His family must have money. When he got back to Treydon and in the water at Hoosier State, Coach Adams tol’ me the diffrunce was unfuckin’ believable. Well, that ain’t whut he said. He don’t use terms like that. Shan’s been  thataway the whole damn time. Workin’ and workin’ at evathing. Walter Adams said, and I believe him, that Shan could go for the O-lympics one day.”

“Walt, the principal? You’re kidding?”

“Nope. Ask the reverend. He’s taken that to boy like he was his secon’ son. Hopes to git him to come to church. Ain’t likely. Heard he’s a hin-doo or whatever.”

                                                                            ***

The arrival in town of English-teacher-drama-club-coach Ellie Grayson’s friend from Indianapolis, Geoffrey Zachary Taylor, and his musicians, a well-enough known, three-piece rock group called We3, occasioned more opportunities for PR by the school. Zachary directed summer stock in the capitol, and was rumored to be considering Shan for the production there of the same play in the city’s parks during July and August.

The Treydon try-out, with its new music, was, as the head of the county school board, the school principal, and the mayor had agreed, “cost effective.” The troupe had brought along all the costumes (tunics, cloaks, and fairy wings), so the real expenses amounted to such scenery as was needed – a project of the woodworking class at Treydon High. The senior computer class took on the technicalities of laying out the program booklet, lighting the stage, and projecting certain special effects. A home economics class, all girls except for Jesse Boyd, had shifted their semester’s final project to stage make-up. The initial result: the appearance all over town of a number of fairly dramatic, slightly overwrought faces, their expressions drawn, painted, and powdered on. Those faces improved by what Mrs. Grayson called “a significant learning curve.”

More people had become involved than anyone could recall. Eighteen “actors” and thirty or more young students from Marcella’s School of Dance (“Ballet  & Broadway Our Specialty”).

Those from the three classes and their teachers amounted to twenty some-odd. Family members such as parents and grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins were joined by their neighbors and virtually the whole student body of Treydon High as well as the town council, school employees and every one of the customers of Ed Sloane’s Nursery (suppliers of the potted trees, bushes, and posies needed on the stage – advertised as “A forest half-off after the show”) and We3’s dozen or more local fans – snapped up the majority of the tickets. Six hundred seats a night for two nights at ten dollars for adults and five dollars for those seventeen or younger meant an in-take of close to eight thousand dollars, quite the Treydon record.

A last minute run on the box office followed the day-before spread in the Journal of a  half-page photo of the full cast in dress rehearsal, caught in the split-second when Shan Chaudary’s scantily-clad, leaf-masked body was in a mid-air leap – one leg out straight and the other tucked under – off a supposed boulder (made by the shop class). “Now that’s something,” ninety-one year-old Marjorie Gatlin said, peering through her magnifying glass and reading that the costume had been custom-made in Malaysia. She corralled virtually the entire membership of her senior citizen center by whispering none too softly to her closest cronies, “His basket is so big even we can see it.” A couple of old fellows within earshot noticed and decided they, too, should attend. Their eyes gleamed.

Numbers brightened the manager’s day at the Best Western Inn a few blocks from Treydon High. Best Western’s Harry Cropper had reservations for a double in the name Chaudary, a double in the name Dawson, a double in the name Brawne (three in that room), and a single in the name Tanner. The eight persons arrived in two vehicles, three in a Honda Accord and the others in a rented, five-seat Toyota van, a rather luxurious one at that. Rapidly, he discovered that they were there for the evening’s play at Treydon High. “Oh yes? It’s talk of the town,” he said, smiling his best.

“Our son’s the star,” the mature Indian lady offered.

“My brother,” Afzal, her son, joined in.

Just like that, the groups took key cards and broke for their rooms on the top floor. None was so crass as to comment on “the scenic view” from upstairs. It wasn’t much. Edwin pointed out such landmarks as there were: the school, the town hall and, in the distance, Rev. Carter’s church. The library he located “over there,” the police and fire station “behind the town hall but hard to see from here.”

