OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 14: "THE SHOW MUST GO ON"
By The Binary Alchemist, 2012
There WERE worse places to get stuck in the ladies' lavatory. This one, at least, was clean. Unfortunately it was upstairs behind the lighting booth and with the noise of the show onstage nobody heard her beating on the door and yelling to be let out. In the end, Sheska sighed in resignation and dug into her handbag for some reading material. "Oh well…at least I've got someplace to sit down. But if Miss Turlough wasn't being sick in here," she fretted, "where on earth could she be?"
###
The business end of a bassoon was poking Vato Falman in the rump. It was too dark to see in the orchestra locker but from the odd way his shouts for help were echoing he was fairly sure there was a tuba in front of him. He kicked himself mentally. If Gladys Turlough was crying her eyes out and crumbling from the pressure of performing for the President, why would she have gone down into the practice room and hidden in the instrument locker? Her fur coat was in there, yes, and her distinctive perfume lingered in the air but as soon as Falman bent to pick up the coat the door slammed shut behind him and locked. Judging from the sound he heard afterwards a rolling rack of orchestra chairs had been pushed in front of the door, giving him no way to get out even if he could jimmy the door open.
###
"Chin up."
Elycia's eyes brimmed with tears. A gloved hand slipped into hers and squeezed tightly. She glanced at Uncle Roy and he was smiling. He released her hand and applauded Professor Sherman Lehrer and the Altoid Sisters and the chorus who had been public ally mocking him from the stage. "That was horrible!" she whispered.
"That was political satire. And rather mild compared to what I've heard before." He turned his eyes briefly to her. "Don't let them see your anger. Smile for me," he winked at her now, "and never let them see they've hurt you. The show must go on—and right now you and I are center stage up here."
From behind, there was a grunt of agreement and Chris Mustang leaned forward. "Think of something else—like dumping the grease trap over that dame Winchell's car."
"Or," her mother added, "Miss Winchell finding out that Uncle Roy read her awful bear story on the radio."
Elycia couldn't suppress a giggle. She'd aired it in the restaurant and had laughed so hard she'd feared she'd wet herself over Uncle Roy's droll delivery of the dreadful prose, every sentence double dipped in a smooth coating of sarcasm. His performance had been the talk of the town and earned a round of applause. She glanced back to Roy and found she could return his smile wholeheartedly. "You would have been a great actor, Uncle Roy."
His smile deepened and he kissed her hand. "My dear, I think you're beginning to grasp the full nature of Amestrian Politics."
###
"Hey, where's snow top and the book chick?" Brubeck glanced around backstage. "I ain't seen buzz cut fat boy around either."
Donal Samuelson looked frantic. "What the hell is going on around here? Our director is gone—and where the devil is Miss Turlough?"
Brubeck lit up a cigarette. "That broad is all curves and crazy angles—don't seem to me like she's bug out on a gig, though." From behind the curtains they could hear the audience singing along with Professor Sherman, roaring with laughter. "My gig's up next." He slapped Donal on the shoulder. "Show's gotta go on, man. Show's gotta go on…."
###
A pair of mother-of-pearl opera glasses were turned towards the pale man in the black tuxedo. He was applauding and smiling as if it meant nothing to him to be lampooned as a cross-dressing bisexual with venereal disease was all in a days' work to him. The Hughes girl was clearly upset, though. That gave Kelley Winchell a small degree of satisfaction. How must it feel, she mused spitefully, to have your hand kissed by the same lips that sucked your father's cock?
"I'll never know how you got your filthy hands on my book, Mustang….but I'll get even with you if it's the last thing I do…"
###
No windows. Door isn't just locked—it's jammed shut. There's no phone in here to call out and the intercom isn't working. "Could be worse," Breda admitted to himself. "I could actually be stuck in here with Gladys Turlough."
Dispassionately, he assessed the situation. If someone were planning to shoot Mustang, Hawkeye and Ross were on point, plus a dozen or more of the security detail scattered across the theater. The Boss had his gloves on.
