WORKS IN PROGRESS

LIBERTY, FRATERNITY...EQUITY

A Picaresque Novel. First Person Narrator. Coming of Age. An anonymous narrator remembers his apprentice-actor days on tour with a Children's play called "Tom Edison and the Wonderful Why." Apparently, being an actor isn't all glamor and glitz as the narrative follows the missteps of three young actors in charge of a van, their own show, and their fragile egos as they tour mid-western elementary schools and sleep three-to-a-room in broken down motels. But, hey, you have to start somewhere. There's the fracas at Hemingway Elementary in Oak Park, Illinois, the middle-of-the-night side-trip to Lincoln's grave in Springfield, a fundraiser in a barn to "save the farm," and a trip to the Illinois State Fair. Oh, and the Iranian Hostage Crisis. And no cell phones. Excerpt below:

For a moment after our female volunteer stood, the chorus of disappointment began to rise—a typical audience reaction at that point—but this noise ceased abruptly--followed by an ungodly hush. How long this period of silence lasted I cannot say. A thousand years? An eon? A second or two? I can only say even now that it was the kind of silence that is charged with the force of a zillion neutrons, all facing in the wrong direction—the kind of silence that follows the most heinous of faux pas, like being caught at a dinner party in the pantry en flagrante delicto with your best friend’s wife--although, I wouldn’t know firsthand about that kind of social humiliation for some years.

During this eternity of unquiet calm, I glanced at Lionel, who left off twirling his fake mustachio and straightened his crooked-over back with a look of utter puzzlement that would have done credit to Yul Brynner; even Ethan forgot the look of frozen contempt that usually framed his features and shrugged bewilderedly to my unspoken question of ‘what gives?”

You have heard it. Whether you were the shocked and vulnerable victim, its triumphant author, or the on-looker breathing thankful hosannas at being over-looked; you have known--and never forgotten--the sound of being mocked and being laughed at by a horde of grade-schoolers. As I remember, this sound began as a low wail of warning, like the vocal rumble from a distant stadium of booing fans and quickly rose to a tea-kettle pitch of aspirated and gleeful hysteria complete with pointed fingers stabbing through the air toward the confused volunteer. More than one voice began to intone, mercilessly, “That’s a boiiiiiiiy.” This almost became a chant. That’s a boy, a boy, a boyeeee.”

And then the other sound began.

I see him still, turning his confused blond head helplessly toward his friend, the teacher’s aid— giggling herself over the boy’s mistake--looking for some kind of guidance, his gaze taking in a couple of hundred laughing and hissing faces in a kind of beatific disbelief, like a martyr about to be stoned. And now, upon further recall, the face and person of this adorable child changes. The form at last admits to a certain, faintly detectable masculinity, but his complexion--that lucid, milk-white skin--and the lengthy, almost-perfect blond hair had been deceptive. Even the clothes...And he began to cry.

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OUR ENGLISH COUSINS

A fictional memoir. The narrative follows the structure of a collage of family photos. In 1953, in the industrial heart of the North of England, two unlikely lovers meet: Kathleen and Charlie. He's from South Philly. Italian-American. She's from a large, close-knit Irish family. It's Coronation Weekend and Blackpool is buzzing with people and parties. She is beautiful and aloof, untouched by the tender emotion. He is quiet and polite...but there is something in his eyes--and he is American, oddly so. Her family whirls with energy and joy, nurtured by the author's big-hearted grandmother, Gertrude. Charlie is swept up into the energy of Loughlan family life. In January, they marry. In America, his controlling mother broods on the choice of an English bride. And then, in an act of unsung heroism, Kathleen emigrates to America and Philadelphia, leaving behind her grieving mother and four sisters. What's more the Air Force re-orders Charlie to Texas--for six months. Kathleen, now pregnant, must live with a family she does not know, and she must learn to adjust to an alien culture and city. Excerpt below:

1. THE AUNTIES AND ME GRANDMOTHER: AN INDUCTION

On a Saturday night all the sisters went out. To the movies. To the pub. To parties. Into town or into Manchester. Sometimes, on the train to Blackpool to see the lights. To walk the promenade. Hair done. Nails done. Hats on. Best dresses. Girdles. Pumps. Powder and perfume. Eyes done—not too heavy. Don’t want to come off common. Lipstick. Fancy bags. Nylons. Oh, yes, nylons again in these first, festive years after the war. To be alive. To be British was everything—despite enduring the embarrassment of being citizens of a world-power newly diminished to second-rate status. On Saturday, though, the sisters felt a first-rate flush in the blood. To laugh. To sing along with the cut-glass notes of the piano with the crowd in the pub. To dance. After a long week of work in the shops or sewing at the machines in Stockport—to laugh, to sing, to dance. Oh, on a Saturday night, all the sisters went out.

