1957, Dr. Jacoby's office, 443 Park Avenue, NYC
The psychiatrist rocked back in his chair, and studied the petite woman lying on the sofa with the critical eye of an owl. Her tear-streaked face annoyed him. Another typical case of middle aged hysteria. He steepled his fingers under his chin for a moment before speaking.
"Well, Mrs. Howell…quite often, after a decade or so of marriage, things can change between a husband and wife. She gets older. You have no children to look after, so your focus has shifted to your charity affairs. This sort of thing can break the right man. The wife is the chief factor in the husband's success in his career, after all."
"But that doesn't explain why I found a dancing girl kissing him in his office. I'm not imagining things, Doctor. This isn't the first time. I walked in there and found her on his lap, calling him Boopsie! I mean, really, the nerve!"
The doctor lit his pipe and thoughtfully puffed it a few times.
"Perhaps you're not trying hard enough, Mrs. Howell. Your duty as wife is to put aside personal interests and be a rock for your husband's pursuits. I have consistently found that when a husband leaves his home and seeks out the company of other women, he may be seeking refuge from an unpleasant environment. Perhaps he's not understood or appreciated in his own home."
The upset wife dabbed her eye with a linen hanky, as the psychiatrist rose slowly and walked to his desk. He took out a tablet, scribbled on it, and handed it to her.
"This is a prescription for some mild tranquilizers. Perhaps they'll put you in a more amiable mood. But remember, these situations are usually a two-sided thing, and you may actually be the root cause of his infidelities. Our time is up, Mrs. Howell."
Three hours later, Mr. Howell returned home from rehearsals for Kick The Can, his latest musical farce, to find Mrs. Howell sobbing in the bedroom.
"Lovey, dear! What's wrong?"
"Nothing, Thurston," the woman said, wiping her eyes.
"Is this still about Kiki the other night? She means nothing to me, darling, nothing!"
"I know, Thurston," she said, unconvincingly. "I had a bad session with Doctor Jacoby this morning."
"My dear, I'm telling you, psychotherapy cures everything these days. Mind over….matter. If you want a baby, you just have to 'think baby!"
"Thurston, darling, stay home tomorrow night." She wound her fingers around his tie.
"Dear, it's dress rehearsal tomorrow!"
"So you'd rather spend an evening with a gaggle of twenty year old women than your own wife?"
"Well…yes!" he said truthfully. "Oh, come now, Lovey, I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did!" she sniffled.
"Mr. Howell! Oh Mr. Howell! Gilligan told me you were going to produce my play," Ginger gushed, rushing into the Howell area of the communal hut. "You've made me the happiest girl in the world!" She kissed him squarely on the cheek, causing Mrs. Howell to recoil in anger.
"Come, my dear, let's not lose our heads," the millionaire replied, glancing at his livid wife. He remembered the disastrous premiere of Kick the Can and still blamed it on guilt over his failure to make his wife happy that long-ago night. It was their last chance before she had to have the emergency hysterectomy, and…their last chance at producing a Thurston Howell IV.
And now she was sitting there, placidly typing.
"M-A-R-C."
-vVv-
1962, the living room of George Ingersoll
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Miss Ginger Grant," the affable, middle-aged playwright said, welcoming the redheaded starlet in his home. The room was decorated in wall-to-wall Danish modern, with a starburst clock above the hi-fi. The movie star flashed a fond smile at him – a genuine one this time, not the one that she flashed people like her agent, Lester, or the doorman to her apartment building. George Ingersoll was one of her favorite people.
"Do have a seat, my dear. And help yourself to a bon-bon." He smoothed out his hair and closed the door. "They're coconut!"
"Gotta watch my figure," she said, placing her rabbit stole on the arm of his easy chair as the gentleman sat on the davenport. "Oh, what the heck. Coconut always was my favorite!"
"I'm sure you are wondering why I've asked you here, my dear," the man leered playfully, adjusting his ascot, patting the area of the sofa next to him. She demurely planted herself beside him and grinned.
"Whatever could you mean, Georgey-poo?" She walked her fingers up his arm and booped him on the cheek.
The man leaned in. "Ginger, I'm writing a new play. I saw your performance in "Moonlight Stories" and was simply blown away by your genius. What raw emotions! What grace! What charm! You MUST be my Cleopatra!"
Ginger rocked back and clasped her hands together. "Do you really mean that, Georgey-poo? Oh! My own play!" Her eyes misted over with joy.
"I mean it, darling. You are my muse. I haven't written a play in three whole years; I haven't had the inspiration. But you lit a fire in me, pussycat!"