The phone in the Brawne room rang as the party of three entered. Edwin went for it, “Aunt Aggie, is that you?”

“No, Edwin, it’s me, Anne from next door. Aggie got involved over at the school but she’ll meet all of you at the Olive Garden at five. That’s forty-five minutes from now. Okay?” her voice rose as if about to sing.

“Great. I’ll tell everyone. Thank you for calling.”

“One more thing, they should wear what they’re going to for the play. There won’t be time to return, then change.”

“Thank you, Anne. We’re looking forward to seeing you.”

“Oh, and something else.” She never lets go of anyone’s ear. “We can’t attend the cast party. That’s only for the students, but Erich and I will host you people at our house right after and we can all have brunch before you start back to Chicago tomorrow. Is that all right?”

“I’m certain, Anne. Thank you again. Now, I’ve got to hang up if we expect to make the Olive Garden on time.”

“My goodness, yes. That’s only forty minutes away now. Bye-bye.”

                                                                          *

Tall Salil Chaudary’s midnight blue, lustrous silk suit and ruby red neck tie may have caught a few eyes at the Olive Garden but the sari worn by his wife Nirupa stopped the place cold. New and glistening with gold threads, its were Mughal colors and woven design so rich as to suggest royalty or great wealth. Wondering who the exotically astonishing couple might be, waitresses, management, and customers gaped. Agatha Cobb had no doubt.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she told Nirupa. They had met in Chicago. “On you that looks very good.” Her hands squeezing Salil’s and Dalton’s simultaneously, she said, “Welcome to Treydon. You’re in for a treat.” She turned to the remaining men and the two teens behind them, one arm in their direction, the other pointing to the table. “Welcome gentlemen and my nephew and the adorable Afzal. No ceremony. We’ve got to order.” Afzal received a pat on the head. As Edwin passed, she managed a quick hug.

What a good mood she’s in! 

Seated, in fine spirits, around the largest circular table on the premises and wrestling with the restaurant’s plastic laminate menus, they heard Agatha account for the sensations of opening night. Her face more expressive than was her habit, she started with what they already knew (Shan had called Edwin with the news), that the girl who was supposed to play Hermia, beloved of Lysander, took ill with stage fright and that there was only one person, not already in the play, who knew the lines and who could fill in, Jesse!

“Mind you, Jesse’s exactly the same size as Hazel, so the costume went right on. He had to abandon his job of doing makeup for others. Wasn’t that cute?  A few artificial rosebuds in his hair (which is curly and fluffy-long), he looked rather like Hazel. The only fly in the ointment was silly Carlos what’s-his-name, the Lysander, who was scared of the closeness they’d have to show. Ellie and Zack told him to pretend, not to worry. Besides, they reminded him, “You want people to know you’re a good actor, don’t you?” She snickered, “When they had their little plan to elope, Carlos-as-Lysander forgot and looked toward Jesse-as-Hermia at the moment the girl was to kiss his cheek – and got it on the lips!” She canted her head sideways, “A few cat-calls were heard out front, one in the unmistakable voice of Jim Youngblood – you know, that nasal twang he has, Edwin?”

 Edwin didn’t. Jim Youngblood’s body he did remember from swim-team tryouts. Not bad. Maybe like one of Lucas Cranach’s Adam forms he’d seen in an art book. Skinnier, though. A frown and a shake of his head indicated that it was of no matter. Agatha returned to her story.

