Jamie Budlow - Book Five

Jamie Budlow

by

Paul Quintanilla

*

A Symphonic Novel

in

Five Books

Volume Five of Five

Lulu Press

2016

Copyright Paul Quintanilla

ISBN: 978-1-365-27778-8

Book Five

Springtime and Summer

About Two Months Later

Spring came with a gradual loosening of the severe grip of cold in the air. It came disguised as a snow storm which lasted two days and then sullenly lingered on for a few more days as the sooty black snow that reluctantly melted away on the streets. Spring came with a heavy rainfall, which fell mercilessly through the bare gray arms of trees and into the hardened earth, loosening winter’s grip. And then one day it was sunny and cool, refreshingly cool, so clear the air and sunny and cool in fact that it seemed like a warm day, though the temperature barely reached fifty. And on this day, like hermits emerging out of their caves into the sun, our neighbors came out to tinker in their yards for the first time in the season. And I took my bike out onto the streets, which were slickened bright by the last melting of the snow, and in 48 degree weather sped through the streets against my own wind reveling in the bright fresh crisp air of spring.

Then, without my even noticing it at first, a few green buds appeared on the trees, and here and there the earth stirred and things began to shoot up. The trees became speckled with buds and gradually, without perception, they opened and unfolded and light green leaves hung on the trees once again. The days became warmer and without visible perception the tiny light green leaves became fuller, and began their gradual spread into the heavy green broad ribbed leaves of summer. Here and there, everywhere, tender life shot up on lawns and in the anarchy of vacant lots, and the first buds unfolded into flowers. This was truly spring, and the chill of winter receded as the days occasionally came perfect, clear and beautiful.

*   *   *

My aunt and I had another talk, and in it she explained that she had communicated with my father and that it would be acceptable if I occasionally went out, socially, with nice young people of course, from time to time. And that when I came home she would be understanding. That my father, in another exchange of letters, had relieved her fears and that she could see that I had a need to go out from time to time. She was very kind and understanding, and on my part I vowed whole heartedly to be a better guest in her house, to be more careful of my behavior, and as a token of my deep earnestness offered to do whatever household chores she required. At this offer she merely laughed sweetly and told me there would be enough to do in the spring: in other words, taking down the storm windows, doing the yard, etc.

We parted good friends, with a note of joy in my heart, and when the opening of Margo’s new play was announced I saw then that I would indeed have the opportunity now to test my new freedom. There would be both the opening of the play and then a party for the cast and friends. And for Margo it would be her big night: she would have her first starring role, as the Countess in The Madwoman of Chaillot.

So that my aunt would know what I was about to do on opening night, I ostentatiously paraded before her in my jacket and tie, explaining that I was going to the opening of a play and that there would be a party afterwards, loading my words with meaningful innuendo. She nodded sweetly and smiled appreciatively and when I left the house I felt certain that I had gotten the message across and that I had properly prepared her. I felt clean and aboveboard in my behavior toward her and went downtown with a keen sense of that electricity which lights up the night when charged with the proximity of spending the evening in the theater. And when I reached the line queuing up at the entrance I felt hot and excited with nervous expectancy.

The Actor’s Alliance was located on the slummy end of Columbus Avenue, downtown, and occupied what had briefly been a dirty movie house and before that a failed first-run feature theater. The ancient seats were embedded with a distillate of dirt and funk which made their once scarlet plush a frightening prospect to place one’s rump on; and a grimy black patina of ancient chewing gum stuck irremovably to the threads like enormous black polka dots. What nature of slime and dirt lay on the floor could have been anyone’s guess and it was far batter not to look. The heavy scarlet curtains hung sullenly closed as if supporting all the grimy woe of ancient past ages and the house lights burned offering a tarnished sullen gold over the walls and floor. But in spite of this lingering spark of failure and filth and degradation which shined off all things in this theater there existed, even more so, the sharper mood and spark of the living drama, of the excitement which exists in the ornate gilt of box seats, in the slightly curved ranks of the orchestra, the high balcony, all focusing together on the ever intriguing stage up in front under the proscenium arch on which actors, living actors, will strut and perform in the living flesh for an actual pair of hours. As this mostly academic crowd gradually moved down the aisles toward their seats a heightened sense of spell-binding expectancy filled the air. And I believe that not one of us wasn’t somehow touched by the charm of this rundown theater.