Ginger rewarded him with a kiss on the cheek, but the man turned his head suddenly and they melted together in a fiery embrace. After a few moments, he broke the kiss and stared into her green eyes.
"Think of it, pussycat. Your name in Broadway lights, bigger than Ethel Merman.. Bigger than Julie Andrews. Bigger than…than Angela Lansbury!"
She closed her eyes, as he wove his promising tale of her big break, her discovery and surefire subsequent fame.
"Oh!" she cried. "You sure know how to make a girl feel special," she said. "Darling. How can I ever thank you?"
"I can think of a way," he replied slyly, raising an eyebrow.
Ginger opened her eyes and gave him a knowing look.
"And…just how should that happen?" she asked, playfully wrapping his ascot around her finger, moving closer.
"Oh, Gilligan, you just don't understand," sniffled Ginger, as she got up from the rock, clutching her script. She missed Broadway, and she missed George and she missed what had and might have been. "You don't understand! This play was especially written for me. I would have been famous overnight if I got to do it! All Broadway would have been at my feet!" And maybe I could have been Mrs. George Ingersoll, with hit after hit after hit written especially for me! She wondered, with a knot in her stomach, which lucky woman had replaced her.
"Gee," Gilligan replied.
She continued rhapsodizing about the career move she lost, and Gilligan suggested that she should be on the stage. She ran off crying again. Her depression was so great she refused to eat for the rest of the day, choosing instead to cry in her hut. Mary Ann and the Skipper tried making her a fruit salad, but she wouldn't touch it. Gilligan ended up eating it, instead.
When Gilligan suggested doing a play later on, Ginger's mood brightened considerably. After kissing him in the hut, she got set to play the role of her life, somewhere in the south Pacific. In some small way, performing George's play would ease the pain of losing out on what could have been. Oh, if only she hadn't run off to Hawaii with Randolph! She should have stuck to her guns and remained in New York that fateful weekend. She took Mary Ann's necklace off and went off into the jungle to look for palm fronds for her costume.
-vVv-
1947, USC Campus, Los Angeles, CA
Eighteen year old Roy Hinkley needed a change. The college dramatics club was holding auditions for an upcoming production of Hamlet, and he wanted to be in it. In her last letter from home, his younger sister Jane had suggested he try out for a play. He didn't want to tell his parents about his endeavours, as they felt the theatre was frivolous and would distract him from his studies.
"Roy Hinkley," the drama teacher called.
"FROSH!" giggled the front row of drama students, pointing at him as he walked onstage. Roy Hinkley stood there stiffly, adjusting his jacket and small bow tie, suddenly overly aware of the dozen pairs of eyes staring at him. He swallowed at the sudden scrutiny, feeling his hands beginning to sweat in fear.
"And what is your audition reading?" the teacher asked, sleepily.
"Laertes, son of Polonius," the young man replied.
"Alright, go ahead," said the teacher. Roy cleared his throat and began a bit flatly, then overcompensating with dramatic tones:
"My necessaries are embarked. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit and convey is assistant, do not sleep, but let me hear from you."
The drama teacher waved his hands. "That's enough, thank you. Roy, I suggest you stop trying to do those absurd Cary Grant impressions and learn how to do SHAKESPEARE. That was one of the most idiotic renditions of Laertes I've ever seen."
Roy's shoulders slumped. The drama teacher walked up and apologized. "Don't take it so hard, Roy," he said. "We can always use someone to paint the sets. Why don't you help Kenny get started on painting those walls white back there?"
Roy brightened a bit. "Alright," he said, taking off the bow tie and jacket, feeling a mixture of defeat and relief. For all the things he WAS good at, acting was not going to be one of his strong suits.
The Professor was absently painting the finishing touches on the arches on the doorframe when he heard quiet sniffling on the other side. He popped the door open gently and saw Mary Ann sitting behind the stage, crying.
"What's wrong?" he asked, putting down the coconut cup and paintbrush. He walked down the stairs and sat beside her on the ground. She wiped her eyes and averted her face.
"Oh, it's silly," she replied.
"Tell me what happened." Something in his tone calmed her a bit, and she took a deep breath.
"I got bumped," she said, wiping her eyes. "Mr. Howell said that I was a rotten actress. Don't quit your day job," she added, making a moping face. "Meaning what, I'm only good enough to make the food?"
"Why, that scoundrel!" the Professor exclaimed, his face reddening.
"I always wanted to act in a play! But – well, you know what I mean," she continued.
