Soft-Mouthed Sandy

Betty climbed into the passenger side of my old F-150, her longboat propped between her knees.

"So who's this guy you're interviewing?"

"A director," I said. "He's got a film up for an award. I was fortunate enough to meet him this weekend by happen-stance."

Betty lowered her Ray-bans. "You don't mean Alessandro D'Goya?"

My face obviously registered surprise.

"He did a documentary last year on conservative churches in the Midwest," she smiled. "Guess who's church made his short list?"

I plugged the key into the ignition. "So you know him?"

"I was locked in the dungeon with a few dime novels and a couple of cokes when he visited," she smirked. "Dad didn't like him but sat for the interview. The reverend Solomon Silk is a bit of a media whore," she explained. "Beau especially didn't like him. Called him the little Spanish Fairy."

"I suppose I'll end up the Ford Fairy, then?"

Betty smirked. "Why? Fuck any guys recently?"

I nodded, shifting the truck into reverse. "My apologies, Miss."

We drove eight or so miles to the film school studios. They were in an industrial part of town set away from the college. I had expected to find the parking lot empty but was surprised to see it was jam-packed with cars and the bike rack near the main entrance overflowing with bikes and mopeds.

"Looks like a cattle call," Betty said. "I heard the studio likes to take advantage of breaks so they can cast actors with minimal conflicts."

"I see," I said. "So you're just using me to try and sneak in an audition?"

"It crossed my mind," she blushed. "But I was actually more curious just to see the studios. I'm technically still an undeclared major. Perhaps I'd like to try both theatre and film?"

We climbed out and entered the building to find it buzzing. People of all types were lined up down a corridor with pages, all of them obviously cribbing lines.

I approached a receptionist behind a desk. She was middle-aged with frizzy red hair. I presented my press credentials but she was on the phone and simply waved me off, presenting both Betty and me with pages.

Betty giggled. "Guess you've got a bit of a wait," she said.

She made to move toward the line but I held up my hand, pinning my press badge to my jacket lapel. "Rule one," I said. "Nobody stops the press."

I walked with purpose down the corridor, Betty falling in quickly behind me.

The line of actors barely looked up as we passed. Those who did, paused any of their protests when I tapped my badge with authority.

Betty was at my elbow doing her best to match my purposeful strides. "This is kinda hot," she whispered.

"If you walk in like you own the place the only person you should fear is usually the person you're trying to get in to see," I said softly as we reached the door to which everyone seemed to be queuing for. I put my hand on the door, smiling at the young actress in a blue scarf who had been waiting for her signal to enter before opening it wide and allowing Betty through before entering myself.

"I'm sorry," a voice said. "We're not ready for you just yet. And we asked for three at a time-"

I touched my press badge. "Sean Grisham," I said. "University Daily. I have an appointment with Mr D'Goya. The lady said to just pop in."

There were three of them at a table, two women and a man. All were grad school aged. None of them were Sandy. In front of the table, lit like a traditional black-box theatre set, stood a ladder and a park bench.

The woman in the center seat at the table blinked through thick black hipster glasses.

"I'm sorry?" She said. "I-."

A buzzer sounded. The young woman in glasses touched her ear. "Okay," she said. "You have pages, though. And a reading partner?"

I turned to Betty. "Well, I-"

"Go ahead and read, then we can break for Lunch." A familiar voice said through the speakers. "Alan. Read Christian, please?"

I looked up to the back of the sound stage. A control room with tinted glass peered down upon us. The young guy at the table stood. He wore a green hooded shirt and woolen cap over brown mutton chops.

"Well," I said. "I'm no actor."

"That's not true," Betty piped up. "He played Nathan Detroit."

I turned to shoot her a mildly annoyed grimace.

"Regional theater," she added, smiling. "Cold reading, alright?"

The hipster touched her ear. "That's fine. Whenever you're ready? Oh, your name, Miss...?"

"Silk," she said. "Betty Silk. I'm his Girl Friday."

"Very well," she said. "Miss Silk will read Roxanne. Mr. Grisham, was it? You are Cyrano. Begin whenever you're ready."

For the first time I glanced over the pages in my hand. There were quite a few of them, I realized.

Again Sandy's voice boomed through the speakers. "Do you know the play?"

I cleared my throat. "Um, I know the movie. Jose Ferrer, 1950?"

"Bravo," he said. "We're doing an adapted version. Proceed when you're ready."

The young man approached Betty and she smiled,, falling naturally into character.

"You!" She said. She walked to him as if to kiss him but stopped short. "Evening falls. And your letter said you wished to find me alone. What is it you wished to say to me?

"Oh! I love you!" The young A.D. said.

"Yes!" She sat down on the bench. "Oh, speak to me of love, Christian."

"Well," he said, haltingly. "I love thee!"

"Of course. That's the theme! But vary it."

" I..." he knelt, then stood, then sat beside her on the bench.

"Oh please, I beg of you..."

"I love you so!"

Betty scowled at the young man.

"I hoped for cream,-you give me milk and water! Say, like in your letters, how love possesses you?"

"Oh utterly!"

"Come, come!" She stood, walking a pace away before turning back, arms spread in frustration. "Can you not untangle those knotted sentiments!"

