Welcome to the Monkey House: The Special Edition Read online

  And there was this beautiful girl I’d never seen before behind the counter at the phone company, and she explained that the company had put in an automatic billing machine and that the machine didn’t have all the bugs out of it yet. It made mistakes. “Not only did I not call Honolulu,” I told her, “I don’t think anybody in North Crawford ever has or will.”

  So she took the charge off the bill, and I asked her if she was from around North Crawford. She said no. She said she just came with the new billing machine to teach local girls how to take care of it. After that, she said, she would go with some other machine to someplace else. “Well,” I said, “as long as people have to come along with the machines, I guess we’re all right.”

  “What?” she said.

  “When machines start delivering themselves,” I said, “I guess that’s when the people better start really worrying.”

  “Oh,” she said. She didn’t seem very interested in that subject, and I wondered if she was interested in anything. She seemed kind of numb, almost a machine herself, an automatic phone-company politeness machine.

  “How long will you be in town here?” I asked her.

  “I stay in each town eight weeks, sir,” she said. She had pretty blue eyes, but there sure wasn’t much hope or curiosity in them. She told me she had been going from town to town like that for two years, always a stranger.

  And I got it in my head that she might make a good Stella for the play. Stella was the wife of the Marlon Brando character, the wife of the character I wanted Harry Nash to play. So I told her where and when we were going to hold tryouts, and said the club would be very happy if she’d come.

  She looked surprised, and she warmed up a little. “You know,” she said, “that’s the first time anybody ever asked me to participate in any community thing.”

  “Well,” I said, “there isn’t any other way to get to know a lot of nice people faster than to be in a play with ’em.”

  She said her name was Helene Shaw. She said she might just surprise me—and herself. She said she just might come.

  · · ·

  You would think that North Crawford would be fed up with Harry Nash in plays after all the plays he’d been in. But the fact was that North Crawford probably could have gone on enjoying Harry forever, because he was never Harry on stage. When the maroon curtain went up on the stage in the gymnasium of the Consolidated Junior-Senior High School, Harry, body and soul, was exactly what the script and the director told him to be.

  Somebody said one time that Harry ought to go to a psychiatrist so he could be something important and colorful in real life, too—so he could get married anyway, and maybe get a better job than just clerking in Miller’s Hardware Store for fifty dollars a week. But I don’t know what a psychiatrist could have turned up about him that the town didn’t already know. The trouble with Harry was he’d been left on the doorstep of the Unitarian Church when he was a baby, and he never did find out who his parents were.

  When I told him there in Miller’s that I’d been appointed director, that I wanted him in my play, he said what he always said to anybody who asked him to be in a play—and it was kind of sad, if you think about it.

  “Who am I this time?” he said.

  So I held the tryouts where they’re always held—in the meeting room on the second floor of the North Crawford Public Library. Doris Sawyer, the woman who usually directs, came to give me the benefit of all her experience. The two of us sat in state upstairs, while the people who wanted parts waited below. We called them upstairs one by one.

  Harry Nash came to the tryouts, even though it was a waste of time. I guess he wanted to get that little bit more acting in.

  For Harry’s pleasure, and our pleasure, too, we had him read from the scene where he beats up his wife. It was a play in itself, the way Harry did it, and Tennessee Williams hadn’t written it all either. Tennessee Williams didn’t write the part, for instance, where Harry, who weighs about one hundred forty-five, who’s about five feet eight inches tall, added fifty pounds to his weight and four inches to his height by just picking up a playbook. He had a short little double-breasted bellows-back grade-school graduation suit coat on and a dinky little red tie with a horsehead on it. He took off the coat and tie, opened his collar, then turned his back to Doris and me, getting up steam for the part. There was a great big rip in the back of his shirt, and it looked like a fairly new shirt too. He’d ripped it on purpose, so he could be that much more like Marlon Brando, right from the first.