He'd been called to the dressing room by a stage hand—he'd find out the kid's identity and question him. A cursory examination of the dressing room revealed little information other than Miss Turlough's preferences for dry champagne, chocolate covered cherries, movie magazines and menthol cigarettes. There was a platter of finger sandwiches with the crusts daintily trimmed off and a percolator of fresh coffee set out for Miss Turlough. There was also an unopened box of Xerxes Brand Condoms—prelubricated with reservoir tips—in the drawer of her dressing table. Havoc. You idiot! Breda was disappointed that his old friend had given in to temptation-and since the box was unopened Breda felt uneasy that Jean might wind up in more trouble than just cheating on Hawkeye.
There was no sense wasting energy. Breda poured himself a cup of coffee, helped himself to some finger sandwiches and sat down to wait…
###
"What?"
"It's almost over." Uncle Roy's voice was soft and low as he applauded Duke Brubeck's encore. The jazz pianist and his quartet had brought the tone of the evening back to a more civilized theme with his six minute performance of "Burning Man Suite", written for the guest of honor. It was complex listening and Uncle Roy seemed to enjoy it very much, rising now and nodding to the jazz master who flipped the President a smile and irreverent salute, which Mustang returned. "What did you think?"
"I think I like the Altoid sisters better," she admitted, preferring their close harmonies, catchy melodies and swing rhythms to Brubeck's more sophisticated sounds.
"They're coming up next with an encore. Unfortunately, they're coming on with Sherman Lehrer again. Brace for impact."
Elycia was ready. "Chin up," she told him with a smile that faltered at the sound of a patriotic fanfare from Maestro William's orchestra. "It can't be as bad as the last one, can it?"
The Altoid Sisters were revealed as the curtain opened and Margi. Maci and Mazi appeared in State Military uniforms. Mazi was back in the Riza Hawkeye wig. Margi, who had played Ed in the previous sketch, now wore thick-rimmed black glasses and a mousy brown hairstyle, while Maci sported a short black crop and a beauty mark under one eye. Behind her, Elycia heard Ross fumble for the opera glasses provided in the box. "Wait a minute….is that supposed to be me?"
"I'm afraid so, Ross. And I don't believe Sheska is going to find this amusing, any more than Colonel Hawkeye," Roy affirmed.
"Sheska" saluted the audience:
When questioned about his ambition to become Fuehrer, Roy Mustang brashly proclaimed that when he ascended to power, "all female officers will be required to wear TINY MINISKIRTS, much to the chagrin of First Lieutenant Hawkeye and to the delight all the men on his staff. The reason this decree was never enforced has been a classified millitary secret…until now…
When just a lowly Colonel, Mustang proudly did declare:
"Soon as I'm appointed Fuehrer there will be some changes here
Commencing with the blue fatigues the girls are forced to wear
Those hems are on the rise!"
Dressed again as President Mustang, Professor Sherman Lehrer stood up behind the same prop desk again and burst into song:
"Despite persistent rumors, I'm as straight as any guy—"
The Professor glanced up to where Gracia and Elycia were sitting beside Roy in the Presidential box. "Just ask Hughes!"
"Famed for stealing every girlfriend who attracts my roving eye
So ladies, ditch your trousers and prepare to show some thigh
Your hems are on the rise!"
From behind the desk popped up a quartet of chorus boys dressed like Falman, Breda, Havoc and Fuery. The vague suggestion that they had been below the desk servicing their superior officer was implied by their slightly disheveled appearance and misbuttoned uniforms.
"Glory, Glory hallelujah!
Hems are risin', what's it to ya?
Chilled Amestris breezes runnin' thru ya
Your hems are on the rise!"
"Ross" and "Hawkeye" leaned in close and winked broadly at one another:
"Now, Hawkeye told Maria Ross, "This order is absurd,
There's no way they can enforce it, Mustang hasn't got the nerve
Being useless ain't his biggest fault-the man's a total perv
Whose mind is on our thighs.
Let's edit it a fraction, then we'll post it to his tray
Change the gender of the pronoun in the rule announced today—"
A tenor soloist in a bald wig cap and a thick blond mustache crawled out from under the desk, struck a muscular pose and gestured towards the Altoid sisters:
"Sure enough, he didn't read it, he just signed it anyway
With great salacious sighs…"
The chorus rang out again, with a bevy of unformed ballerinas goose-stepping up the aisles of the theater. Ross shot her President a sour look. "It was a joke. I told Havoc and Hawkeye I was kidding," the President assured her. "Although I'll be very interested in finding out how the hell anyone found out about a private joke."