Caffeinated drinks hot and cold arrived with garlic-buttered breadsticks and bowls of Alfredo sauce, to be dealt with preliminarily as she swept back into her account. “In their woodsy scene, Carlos came on to Jesse with a bit of off-the-book byplay which caused applause. Zack said they’d keep it in the Indy show. Anyway, our Puck stole practically every scene – not only because he’s so good but because of a sound effect Zack’s people had come in town with: keys, a lot of them hung on fishing lines from a frame, each strand about an inch from the next so they’d clink into each other when you run your fingers through them. Made a strange, pretty, tinkling sound every time Shan appeared or exited – magic, you know. Got its own applause about the third or fourth time Shan disappeared. Another fun thing was when Zack had the little fairy kids in their cute wings and fluttery costumes dance off the stage, down its side steps, and into the aisles teasing the audience. Mind you, to the racket of those rockers. It’s like Zack and Ellie told me at the first dress rehearsal. The contrast of old – the Greeky appearance – and the new – rock music – would unite both aspects of the production for very lively audienc reaction. Anyway, you’ll see.”

Just begun were their Caesar salads with grilled shrimp (the Chaudarys and George), their chicken and gnocchi (Agatha), ravioli with Portobello mushrooms (Edwin, and Afzal), eggplant parmigiana (Dalton and Roger), and meatballs and spaghetti (Tom) – when in walked Rev. and Mrs. Carter to sit at a nearby table. “Look,” Aggie exclaimed to the Chaudarys, “those are the parents of your boy’s swim partner. I must introduce you.” Standing, she hailed the Carters who were beside themselves to be meeting Shan’s parents, brother, and friends.

“What a fine young man you’ve sent us. He’s been inspiring all of us. And Young Edwin, we’re all so proud of you – you’re on television.” Mrs. Carter seemed genuine. “And you must be the man,” she reached for Roger’s hand, “who started Shan on swimming. We’ve heard so much about you, too.”

Agatha said, “Nell, that’s Dalton Brawne, who’s taken in my nephew and the Chaudary’s other son, Afzal, over there. He’s eighty, but you’d never know it – Dalton, not Afzal.”

Some laughed.

“That gentleman,” she pointed to George, “George Tanner provided the launching pad for Young Edwin in Chicago last Summer, and next to him is Tom Loft, who helps everyone he knows in many ways.” She spun on a dime to, “So, what did you think about the play?”

After hands were shaken and cheeks bussed, two more settings were laid, crowding the table beyond its limit of ten but adding to the occasion’s impromptu congeniality. Suspicious and watchful was George, his eye looking for cracks in anyone’s armor, especially where religion might loom. Rev. Carter, whose son was his smitten image, struck him as a charismatic person. Tom received a whack on the ankle after whispering, “Bet he’s good in bed.”

Young Edwin had administered it. “You better behave,” was his whispered reply, “or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You won’t get to go. Auntie’s got the tickets. And believe me, if you cause any embarrassment with these people, that will be only the first of the unintended consequences tocome. Be-ware.”

A tone of voice resembling George’s at its darkest crept from Young Edwin’s deepening throat. Menace – from a sweet-faced friend!

Neither had heard Rev. Carter’s take on the play. Shocking, he thought, but not wrong. Amplified music a bit much, but did provide relief from the old poetry and prose. Crazy disco- style dancing helped relax the actors, he thought further, and drew in the audience, especially those hundreds of kids.

Agatha asked, “Were you happy with Caswell’s performance? I was. He stands well, says his lines perfectly, and moves smoothly. Always hits his mark, Shan says.”

“We were very pleased,” Nell replied, then turned to her husband, who said, “The Lord was with him all the way.”

That did it for George, who excused himself to leave for the restroom.

Fools.

The hostess paid the tab with “good old Dalton” covering the gratuity (“Entirely my pleasure, Aggie dear.”). The group’s progress was followed closely by every woman in the dining room. The smooth movements of her sari with its trailing pallu gave Nirupa a particularly feminine, floating effect. Salil, erect at her side, moved with equal, but handsome, manly grace.