  When he faced us again, he was huge and handsome and conceited and cruel. Doris read the part of Stella, the wife, and Harry bullied that old, old lady into believing that she was a sweet, pregnant girl married to a sexy gorilla who was going to beat her brains out. She had me believing it too. And I read the lines of Blanche, her sister in the play, and darned if Harry didn’t scare me into feeling like a drunk and faded Southern belle.

  And then, while Doris and I were getting over our emotional experiences, like people coming out from under ether, Harry put down the playbook, put on his coat and tie, and turned into the pale hardware-store clerk again.

  “Was—was that all right?” he said, and he seemed pretty sure he wouldn’t get the part.

  “Well,” I said, “for a first reading, that wasn’t too bad.”

  “Is there a chance I’ll get the part?” he said. I don’t know why he always had to pretend there was some doubt about his getting a part, but he did.

  “I think we can safely say we’re leaning powerfully in your direction,” I told him.

  He was very pleased. “Thanks! Thanks a lot!” he said, and he shook my hand.

  “Is there a pretty new girl downstairs?” I said, meaning Helene Shaw.

  “I didn’t notice,” said Harry.

  It turned out that Helene Shaw had come for the tryouts, and Doris and I had our hearts broken. We thought the North Crawford Mask and Wig Club was finally going to put a really good-looking, really young girl on stage, instead of one of the beat-up forty-year-old women we generally have to palm off as girls.

  But Helene Shaw couldn’t act for sour apples. No matter what we gave her to read, she was the same girl with the same smile for anybody who had a complaint about his phone bill.

  Doris tried to coach her some, to make her understand that Stella in the play was a very passionate girl who loved a gorilla because she needed a gorilla. But Helene just read the lines the same way again. I don’t think a volcano could have stirred her up enough to say, “Oo.”

  “Dear,” said Doris, “I’m going to ask you a personal question.”

  “All right,” said Helene.

  “Have you ever been in love?” said Doris. “The reason I ask,” she said, “remembering some old love might help you put more warmth in your acting.”

  Helene frowned and thought hard. “Well,” she said, “I travel a lot, you know. And practically all the men in the different companies I visit are married and I never stay anyplace long enough to know many people who aren’t.”

  “What about school?” said Doris. “What about puppy love and all the other kinds of love in school?”

  So Helene thought hard about that, and then she said, “Even in school I was always moving around a lot. My father was a construction worker, following jobs around, so I was always saying hello or good-by to someplace, without anything in between.”

  “Um,” said Doris.

  “Would movie stars count?” said Helene. “I don’t mean in real life. I never knew any. I just mean up on the screen.”

  Doris looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I guess that’s love of a kind,” she said.

  And then Helene got a little enthusiastic. “I used to sit through movies over and over again,” she said, “and pretend I was married to whoever the man movie star was. They were the only people who came with us. No matter where we moved, movie stars were there.”

  “Uh huh,” said Doris.

  “Well, thank you, Miss Shaw,
” I said. “You go downstairs and wait with the rest. We’ll let you know.”

  So we tried to find another Stella. And there just wasn’t one, not one woman in the club with the dew still on her. “All we’ve got are Blanches,” I said, meaning all we had were faded women who could play the part of Blanche, Stella’s faded sister. “That’s life, I guess—twenty Blanches to one Stella.”

  “And when you find a Stella,” said Doris, “it turns out she doesn’t know what love is.”

  Doris and I decided there was one last thing we could try. We could get Harry Nash to play a scene along with Helene. “He just might make her bubble the least little bit,” I said.

  “That girl hasn’t got a bubble in her,” said Doris.

  So we called down the stairs for Helene to come back on up, and we told somebody to go find Harry. Harry never sat with the rest of the people at tryouts—or at rehearsals either. The minute he didn’t have a part to play, he’d disappear into some hiding place where he could hear people call him, but where he couldn’t be seen. At tryouts in the library he generally hid in the reference room, passing the time looking at flags of different countries in the front of the dictionary.