"Sir, I assure you Colonel Hawkeye-" Ross began heatedly before Mustang cut her off.
"Had to have been Major Havoc. Easy, Ross. It's no big deal."
"Sir, with all respect, they're making a fool of you."
"Comes with the job. At ease, Ross."
"Hawkeye" began her solo:
"Their eyes beheld the glory as those hems began to rise
They proclaimed their admiration of those ankles, calves and thighs
Half the staff broke out in nosebleeds, Kain and Jean were paralyzed
At miniskirts—on….guys?!
And all the MEN on the staff cried as one voice?"
"HELL, NO!"
"And all the women on the staff cried as one voice?"
'HELL YES!"
"And Fuhrer Mustang cried—"
"OH, SHIT!"
"And Maes Hughes cried out?"
From the proscenium arch above the stage an actor with a beard, glasses and wings like a Letoist spirit of grace descended from a wire, waving a handful of photographs.
"ANYBODY WANT TO SEE SOME PICTURES OF MY KID?"
There was a gunshot sound effect and "Hughes" dropped to the stage. Elycia took in a sharp, horrified breath. She couldn't tear her eyes from the stage but beside her she heard the frosty voice of Roy Mustang. "This has ceased to be amusing."
The "Hughes" character got up, brushed off his wings and slung an arm around "Mustang"
"It's all right, Roy. I've still got your back." He winked at the audience. "As usual!"
"Roy" smiled back at him. "Good man, Hughes! Dead or alive, an officer never leaves his buddy's….behind."
The audience went berserk, whooping and cheering for nearly a full minute before the performers could continue…
###
In the wings Donal Samuelson glanced around frantically. Gladys Turlough was coming on at the end of this sketch and she was nowhere to be found. "Looks like your bird flew the coop, dude!" Brubeck told him sympathetically. "I was kinda hoping she'd pop out of the cake—"
"I'll get Margi to pop out in the Ed costume—she won't have to change-unless you've got a better idea?"
###
"Goddamn flat tire!" The stage door from the alley was jerked open and banged shut. "Goddamn motherfucking-broken fan belt!" An astonished stage hand was rudely shoved out of the way. "Goddamn freezing out there—where the hell is my fucking coat?….goddamn icy sidewalk—ten FUCKING blocks I gotta walk in heels—what the hell is this shit?"
It took several shoves and kicks before the upright piano creaked and rolled away from in front of the dressing room door.
The lock clicked and Heymans Breda whipped out his sidearm and pointed it at the head of a very dirty and rumpled looking Gladys Turlough, who had what appeared to be motor oil stains all over her dress and hands.
They stared at one another for several heartbeats. Then she snarled at him. "You ate my goddamn sandwiches?"
###
"No one dares to look up Armstrong's kilt—the guy's too big and strong
Falman's fetching in his spandex, tho' his taste in shoes is wrong
Heymans Breda's in the guardhouse in a leopard print sarong
More suited to his size—EVERYBODY!"
This time it was a golden banner bearing the lyrics of the chorus that dropped from the proscenium and the dead Hughes was conducting the audience in a grand sing-along of the chorus:
"Glory, Glory hallelujah!
Hems are risin', what's it to ya?
Chilled Amestris breezes runnin' thru ya
Your hems are on the rise!"
"Hawkeye" began to sing softly as the tempo slowed from the previous march:
When Fullmetal read the order, Ed was blushing like a rose…
He assaulted Fuhrer Mustang, kicked his tail and broke his nose…
'Cause his automail appendage looks like hell in pantyhose
It's hard to find his size..."
###
"Lissen, tubby—I ain't got time for this," Gladys snapped. "You got your fat ass locked up in my dressing room. I got picked up by a taxi that got a flat tire AND broke a belt and had to walk ten blocks IN HEELS without a coat. I gotta go on in about three minutes and I'm RUINED!"
Breda shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Miss Turlough! We can find you another dress—"
"FUCK the dress!" she bellowed. "I'm a professional! Outta my way!" She pushed past Breda and stomped up the steps, patting her blond hair into place and headed for wings. Breda stared after her. He smiled.
