Loddy-Dah Page 2
“You look gorgeous,” Loddy deadpanned as the door swung behind her, bumping Dewey in the face. The Doors were singing Light My Fire on her transistor radio.
Rita, startled by the interruption, smeared the lipstick over her lip line.
“Now look. Look, what you made me do. And turn that ... that awful noise off,” she said, catching Dewey in the act of rubbing his nose. “Where have you two been? Samuel has been having a kanipshit.”
“Conniption, Rita, Conniption,” Dewey rolled his eyes.
“Isn’t that what I just said? Never mind.” She continued rummaging through her oversized handbag, searching for a Kleenex when she froze in mid thought, and sniffed the air, “What is that dreadful odour?”
“They’re fumigating our building for cockroaches. Guess we’re going to smell a bit.” Dewey winked at Loddy then disappeared upstairs.
Rita shut her eyes in exasperation, and began to hum the alphabet, then shook her head when she reached the Cs as though she had just remembered something and needed a moment. Rita had studied method acting; now she was Tallulah Bankhead. “Loddy, Darlink. Please, please, be a dear and do turn that thing off. The audience will hear.”
“Like, I don’t see anyone here.”
“They will come.” Rita resumed her hunt for a tissue, lips puckered up as though she were ready to plant a kiss on anyone who might walk by. Instead she came across a bottle of Chanel No. 5 and spray painted Loddy with a mini-squirt.
“Hey!”
Rita spoke in low octaves, trained by her vocal coach to delete any signs of her high-pitched Jewish voice, and to just breathe from the centre of her entire universe, her diaphragm. For Rita, life was one long audition with call backs.
“Take care of the box office, Loddy, darlink, while I run upstairs and fix my face.”
“Well, like I guess that’ll be forever,” Loddy said, her lips barely moving.
Rita didn’t hear. “Call me if anyone comes, darlink,” she said, voice fading into one of the dressing rooms upstairs.
Loddy slouched against the wall of the foyer, lolling, pulling up her body like a human rolling pin, sucking in her belly, a desperate attempt to look thin. Too fat to fit with any decent sense of comfort inside the box office, she began a series of squats using the wall for balance. Loddy never missed an opportunity to exercise.
She was wearing snug, red polyester slacks to conceal the abrasions from her fall so the pants hindered her grand pliés and leg lifts. For someone so big, Loddy possessed fluidity in her movements — jazz arms extended out to the sides with palms facing up, fingers poised in a balletic attitude, legs in second position. The dance classes with Marvel were paying off and yet, she still had loads of fat to dump.
People should be arriving soon ... or maybe not. Tuesday was not a big audience night. Tuesday was a warm-up for Wednesday, which was a warm-up for Thursday, which was a warm-up for Friday night. Saturday was usually a full house with friends and family occupying most of the seats.
The Garage Theatre, named after its past life as a garage, was owned by the Athletic Club next door, who sold the building when their liabilities outweighed their assets, and the English membership began to dwindle. The new identity as a converted two-hundred-seat avant-garde theatre, located just a breath away from the downtown police station, provided unsuspecting audiences with original, seductive productions that both provoked and entertained.
On Montreal’s English theatrical map, however, it was a punctuation, a question mark, a couple of dots away from the only other English theatre in town, the Centaur, and nowhere near the excitement and professionalism of the French theatres — Le Théâtre de Quat’Sous, Le Théâtre du Rideau Verte and Le Théâtre du Nouveau Monde.
The Garage Theatre had cultivated a reputation for showcasing experimental work — those off-off-off-off Broadway productions, sometimes called “Happenings,” staged in church basements and bars, or derelict buildings in New York’s Greenwich Village or the East Village. Samuel would often acquire bootlegged copies of plays, overriding copyright rules, and disguise the work as his own to accommodate the questionable talent of his semi-professional company. Still, critics were enchanted by Samuel’s magical ability to transpose a moment on a bare stage into a masterpiece simply by choreography of light and dark to paint a chiaroscuro scene.