When the curtains finally parted, with that slow heavy sweep of cloth which is equivalent to the mounting overture of a symphony, revealing a magical world, I immediately forgot all about the slime on the floor or the gum on the seats. An enchanting vivid place had been revealed to me, a small Parisian plaza with tables and chairs set in the outofdoors with a colorful cast of characters crossing and occupying its space. I immediately searched for Margo, but I couldn’t see her among all the picturesquely dressed characters, among whom I saw a street singer, a flower girl, a shoelace peddler, and a rag picker. Then I heard the audience roar with laughter, an oddly theatrical sound in itself, with a deep masculine roaring timbre, a kind of intelligent affirmation of the proceedings up upon the stage. Then it subsided and the voices on the stage occupied the spacious air once again. I had been so preoccupied with thoughts of Margo that I hadn’t even been listening. But sitting tight in my seat I became absorbed in the action now, patiently waiting for that magic instant when she would appear.

And then finally she did, the Madwoman, the Countess Aurelia in all her gaudy splendor. And I saw a Margo I had never seen before, a magical presence, a force that projected itself across to the audience like the center stone in a dazzling jeweled bright array. Oh my dear chameleon, what a presence she had on the stage! I could sense all eyes in the theater riveted upon her, helplessly fixed upon each shade of mood or emotion she projected or each lilt of meaning she orchestrated with her voice. I was amazed! I had had no idea Margo could be so good in her acting: dedicated, yes, thoroughly involved, obsessed with her art, knowledgeable, in love with the stage, yes; but it had never occurred to me that she could actually act. I had just never thought of it. And now my Chameleon Margo had lifted the entire production up a step or two, horizontally, to a new plain with the force of her acting ability bringing it all together.

So I sat quietly in the orchestra seat, her secret lover, her very very secret lover, amazed at my new Margo, experiencing an enormous pride in her as she made the Countess Aurelia, the sane madwoman who succeeds in saving the world by tricking its greedy voracious capitalists down into the sewers of Paris, to be lost forever, a believable and enchanting presence.

When the final curtain swung to a close I had long indeed forgotten the gum on the seats and the slime on the floor, the bitter gold gilt and the heaviness of woe spun into many shadows. The curtain swung open again in an act of bright magic and as Margo and the cast came out to bow the audience yelled and applauded with an enormous mindless roar. I stood up and clapped as hard as I could, feeling no embarrassment in this mindless display for I felt it was the cast’s due and I was surrounded by similarly standing persons who were clapping and yelling also. Margo appeared radiant, a smile cut vividly across her face, graciously stooping to the audience in her bow. And then Phil Maron, appearing odd in a suit and tie, trotted up to the stage with a bouquet of flowers and laid them carefully in the cradle of her arms. Margo’s Margo stood before us now on the stage, the Margo I knew, but somehow queenly, radiant with new life, projecting a beaming smile to the audience as she had through her character only a few minutes before. Maron, smiling broadly, stepped back and applauded her vigorously as she took curtain call after curtain call. The entire theater was full of the roar of applause, and then finally, with an almost anticlimatic cessation, Margo and Maron irrevocably slipped through the curtains and disappeared and the applause died down. I slowly shuffled along the aisle toward the door wondering what the party would be like.

It was at Maron’s flat. He lived on the second floor of a brown brick building in the industrial part of town. During the day, in the first floor, grain and feed were sold, the air lightly touched with the dust of feed even after the store closed, at night, in the narrow hall and stairway leading up to Maron’s flat. Once inside, it became apparent that Maron had converted a large empty industrial space into a spacious living area. The idea was novel to me then, for I had not heard of SoHo or of artists finding cheap living quarters and studios in an industrial part of town. And as I heavily mounted the narrow dingy wooden stairs pressed in between two elaborately dressed strangers, who were talking back and forth over my head, I was startled by the fact that Maron lived here above this particular feed store, for I had passed by it many times on my bike.