"Damn….what a woman!"
###
Margi Altoid had just delivered a comic rant in her Edward Elric costume and planted a huge kiss on the lips of "Roy Mustang" as planned. After a thunderous ovation, she slipped backstage and attempted to crawl inside the giant pasteboard birthday cake that was to be wheeled into the middle of the stage.
A pointed toed pump caught her right in the midsection and she was yanked inside. There was a scuffle, but it went unheard by the stagehands. "Margi? Are you in there?" Donal Samuelson stage-whispered as loudly as he daired. There was a bumping sound and a muffled voice from inside. "Good girl! We're pusihing you out on stage in three…two…"
###
Roy swore softly under his breath as the cake rolled into view, pushed by Samuelson as emcee. The cast of the "Miniskirt Army" sketch marched out onto the stage.
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!
May the candles on your cake-Burn like cities in your wake!
Your demise will not be far—now you are the age you are!
All your foes will wail and weep—slay them all, but spare the sheep!
Happy Birthday! Happy Birthday!
Don't forget what you should learn—first you loot and THEN you burn-***
"STOP THAT! Stop it right now!" A very furious Gladys Turlough kicked her way out of the birthday cake, crawled out and angrily slapped Professor Sherman across the face. "Show some respect!"
Her evening gown was torn and grimy. Her hair was a rat's nest and her makeup was smeared. "Lissen to me!" she yelled. "Some rat-bastards have been tryin' to make this night a mess. This wasn't the way we rehearsed it—none of that dirty stuff about Mr. President. It was…it was ….nice, ya know? 'Cause he's a nice man. He really is."
She shielded her eyes from the spotlight and peered up to the Presidential Box. "Mr. President? I'm sorry I'm late. My car broke down. I tried to fix the fan belt with one of my stockings but it didn't work. Maybe I coulda made these guys behave if I'd got here on time. I still wanna sing, though. Is that okay?"
Roy rose and bowed to the acrtress, smiling warmly. "Miss Turlough, I'd be honored."
Grease smeared across her nose, one earring missing, Gladys Turlough stood straight and lifted her breathy, little girl voice, gesturing for the crowd to join in:
"Happy birthday to you—Happy birthday to you!
Happy birthday Dear-President-Mustangggggggg-
Happy birthday toooooooo youuuuuuuu-AND YOU'VE GOT MY VOTE!"
###
"More champagne?"
Sheska shook her head, reaching for the Stray Dog. The theater was emplty except for the cleaning crew. Once the gala was over a house search quickly freed Falman and Sheska. "Who do you think was behind all this?"
"That Sherman guy. Whatta putz!" Gladys was snugging back into the folds of her beloved mink.
"I think it was the Maestro," Falman corrected, accepting a cup of coffee with a splash of scotch to foritfy it."
"We'll leave this to the investigations team. No real harm has been done—" Roy began but Hawkeye cut him off.
"Sir, what if they had tried to kill you?"
"Well," he sighed, "they didn't. It was tasteless—at least the parts about Maes—but noththing I can't live down." He glanced at Donal Samuelson. "I believe your listening audience had quite a few shocks tonight. May have a rough time with your network censors."
Donal smiled expansively. "I'm sure they'll forget all about it when they see tomorrow—no, today's headline story."
Roy took a sip of scotch. "Really?"
"Yes, really. Your first political opponent declared their candidacy twenty minutes ago. It will be all over the wires before breakfast."
Roy looked amused. "Let me guess. Major General Armstrong has been my rival for years. She's ready to challenge me for the presidency at long last."
"That's where you're wrong…Roy." Donal Samuelson smiled. He slipped on his winter coat and straightened his fedora. "It's me. Have a good evening!"
….TO BE CONTINUED…..
( AUTHOR'S NOTE-lyrics to "Revenge Of The Miniskirt Army" by The Binary Alchemist, 2007-performed at Anime Weekend Atlanta 2009. ***The "Barbarian Birthday Song" verses are traditional from the Society of Creative Anachronism and date back to the 1970's-original authors unknown but appreciated and acknowledged here)