But…for some strange reason on this particular Saturday night, me Auntie Francis stayed in. With her mother, Gertrude. At eight o’clock, sharp, there’s a knock. Francis, just on her way up for a warm bath, turns to the door. But in comes Gertrude, all hurried-like, to intercept, and she stands between Francis and the door. Francis says, Mum, there’s someone at the door. And her mother asks her what she’s doing home. Answering the door, Francis says. Not this door you’re not. But before Francis can reply there’s another, heavier, knock. Me grandmother turns to answer the knock, but before she opens it, she says, If you so much as breathe ONE WORD of this to that other lot, I’m going to wring your neck. Well, this is a bit unusual.

Gertrude opens the door. A crack. And she says good evening. A high, thin, narrow, dry sort of voice replies. Good evening, Mrs. Loughlan. I’ve come for the money. And the accent is that thick.

Oh, have ye? says Gertrude, feigning surprise. You’d best come in. She swings the door wide—reluctantly. This is Francis. Take no heed of her, silly girl.

…And in steps this strangle little man. And he’s wearing these little round glasses and a bowler hat that’s miles too big—it’s there on his head—and it’s pushing out his ears and he’s wearing an overcoat you could fit two of ‘im in; it’s practically to the floor. He looks as if he’s stepped off the music hall stage. But he must feel a bit self-conscious with Francis’ staring and beaming, ‘cause he says, again, a bit lower, I’ve come for the insurance money, Mrs. Loughlan.

Turns out, the strange little man is, indeed, the insurance man, and he comes round regular, eight o’clock on Saturday to collect the money for the insurance policy, and it’s like he’s the secret, bastard child of me grandmother—she’s that tetchy. And when me grandmother, in the parlor, hands over the money—two and six—every week, without fail, he takes out a little register from his inside coat pocket, and delicately licks the little pencil point in order to record the name and amount before daintily putting the ledger away.

As he leaves, Francis pokes her head out of the door, to her mother’s great discomfort, and mentally records his awkward, shambling gait, listing and bobbing almost diagonally along the rough sidewalk and hauling up at the end of the block at the O’Hanlan’s house, where he knocks and waits. Faintly, she hears his plaintive good evening before he disappears into that far door. Francis herself is not even fully back inside when she announces gleefully, Wait ‘til I tell the others; they’ll die.

Next Saturday comes round, and, much to me grandmother’s great humiliation, because she knows what they’re like, there’s not a single one of them going out. They’re all five, like droll furies, perching in the parlor waiting for the strange little insurance man: a formidable flock of flighty young females whose great potential for mortification cannot be exaggerated and whose capabilities in this area me grandmother, under high emotional strain, refuses to underestimate. There’s Francis herself, aged twenty-four. Annie, the eldest at twenty-six. Mary, she’d’ve been twenty-five at the time. Me own mother, Kathleen, second to youngest, twenty, and Edie, the baby, the youngest of eight, nineteen—but already, along with Francis ranked as a world class giggler. The rest of them are only good enough to giggle for the English National Team.

So, there they are, in the parlor, deployed in a semi-circular arrangement, that creates a make-shift amphitheater and allows unhindered views of the door. On the fringe of this array, me grandmother hovers nervously. Repeated verbal warnings and pleadings have achieved nothing. The poor man, he can’t help it. Why torture him? Will that make you feel good about yourselves? Oh, you’re cheeky and conceited, the lot of you. And so, they wait, Gertrude edgy, me mother and the aunties excited, expectant. Now it is nigh on to eight. Silence. Tick. Tick. Ticking of the clock. Nervous breathing. Now, it’s eight. The clock chimes. There’s the dry sound of shuffling shoes on the doorstep. A clear, sharp rap at the door—once, twice, three times, four. Breaths are held. The backs of hands are buried under bums; bums are levitating off cushions and armrests. Giving one, last, withering glare ‘round the room, Gertrude steps from the parlor to open the front door. Click of the latch; turn of the knob. Frozen, with their ears cocked, they hear the arid timbre of the voice, the accent unmitigated by civilized cadence or inflection. Good evening, Mrs. Loughlan. I’ve cum fer the insurance muney. And now, a few ungainly steps scrape along the floorboards. Gertrude’s strained voice mumbles polite niceties about introducing her daughters. The parlor door opens…slowly, and in steps the insurance premium collector. He stands, blinking in the full blaze of parlor lights, glasses the same, his bowler hat—to there—the same, the ears jutting at the same ridiculous angle, swaddled, the same, in the length and breadth of his great overcoat. And the insurance premium collector is so drop-dead comical, the aunties are stunned, perhaps for the first time ever, into silence. Complete and utter. Pin-drop. Heartbeat. Unbelievable silence.

And then—puncturing that great balloon of inarticulate hush—there is one single sob of suppressed laughter that bursts from one pair of lips, one mouth, one set of open and roaring lungs—everyone else has been further struck dumb. And this is not polite tittering, or a quiet snigger slipped behind a hand; this is not a trickle of controlled mirth; this is a burst-damn of open-throated, ground-shaking hilarity that has been seismically brewing for an age, and now it erupts in a volcano of totally uninhibited exultation that gushes and geysers in red-hot rivers of glee. And, as the aunties stare in amazed incredulity and the insurance collector blushes, Gertrude howls and roars, gasping for breath at the absurdity of the strange little man in the bowler hat.