Maron had not done much for the flat’s walls: long spaces of empty undecorated somewhat starkly bare red brick stretched into obscure corners. On one wall, starkly separated from the living quarters of the room, a huge canvas, which had been splattered upon with bold gashes of red, leaned onto or hung from the wall at an odd tilt. The stark unpainted whiteness of the canvas had become gray with passing age and the fiery red of the broad brush stroked slashes had dulled. I first noticed this canvas as I came up the stairs, in its neglected gray light, and as I mounted upon the ancient uncovered floorboards of the loft I saw that in the other direction Maron had decorated and furnished a small living area, with a stark black modern couch, matching foam easy chairs, and a red or crimson rug on the floor. Here stark theatrical studio lights burned sharply at different angles from the ceiling, and a few theatergoers had already gathered, talking within an excited loud group, holding drinks in hand. One theatergoer, a bearded middle aged man in a heavy black turtleneck, stared at me as I came up, and didn’t suppress his loud disappointment that I wasn’t Maron.

Feeling somewhat guilty for not being Maron, I immediately searched for a drink, avoiding the little group of chic superior persons who obviously had no interest in including me in their conversation. I found a tilting obelisk of transparent plastic cups resting upon a table and pulled the one from the top, filling it now from a green gallon bottle of red wine that stood by its side. Nervously, I sipped at the wine eyeing the little group that had shunned me. And I had the oddest sensation that they desired me to stand apart and to admire them. That they somehow needed me to be their audience. Then I heard a loud commotion on the stairs.

Margo’s laugh rang more fully than I had ever heard it ring before and bright and excited her group rose one by one up through the opening in the floor. Maron was with her, still dressed incongruously in a suit and tie, but Margo had changed clothes, into something both simple and chic, a skirt and tweed jacket with a long flowing silk scarf wrapped artfully about her shoulders and neck. Ah my Margo, how many surprises could you have in store for me? The chic little group I had been uneasily eyeing, with a terribly hurt rebuffed feeling, quickly broke apart now. And combining with the larger group rising up the stairs their talk and laughter resounded loudly throughout the enormous room. Dumbly I stood in my spot, not knowing what to say or do, sipping wine for its quick support. And the theatrically tiny bright spotlights overhead seemed to burn on me now with a terrible heat.

Then enviously I saw Margo exchanging bright faced appreciative talk with the bearded middle aged man who had rebuffed me for not being Maron. I could easily have murdered him in that instant, and then Margo’s face turned toward mine. Her eyes opened wide and brightened with recognition and ignoring her interlocutor she mouthed a broad affectionate hello. I quickly waved, with a kind of quick jab of desperation, a sort of appealing sign pleading for support. And then the well dressed bearded man turned his face with a cool curiosity to see who Margo was looking at. And upon recognizing me let me drop once again with a bland expression that both shunned me and expressed my complete unimportance. I was sweating by now and I drank quickly for support, filling my cup again to the brim with wine.

Then Schwartzy and Judy, shortly followed by Kramer and Ellen, rose from the stairs into view, and mingled with the people closest to the stairs. This gave me the opportunity to find some friendly support and I went toward them with a feeling of reaching out. Kramer was warmly congratulating Margo now and the superior complacent bearded man stood close at hand with a watchful attitude of keen approval. And then Kramer smiled at him.

Treason! I stopped short. How could Stephen smile at that son of a bitch? I was outraged, betrayed, overcome with a kind of jealous indignation, for Stephen seemed to also offer him his support in performing so simple an act. Kramer had sided with him when he should have seen what a phony bastard he was!

I wedged past several people and came up to Stephen, taking possession now, as it were, of what was rightfully mine. The complacent bearded man merely looked at me with a superior condescending grin and then with a brusque rude shove of my shoulder I wedged in between him and Stephen. Instantly Kramer appeared appalled by my behavior, uncomfortably following my direction as I took his elbow and moved him away.

Don’t you see what a phony schmuck that guy is? I whispered sharply into his ear.

Who? McCormick? Stephen asked surprised and shocked.

You should have seen the game that son of a bitch and his pals were playing on me! I mean Jesus Stephen!

What were they doing? Kramer asked with an earnest innocent interest?"