“The man could direct the phone book if he had to,” a reviewer once wrote.
Loddy pressed her face against the glass doors for signs of an audience. A city street cleaner whizzed by in his truck whipping up a sweep of dust into the air; a young couple, student types, babbling in a blended mix of French and English, halted in a double-take to read the poster displayed on an easel:
No More Vodka
A light-headed summer musical that will
sober your body and raise your spirits
For a moment Loddy thought they might come in but they walked away giggling. She sighed. No one came because everyone was at the Exhibition. Even Dewey was excited about the entertainment at Place des Nations or the Youth Pavilion, and couldn’t wait to take the Metro every day to the islands, and see how many more pavilions he could visit and get his season passport stamped.
“Look. Almost full.” He had pulled it out of his pocket one day trying to convince Loddy to join him in a game of “how many pavilions can we visit in a day.”
“You’re probably the only one in all of Montreal who hasn’t been there.”
“Like, I have a few more months to go before it closes, Dewey.”
She flipped through his booklet noting the stamps from various pavilions: Kaleidoscope, Labyrinth, Pavilion Sovietique, Yugoslavia, Association des Antilles Françaises Expo 67, CN, Pavilion of the Republic of China, Sweden, Iceland, Norway, Denmark, Finland, Air Canada.
“So, like, uh, what do you get when the book’s full? A fridge?”
“Nah, nah, nah. It’s not like those pinky stamps you get at Steinberg’s. It’s just a souvenir. Something for the grandkids later. Never know, might be worth something one day.”
“Well, like maybe if I got a fridge or something, I might go, but I’m not standing in no line-up to go for a pee. In this heat? My feet are like starting to swell just thinking about it.”
Truth be known, it was a burden for her to walk or to stand for any length of time, to find an accommodating seat for her expanding girth, and so she preferred her own company rather than face humiliation in social situations.
xxx
Loddy stationed herself in the doorway organizing programs into two neat piles when a customer walked in.
“Excuse me. Would Rita be here?”
The tone of the voice was husky and hoarse with a well-manicured British accent, and yet her appearance belied the intonation. This heavy-set woman was a spectacle in a yellow polyester A-line skirt, dotted with a motif of miniscule red daisies, which barely grazed her puffy knees. Static made her slip cling to the fabric whenever she moved, and her tight frilly red nylon blouse hugged her full bosom with determination, if not style. The entire fashion statement was summed up with a wide plastic red belt cinching her ample waistline, and everything was carefully coordinated to match — yellow clip-on button earrings, cheap synthetic red purse, and strappy gold sandals that revealed soiled toes in need of a pedicure. A gaudy red scarf, wrapped around her head like a turban, secured her grey wig and accented her coarse, creased face even more. Loddy didn’t know what to make of this woman with the gruff voice.
“RITA! RITA!” Loddy could hear tiny feet stumbling down the steps.
“I told you never to shout ...” Rita started, and then she saw the heavy-set woman.
“Erica, Darlink, you came. How good of you. Did you meet our gofer girl?”
Erica’s delicate handshake surprised Loddy. A cold, clammy hand, its coarse skin, its bulk, its largesse, enveloped hers like an eagle’s wing captur
ing a robin’s nest. Loddy couldn’t help noticing the broken, half-polished red nails in need of a trim, if not a complete manicure.
“Yes, I’ve heard much about you. A pleasure.” Erica’s smile was a thin parallel of lips. Loddy caught sight of her crooked teeth, the enamel ground to a yellow film.
“Oh?”
At that moment, the door swung open and a party of twenty or so poured into the tiny lobby. When Loddy turned her attention to those waiting outside, she saw The Blonde peering through the glass, hands shading her eyes, the exquisite long hair in a tangle of just waking up drooping over her face. Loddy wondered why The Blonde had followed her to the theatre.
Rita had forgotten to breathe from the centre of her entire universe and was now cackling like a constipated hen. “Loddy, darlink, darlink, darlink, where are you going? People are coming.”