  Helene came back upstairs, and we were very sorry and surprised to see that she’d been crying.

  “Oh, dear,” said Doris. “Oh, my—now what on earth’s the trouble, dear?”

  “I was terrible, wasn’t I?” said Helene, hanging her head.

  Doris said the only thing anybody can say in an amateur theatrical society when somebody cries. She said, “Why, no dear—you were marvelous.”

  “No, I wasn’t,” said Helene. “I’m a walking icebox, and I know it.”

  “Nobody could look at you and say that,” said Doris.

  “When they get to know me, they can say it,” said Helene. “When people get to know me, that’s what they do say.” Her tears got worse. “I don’t want to be the way I am,” she said. “I just can’t help it, living the way I’ve lived all my life. The only experiences I’ve had have been in crazy dreams of movie stars. When I meet somebody nice in real life, I feel as though I were in some kind of big bottle, as though I couldn’t touch that person, no matter how hard I tried.” And Helene pushed on air as though it were a big bottle all around her.

  “You ask me if I’ve ever been in love,” she said to Doris. “No—but I want to be. I know what this play’s about. I know what Stella’s supposed to feel and why she feels it. I—I—I—” she said, and her tears wouldn’t let her go on.

  “You what, dear?” said Doris gently.

  “I——” said Helene, and she pushed on the imaginary bottle again. “I just don’t know how to begin,” she said.

  There was heavy clumping on the library stairs. It sounded like a deep-sea diver coming upstairs in his lead shoes. It was Harry Nash, turning himself into Marlon Brando. In he came, practically dragging his knuckles on the floor. And he was so much in character that the sight of a weeping woman made him sneer.

  “Harry,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Helene Shaw. Helene—this is Harry Nash. If you get the part of Stella, he’ll be your husband in the play.” Harry didn’t offer to shake hands. He put his hands in his pockets, and he hunched over, and he looked her up and down, gave her looks that left her naked. Her tears stopped right then and there.

  “I wonder if you two would play the fight scene,” I said, “and then the reunion scene right after it.”

  “Sure,” said Harry, his eyes still on her. Those eyes burned up clothes faster than she could put them on. “Sure,” he said, “if Stell’s game.”

  “What?” said Helene. She’d turned the color of cranberry juice.

  “Stell—Stella,” said Harry. “That’s you. Stell’s my wife.”

  I handed the two of them playbooks. Harry snatched his from me without a word of thanks. Helene’s hands weren’t working very well, and I had to kind of mold them around the book.

  “I’ll want something I can throw,” said Harry.

  “What?” I said.

  “There’s one place where I throw a radio out a window,” said Harry. “What can I throw?”

  So I said an iron paperweight was the radio, and I opened the window wide. Helene Shaw looked scared to death.

  “Where you want us to start?” said Harry, and he rolled his shoulders like a prizefighter warming up.

  “Start a few lines back from where you throw the radio out the window,” I said.

  “O.K., O.K.,” said Harry, warming up, warming up. He scanned the stage directions. “Let’s see,” he said, “after I throw the radio, she runs off stage, and I chase her, and I sock her one.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “O.K., baby,” Harry said to Helene, his eyelids drooping. What was about to happen was wilder than the chariot race in Ben Hur. “On your mark,” said Harry. “Get ready, baby. Go!”

  When the scene was over, Helene Shaw was as hot as a hod carrier, as limp as an eel. She sat down with her mouth open and her head hanging to one side. She wasn’t in any bottle any more. There wasn’t any bottle to hold her up and keep her safe and clean. The bottle was gone.

  “Do I get the part or don’t I?” Harry snarled at me.

  “You’ll do,” I said.

  “You said a mouthful!” he said. “I’ll be going now.… See you around, Stella,” he said to Helene, and he left. He slammed the door behind him.

  “Helene?” I said. “Miss Shaw?”

  “Mf?” she said.

  “The part of Stella is yours,” I said. “You were great!”