Someone near the entrance, a woman who had been at Saturday’s performance with her girls, put two-and-two together and told her companion, “See who they’re with – that odd Cobb woman? They must be the family of that boy last night. Oh my God, that Malaysian boy, the one who wore the jungle suit! My daughter, who’s fifteen, nearly lost her mind over him. My, aren’t

they something?”

“You mean the swimmer who was in the paper?”

“That one.”

“Wish I’d been there.”

* * *

Taken upstairs by Agatha Cobb to the balcony in Treydon High’s auditorium, her entourage heard the reason: “Best sightlines in the place and as far away from the amplifiers as we can get. Plus the fact that I was able to get in here before meeting you. See.” She indicated her red-ribbon handiwork tied across six seats and the taped-on cards emblazoned in fire engine red: VIP, centered in the front row. “If we were downstairs, Shan might see us. Up here, with the spotlights they’ve added on each side, he can’t tell anything so the element of surprise should be one-hundred percent.”

So there.

Five-hundred-ninety-four people more noisily took their seats, filling the hall. Expectancy bristled. A second or two prior to We3’s entry (lustily applauded) into the small floor space curtained off as the instrumentalists’ ‘pit,’ Agatha leaned across Dalton to say to her nephew, “Shan’s not the only one in for a surprise tonight.”

House lights dimmed to half, then darkened completely. A little girl in fairy get-up, stepped through the faded gold curtain to arrive in a pool of white as the drummer tapped boldly, then less so, eventually softly, an anapestic pattern to let the audience adjust. Bap-bap-trrrr – bap-bap-trrrr – bap-bap-trrrr….  A deep breath launched the child into this piping chant:

You-will-see
A com-e-dy
Shake-es-peare
Without a fear
Madcap ma-gic
Nothing tra-gic
Boys and girls
Lots of curls
Love a-bove
Much screwed up
All to fill
A loving cup
Juicy stuff
Off the cuff
So it seems
Quite the schemes
For ma-ny dreams
London’s po-et
Sure did know it
Treydon’s the site
For our night
Got that, right?
It’s our night!

She bobbed her head. Her mother cheered. Hands batted together for the second time. The spotlight went out. All the house clapped. A boy’s voice guffawed, “Go Treydon!”

In the balcony, Young Edwin Owen, jaw clenched, had turned ashen, something like murder on his mind.

The band banged out a short rock-style “overture.” Knowledgeable folk heard a motif or two from Mendelssohn and a couple of exaggerated hee-haw donkey effects before the curtain opened.

Eighty-year-old Dalton, whose arm was being clawed, took the hand and said, “Are you all right?” unconsciously in the same rhythm that child had been chanting.

“I am not,” Edwin chanted back, beneath his breath.

“Whose fault is that?”

“Hers,” he nodded toward his aunt. “She did this to me.”

Theseus had entered and begun to speak his opening line, “Now fair Hyppolyta….”

Dalton turned to Agatha for an explanation.

Mightily pleased with herself, she whispered, “Shan’s surprise for Edwin. He found it. When Edwin was eleven or twelve, he wrote that rhyme after reading the story in a Classic Comic. I think it’s cute. Shan touched up the ending and we got it included in the show.”

“Long withering out a young man revenue,” ended Theseus’ opening.

Hyppolyta responded, “Four days will quickly steep themselves….”

Dalton mussed his youthful husband’s hair, but Edwin was having none of it. “Tell her she’s dead,” he murmured.

A shush from behind stopped the exchanges. The front row of the balcony simmered down as Act One proceeded. Aunt and nephew leaned forward together, rapt, as the young studs Lysander and Demetrius followed Egeus and his daughter Hermia (Shan’s boyfriend, Jesse!). 

The entertainment truly had begun.

Lysander stroked Hermia’s “cheek so pale.” They argued as lovers must in a play. With his promise to marry her and her concurrence with that promise, Lysander sweetly took Hermia in his arms and kissed her full on the mouth.

Cheers from the house. A “shit” and a “damn” were spoken among certain Treydon swim team members not in the play.