Well they were doing that bit of dropping me so that they could show how really great they are. I mean he was really insulting and rude.

I’m sorry to hear that, Stephen said, his face drawn now with thoughtful consideration. Though he still seemed to lack the proper degree of indignation such outrageous behavior demanded.

I mean, talk about being cut, I said to clearly emphasize. I mean, the stiletto was flashing and the blade slashing. I mean, that son of a bitch and his friends were going out for blood. You know, I mean like real snobs. Those guys are murderers.

Yeah, I know, Kramer softly said. There people like that.

I mean really murderers.

Yeah. I know.

So why do you associate with them? I mean, how could you? I indignantly accused. His betrayal still greatly burned.

Stephen cast a washed out look upon me, his eyes distant and troubled, as if a basic issue were impossibly misunderstood and knotted up here, unresolved in the air.

I only said hello to him, he said, a glint of pained amusement, distant and enigmatic, appearing in his eyes.

I mean those guys are murderers, I persisted. They’re really murderers, damn it!

I know, I know, Kramer whispered.

And how do you deal with such guys, when they’re everywhere! I was becoming increasingly excited and my voice rose. They don’t give a shit about common decency. All they give a shit about is how great they think they are! How do you reach them and show them how shitty what they do is?

Yeah, I understand. Yeah.

You can’t! That’s the frustration of it. You can’t. They just keep on doing shitty things and to hell with you buddy. That’s their attitude!

Kramer’s eyes sparkled with a friendly sympathy now as he listened to me out. Yeah, yeah, I know.

There’s not a damn thing you can do about it except play their game. And what if you don’t want to play their shitty little game? I don’t want to be like those sons of bitches!

Yeahhhhhhhhh, Kramer softly crooned. Right.

God damn those guys! Jesus Christ murderers. All they are is fucking murderers!

Righttttt.

I quieted down now, aware of the excessive fury of my feelings, which was making me slightly sick. There are moments when one’s behavior can stands out with an inappropriate force, indicating that you too can be vulnerable, that you too can make a humorous display of yourself in public. And that was what I felt on the very edge of doing.

All you can do is get drunk, I bitterly said, as if in retribution to the world. And that is precisely what I intend to do. Fuck all those people!

Yeahhhhhhh. Kramer had his hand on the back of my shoulder now and we slowly walked toward the leaning translucent tower of plastic cups, standing oddly untended by the nearly full gallon bottle of red wine. Kramer removed a cup and carefully poured wine out of the bottle into his cup and I sipped from my nearly full cup. The wine now began to come up to my eyes and eagerly I grasped for it, grasped for its comfort and reassurance and the spark of joy and strength it brought with it. I grasped for the neutral unmenacing tint it spread over the world. With this stuff in my system I could face all McCormicks and meet all their challenges. His group of superior, snobby, heedlessly inconsiderate people now took on a blur at the edges as they gathered at the opening of the stairs. They were somehow less menacing now and I felt more on a par with them. But somebody apparently very important was mounting the stairs and I caught sight of Margo now hovering above the opening of the stairs with her attention entirely focused into the well. I felt a sharp pang of jealously that she seemed totally unaware of me, that I was in the room. A short middle aged man in a dark gray overcoat and woolen black scarf slowly rose into the room, followed by an equally small plump wife. They were so obviously man and wife that there was no mistaking their relationship. He had a quiet, self effacing gentle smile naturally playing across the thin lips of his pallid face and his wife exuded a pleasant gracious warmth. They appeared to be very simple people and but for the attention that was being paid them they would have been otherwise inconspicuous. Two lonely, ignored old people, perhaps, waiting at a street corner for the light to change, in order to cross. I couldn’t help staring at this oddly simple and incongruous couple, who appeared so out of place.

Kramer whispered into my ear, That’s Henry Bolson, chief benefactor to the theater company.

A billionaire, I said genuinely impressed. A multi billionaire. I’ve never seen a multi billionaire before!

And a very powerful man, Kramer added, as if I didn’t know it.

We stood discretely aside as this unassuming couple graciously congratulated Margo, and then politely moved into the room to have a drink of wine with the guests before