  “I was?” she said.

  “I had no idea you had that much fire in you, dear,” Doris said to her.

  “Fire?” said Helene. She didn’t know if she was afoot or on horseback.

  “Skyrockets! Pinwheels! Roman candles!” said Doris.

  “Mf,” said Helene. And that was all she said. She looked as though she were going to sit in the chair with her mouth open forever.

  “Stella,” I said.

  “Huh?” she said.

  “You have my permission to go.”

  So we started having rehearsals four nights a week on the stage of the Consolidated School. And Harry and Helene set such a pace that everybody in the production was half crazy with excitement and exhaustion before we’d rehearsed four times. Usually a director has to beg people to learn their lines, but I had no such trouble. Harry and Helene were working so well together that everybody else in the cast regarded it as a duty and an honor and a pleasure to support them.

  I was certainly lucky—or thought I was. Things were going so well, so hot and heavy, so early in the game that I had to say to Harry and Helene after one love scene, “Hold a little something back for the actual performance, would you please? You’ll burn yourselves out.”

  I said that at the fourth or fifth rehearsal, and Lydia Miller, who was playing Blanche, the faded sister, was sitting next to me in the audience. In real life, she’s the wife of Verne Miller. Verne owns Miller’s Hardware Store. Verne was Harry’s boss.

  “Lydia,” I said to her, “have we got a play or have we got a play?”

  “Yes,” she said, “you’ve got a play, all right.” She made it sound as though I’d committed some kind of crime, done something just terrible. “You should be very proud of yourself.”

  “What do you mean by that?” I said.

  Before Lydia could answer, Harry yelled at me from the stage, asked if I was through with him, asked if he could go home. I told him he could and, still Marlon Brando, he left, kicking furniture out of his way and slamming doors. Helene was left all alone on the stage, sitting on a couch with the same gaga look she’d had after the tryouts. That girl was drained.

  I turned to Lydia again and I said, “Well—until now, I thought I had every reason to be happy and proud. Is there something going on I don’t know about?”

  “Do you know that girl’s in love with Harry?” said Lydia.

  “In the play?” I
said.

  “What play?” said Lydia. “There isn’t any play going on now, and look at her up there.” She gave a sad cackle. “You aren’t directing this play.”

  “Who is?” I said.

  “Mother Nature at her worst,” said Lydia. “And think what it’s going to do to that girl when she discovers what Harry really is.” She corrected herself. “What Harry really isn’t,” she said.

  I didn’t do anything about it, because I didn’t figure it was any of my business. I heard Lydia try to do something about it, but she didn’t get very far.

  “You know,” Lydia said to Helene one night, “I once played Ann Rutledge, and Harry was Abraham Lincoln.”

  Helene clapped her hands. “That must have been heaven!” she said.

  “It was, in a way,” said Lydia. “Sometimes I’d get so worked up, I’d love Harry the way I’d love Abraham Lincoln. I’d have to come back to earth and remind myself that he wasn’t ever going to free the slaves, that he was just a clerk in my husband’s hardware store.”

  “He’s the most marvelous man I ever met,” said Helene.

  “Of course, one thing you have to get set for, when you’re in a play with Harry,” said Lydia, “is what happens after the last performance.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Helene.

  “Once the show’s over,” said Lydia, “whatever you thought Harry was just evaporates into thin air.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Helene.

  “I admit it’s hard to believe,” said Lydia.

  Then Helene got a little sore. “Anyway, why tell me about it?” she said. “Even if it is true, what do I care?”

  “I—I don’t know,” said Lydia, backing away. “I—I just thought you might find it interesting.”

  “Well, I don’t,” said Helene.

  And Lydia slunk away, feeling about as frowzy and unloved as she was supposed to feel in the play. After that nobody said anything more to Helene to warn her about Harry, not even when word got around that she’d told the telephone company that she didn’t want to be moved around anymore, that she wanted to stay in North Crawford.