But Loddy was gone, in pursuit of this elusive mesmerizing Blonde. What did she want? Once Loddy reached busy St. Catherine Street, she realized The Blonde had eluded her, had disappeared somewhere into the traffic of pedestrians. Loddy had never moved with such vigour and speed. Now alone on the congested pavement, she could hear the erratic pulse of her heart and she was sweating with the profusion of an athlete after a race. She felt faint again, and wondered if perhaps she should have gone to Emergency earlier. People brushed by as though she were invisible. She removed her shoes and ambled back to the theatre, pausing to catch her breath every five minutes until her breathing returned to normal and her heart felt safe.
xxx
Upstairs, the mezzanine featured a coffee bar and boutique, and two distinct dressing rooms, physically disconnected by a partition — one for men and one for women, five fold-up chairs in each, elbow-to-elbow. The mingled scents of hair spray and pancake make-up assaulted the nose first, and then the eyes had a turn: Marvel in her bra and thong liberally spraying her breasts with cologne, giving her inner thighs a hit; Aretha adjusting a zippered gauzy bag over her head to arrest the makeup from smearing onto her costume; Ulu in the doorway warming up with pliés and relevés; Samuel in his grotto-like corner reciting lines like a cloistered monk in prayer; Percy gargling water, stretching his mouth this way and that, a burble of odd gurgling sounds; Danny falling in love with his reflection in a full length mirror; Stanley sitting upright, frozen in time while Dewey transformed his chest and arms into a kaleidoscope of painted tattoos; and Marcel leaning into a table fan to speed up the drying process on his already decorated body.
Five minutes to curtain.
“One or one thousand, give it your all, kiddies.” Samuel roared.
It was a ritual, everyone in a huddle like a football team before breaking away and taking their posts on the field.
“Come on, kiddies!” They all followed Samuel into the wings as the music, barely audible, prepared the audience to pay attention.
Ulu knocked on the wooden door frame and Aretha knocked on her head. “Knock wood!”
“Merde.”
“Merde.”
“Merde.”
House lights dimmed and they hit the boards.
Paul Butterfield’s Shake Your Moneymaker exploded, rocked, accelerated until the music was full throttle ahead. Draped in chintzy, clingy, cherry-coloured jersey togas cut to mid-hip, revealing cleavage of every size, colour and age, Marvel, Aretha, Ulu, and Rita made their entrance, sensuous and bold, on the downbeat: 1-2-3, shoulder, shoulder, shoulder, breasts hanging, shaking their moneymakers, 1-2-3, bare feet hugging the splintered wooden floor, 1-2-3. Dressed in red chiffon pants that Loddy had designed and sewn, Stanley, Danny, Marcel and Percy trailed behind, bare-chested and virile, cardboard knights carrying white plastic swords above their heads that glowed in the black light. A liquid projection of multi-coloured circles, like amoeba cells viewed under a microscope, frolicked on the backdrop to the melodic runs.
Loddy, panting, sapped of energy, sneaked inside the theatre and, with a reticent awkwardness, closed the door behind her. Rita, waiting in the wings for her entrance, noticed Loddy and directed her upstairs. Rita, a study in exasperation, pointed, stabbed her index finger in the air, then over her lips, miming to keep quiet. Shhh. Every noise carried to the audience, and Samuel would have none of that during a performance.
Loddy reached the mezzanine in time to catch Samuel and Marvel — both perfect specimens from years of dance classes and performances, their sculpted bodies a living monument to human art. Marvel had once cautioned Loddy in a dance class: “The body is the temple of the soul. Take care of it.” A dancer’s mantra that Loddy ignored.
She waved to Dewey, who was manning the lighting board, but he was too pre-occupied changing the gels, positioning the red spot to linger over Marvel’s exquisite form perhaps a touch too long. Loddy, hypnotized by their dance number, had attended enough rehearsals to store the choreography to memory. The tempo of the music changed, slowed to the deep sultry voice of Otis Redding’s Try a Little Tenderness.