Intermission. Fifteen minutes. Not enough.

Chatter erupted in the balcony and downstairs. Quick runs on the toilet facilities. Merry confusions of comments, suppositions beyond discussion, wild propositions, suggestive suggestions (a few unmentionable), bountiful banter among young, middle-aged, and old. The Chaudarys and Dalton noted the differences between this performance and what they had seen of excerpts in George Town – to the engaged fascination of George, Tom, and Roger. Off in a side aisle, Young Edwin cornered his aunt, “You let Shan dust off that baby poem of mine! How could you? Now he knows we’re here.”

“He knew that you and Afzal were coming. That’s all. We thought it’d be a good joke on you – and it was. You looked cru-ci-fied,” she emphasized, staring him down. “Shan has no clue all the others are here. So, cool down and get with the program. It’ll do you good. Drink some water. Go to the restroom if there’s still time.”

Always planning for me.

As the curtains opened on Act Two, people rushed for their seats to the enchantment of clinking, tinkling keys (suspended on fishing line) emanating mysteriously from the pit – an aural penumbrum of magic preceding Puck’s stealthy creep out of the forest, head first – looking left and right for the Fairy. A long leg in view, a muscled arm, then suddenly two steps forth like a deer into focused light to greet the creature, “How now, spirit! whither wander you?”

The show almost stopped for the applause because the Fairy’s first effort at, “Over hill, over dale,” couldn’t be heard. Shan stood straight, held up his right hand, and pointed with his left at the Fairy then half bowed in the girl’s direction. She giggled and began again with heartened spirit. He did that just for me. For me, she thought a-twitter.

During the long exchange between Oberon and Titania, Puck listened in more ways than had been rehearsed, not quite stealing the scene but coming close. No one could take an eye off him, especially at the point when he, acting bored, lay back on the big rock and rolled his pelvis, popping to attention only at Oberon’s, “My gentle Puck, come hither.”

Shan was so coy that Caswell, his best friend, almost laughed trying to deliver his remembrance of a mermaid. They had two more brief scenes before the stage yielded again to Lysander and Hermia.

What might happen? A large part of the crowd sat rooted upon the edge of its seats.

Hermia’s ravishing, girlish sweetness threatened to overcome Lysander. Amid the verdure, he made too much of his efforts to lie down with Hermia. They rolled one atop the other – moves never rehearsed – as “she” tried to escape his arms – such that a few of their lines suffered. His lips persisted in trying to find hers. Her line, “So far be distant,” had never been planned as petulant any more than her, “good night, sweet friend,” but both were.

The audience howled.

Puck showed up exactly on time with his phial of magical liquid. He peered at Hermia, inspected Lysander a bit intimately – He does have an erection! – and, as he made ready to deliver, “Churl, upon thy eyes I throw all the power this charm doth owe,” he used his free hand to dig into the sleeper’s shoulder, hard. Lysander twitched in discomfort. Shan improvised, “Now to sleep” – said with determination – then continued, “or else,” and his tone altered lullingly at, “and when thou wakest, let love forbid….” – as if nothing unusual had taken place.

Hermia’s subsequent entreaty of the sleeping Lysander sounded so pathetic, it garnered a big hand for Jesse.

Backstage, the second intermission, also of fifteen short minutes, gave flushed-with-success Jesse a chance to be hugged by Mrs. Grayson before Shan pulled him into a shadowy area to ask, “Was Carlos molesting you? If he was, I’ll….”

Nervously, Jesse’s long eyelashes fluttered. “He’s just mixed up.  Leave him alone. I’m   going to ask him to see Mrs. Wolfe. She’ll help him. Right now, Shan,” he pecked his lover’s bare shoulder, “the show…must…go…on. And Shan, I think you’re wonderful.”

Act Three promised Puck’s return for the messenger scene and Hermia’s impassioned exchanges with Helen and Lysander before for the resolution.

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