"You sounded great when you were helping the Skipper read! A natural director – oh, never mind." he said, realizing what really had happened. "Do you want me to talk to Mr. Howell? I'm about to give him a piece of my mind!" She shook her head.
"Oh no, Professor, I don't want to start any more drama. There's already enough going on between the leading lady and the producer's wife. This play was really all about cheering up Ginger, anyway. I don't know why I'm so worked up over it."
Her shoulders slumped and the Professor silently fumed. This feud between the women over this play was starting to get out of hand. There was no reason to hurt Mary Ann's feelings like this. The Professor remembered the sting of the disastrous audition seventeen years ago and nodded. "I know how that feels."
"You do?"
He told her what happened in college, and said that he ended up enjoying backstage work from then on. It gave him a creative outlet, something he sorely lacked when in the research lab.
She looked up at him and finally smiled, her face finally brightening a bit. "Thanks, Professor. I guess I needed a pep talk. They always make me feel so unimportant."
"My dear, you underestimate your importance. In fact, I need some help making some paint for the windows. Care to take a break from those costumes and help me pick some jungle berries?" He got up and offered her a hand.
"Boy, do I ever. Do you know how hard it is to sew leaves on coconut matting?"
She took the proffered hand and he helped her back to her feet. And for a few more minutes, her hand remained firmly in his as they headed into the jungle, as he convinced himself he was merely 'helping her through the thick overgrowth.'
-vVv-
1958, Two Blocks Down From The Roxy Theatre, Los Angeles, CA
Jonas "Jonny" Grumby was on shore leave with his ship buddy Tom Mallory. They had just finished a cargo ship run between Honolulu and California, and with their new windfall, they decided to treat themselves to a night on the town.
"Let's check out the premiere down the street," Tom suggested. "It looks like they're showing Attack of the 50 Foot Anteater. We might see a couple of famous people there. It'll be a gas."
"Sounds good to me," Jonas replied enthusiastically. The two men changed out of their work clothes into suits and fedoras, and headed towards the large crowd of clamouring newspaper reporters, radio announcers, and photographers clutching their Graflexes.
"We'll never get a glimpse of anyone in this crowd. Who's starring in this picture, anyway?" asked Jonas.
"That Ginger Grant dame, the redhead with the big knockers in San Quentin Blues," he replied, drawing an hourglass figure in the air for effect.
"Alright, that's worth seeing," Jonas replied.
They stood in the crowd, being shuffled back and forth. It was getting a little claustrophobic as the people started getting restless, looking for Miss Grant's limo. She was twenty minutes late, and the premiere couldn't begin without her.
Jonas shrugged his shoulders and walked to the corner to have a cigarette. He didn't care for crowds. His friend joined him a few minutes later.
"Ah, this is for the birds, Jonny," Tom grumbled, bumming a Camel off his pal. "But man, what I wouldn't give to be stuck somewhere alone with Ginger Grant. Va-va-voom! Whatta woman!"
The Skipper took a long, well-deserved drag from his cigarette, tossing the match in the street. "Well, we can only dream of that ever happening, Tom," he replied, just as the limo rounded the corner and the crowd erupted into cheers. The two men stood in awe as the statuesque actress with the Titian hair exited the limo with her escort, waving to fans, signing a few autographs.
"Well, get a good look now, Jonny," Tom said a little sadly. "That's the closest you and me'll ever get to a classy dame like her."
"OH MY FAIR QUEEN! COME AWAY WITH ME AND SHARE –"
The Skipper stood in the clearing, reading over his part. Rehearsing was going well, although he found it hard to remember his lines without a coach. Mary Ann had helped him earlier, until Mr. Howell had seen what a good job Mary Ann had been doing as a director, and chewed her out, telling her what a rotten actress she was. She ran off crying, god knows where. The Professor was nowhere to be seen – he was probably with Mary Ann, he figured. Although Mr. Howell had been out of line, the Skipper had too much work to do before sorting out the theatrical drama. This was his big chance, in more ways than one. Not only did he land the lead role (easily beating out the Professor's terrible acting), on page 27, right there, the script called for a passionate kiss.
A passionate kiss with Ginger Grant! He thought excitedly. Somewhere Tom Mallory is seething in jealousy. He looked over the script some more. Not just one kiss – three, and at the end of the last, they marry and move into their own pyramid!
He could hardly believe his luck.
He could hardly believe his nerves.
Don't blow it, Grumby," he muttered to himself. Suddenly, he heard Ginger coming up the path, searching for him.
"Are you ready to rehearse our big scene, Skipper?" she asked, winking.
He thought he was going to melt through the ground.