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” She felt an inexplicable arousal of joy as though she was experiencing a sexual encounter with the music.
Samuel wrapped his muscular leg around Marvel’s diminutive waist and let it slide leisurely to the floor until he was kneeling face-to-face with her pelvis. Redding’s voice continued to throb with seduction. Marvel thrust her head back in ecstasy while Samuel’s cheek nuzzled tight against her crotch. At the climax, Dewey flooded the stage with the strobe. Light sheared their movements into a thousand pieces, actors flickering in a silent movie before the camera learned to talk. And then the music stopped. Blackout. Rustling in the seats and some coughing. The exterior door swung open and slammed shut.
“Christ, don’t ya just love showbiz,” Dewey said in whispered tones as he turned to Loddy who was now standing beside him.
“Like, somebody just walked out. I better go check it out.”
She peeked downstairs to see how many remained in the audience. The group who had arrived earlier sat erect in their seats staring into space. Erica, in the front row, middle seat, appeared amused.
Next, the lights panned the stage and dissolved to reveal Aretha wearing a paper dress tied at the back like a hospital gown. She wore no underwear, walked in silent circles, and licked an oversized striped lollipop that matched the parallel vertical lines of her costume. The black light whitened her teeth and the effervescent hues of her paper dress — orange, red and yellow — evoked fire.
The pet sounds of The Beach Boys’ Good Vibrations stirred the remainder of the cast to merge onstage, surrounding Aretha. They all broke away into separate dances inviting the audience to join them. Loddy couldn’t control herself and sensed her body shift into a life of its own as she bopped along, spinning, pirouetting around the mezzanine, propelling herself and launching this massive vessel until she lost control, giddy from the exertion. She tripped over a low-lying bench and soft-landed on the carpet with a loud thump, her belly cushioning the blow.
“OOOOOOOOWWWWW!”
Loddy crawled on all fours towards the railing overlooking the stage and boosted herself to an upright position. She knew she was in trouble.
The exterior door slammed again. Unhurried footsteps. Rita was in the dressing room preparing her next entrance so Loddy tiptoed downstairs to handle any late arrivals. When she reached the lobby, she choked, tried not to panic, but there they were, looking nonchalant, yet uncomfortably lost in this venue. Two men in blue. Police officers.
SCENE 3:
Merde
The police had raided The Garage Theatre a year earlier when an elderly man had suffered a seizure during a “Happening” and was whisked by ambulance to the Jewish General. His wife had alerted the authorities and had complained the strobe light and onstage antics had caused her husband’s neurons to burst like a bad appendix.
At the time, Aretha and Stanley had been onstage gyrating inside an enormous laundry bag, the size of two singl
e bed sheets stitched together. They had been tossing out an assortment of clothing, the perception being that they were disrobing and fornicating. The illusion was destroyed, however, when they both popped out of the bag fully clothed. Unfortunately, the elderly man had already succumbed to his seizures before grasping the absurdity of the scene.
Police had arrived, scolded both Rita and Samuel, and had advised them to provide their audiences with fair warning in the future. Samuel had explained it was an art form originating in California where an artist named Yoko Ono, and her husband, Tony Cox, performed, what they called, “Bag-ins” around San Francisco’s art district.
“Perhaps we Canadians aren’t ready for that kind of shit,” said one of the officers with such disgust that windows almost shattered as they left, slamming the door on their way out.
Samuel had held his tongue and had only received a warning.
This time, however, he was unable to charm the police in his usual diplomatic, yet mendacious manner, and was fined on charges of obscenity.
After the show, bit-by-bit, the troupe filed to the mezzanine as was their routine, to unwind, receive Samuel’s performance evaluations, and await friends, families or taxis. Low-lying padded benches, upholstered in red vinyl, lined the exposed white brick wall. No windows here, a photographer’s dark room on the verge of tactile claustrophobia, redeemed only by the provocative abstract paintings and mirrors that dotted the room. The practical wall-to-wall burgundy carpet camouflaged wine stains and concealed dirt and dust.