The A.D. approached her lustfully. "Your throat. I'd kiss it!"

To everyone's surprise, especially the young man's, Betty smacked him. "Christian!"

The A.D. nearly dropped his pages. The Hipster girl suppressed a laugh.

"I," he faltered.

"Yes," Betty moaned, rolling her eyes, pushing him back so he fell on the bench.. "You love me. And that is all you have to say!?"

"No, no! I love thee not!"

"Well, at least that's a variation on the theme."

"I adore thee!"

"You are grown stupid as a schoolboy, and that displeases me, almost as much s 'twould displease me if you grew ugly!"

She stormed off.

"But. . ."

"Yes, you love me, that I know. Adieu." Betty called from nearly off set..

The young A.D. turned to me. "Don't just stand there! Help me! You wrote all those blasted letters!"

I realized that was apparently my cue. I entered. "Me? Why?" I read haltingly. "Don't you know enough how to tale a woman in your arms?"

"But I shall die if I do not win her back. Help me!"

"Alright. Don't shout. The night is dark," I said, growing more confident. "Call up to her. Let me see what I can do."

"Roxanne?"

Betty re-entered and climbed atop the ladder, crossing her legs coquettishly.

"Throw some pebbles!" I said. "Against her window."

He mimed throwing a handful of pebbles.

Betty ad-libbed, reacting as if she'd been struck by them. "Ouch! Hey!"

"Sorry," the young man smiled, almost breaking character. "It's me. Christian!"

"You again?" Another eye-roll.

"Speak soft and low," I read in a stage-whisper. "Say this: "Oh, pity me, sweet, Roxanne, for I love you no more!!"

"Oh, pity me," he repeated, at full voice. "Sweet Roxanne, for I love you... no more?" He grimaced at me.

I held up a finger. "But all the more. And more and more. The theme has made me dumb with endless love."

He repeated.

Betty settled upon her ladder. "Better," she said. "Better than pebbles in the face, at least."

"Love grew apace," I whispered and he repeated. "Rocked by the anxious beating... Of this poor heart, which the cruel wanton boy... Took for a cradle!"

"A cradle?" Betty smiled. "That is much better! But you nearly stifled love its cradle!

"Yes, my love, I wished to do so, such boyish love is folly. But this love, it will not stifle. It is a new-born Hercules!"

"A man's love?"

"Or so I thought it, merely. I am just a man, Roxanne. I would not dream to love like Hercules. His labors I know would explode my mere mortal heart."

"Well said!" Betty said. "But so faltering? Has your heart run away without your head?"

Reading the stage directions I waved the young A.D off.

"Your words are hesitating," Betty prompted.

"Night has come," I said. "Perhaps it muzzles me? My words grope to find your ear?"

"How you tease. My words find your ear just fine."

"At once," I said. "Small wonder they are from your lips. And in my heart they find their home; Bethink how large my heart, how small your ear! And,-from fair heights descending, words fall fast, But mine must mount, Madame, that climb takes time!"

"It seems your last words have learned to climb."

"With practice such effort grows less hard!"

"I'll come down then..."

"No!"

The A.D. hissed from the shadows. "Why not?"

How, you will not?

"Let my words fight awhile! 'Tis sweet when hearts can speak unseen, unseeing. Half hidden, half revealed. You see only the dark folds of my shrouding cloak,

And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress. I but a shadow-you a radiance fair! What such a moment holds for me? If ever I were eloquent..."

"You were!"

"Yet never til tonight my speech has sprung straight from my heart.

Your eyes have beams that turn men dizzy! But tonight I speak for the first time in my own voice!

''Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new."

I approached Betty on her ladder. "True a new tone! In the tender, sheltering dusk. I dare to be myself for once. What can I say?

It thrills me,-'tis so sweet.

"How so, my love?"

"To be at last sincere; Till now, my guarded heart, feared mockery."

"Mockery, and for what?"

"For its mad beating! My heart has clothed itself with witty words,

To shroud itself from curious eyes. It dared not reach a star."

"Oh! never have you spoken thus before! If I cannot come down to you, will you come to me?"

"Yes!" The A.D. said.

"And scene!" The voice from above said. "Bravo, Miss Silk! That's lunch, everyone. We'll pick up in an hour."

The three at the table went out to tell the rest of the actors to take lunch. Betty lingered with me as a light came on above and Sandy waved from inside his black box. In a moment, after speaking with another, older man, he emerged carrying a brown leather briefcase.

"Mr. Grisham," he said, shaking my hand. "You ask for a lunch interview and show up with a plus one?"

"I practically forced myself on him," Betty said. "Never thought he'd help me cut in line."

"Brassy," Sandy said, shaking her hand. "The old-timers called it 'Moxey.' I have to say, we have a lot of people to see yet, but you're impressive."

Betty did her best 'coquettish blush.'

I cleared my throat.

Sandy turned to me. "And you... how would you rate yourself as a swordsman-poet-lover, Mr. Grisham?"

"A piss poor one," I said. "And we did have an appointment."

Sandy smiled. "Miss Silk, care to walk us out? I'd scarcely separate a crack journalist from his Gal Friday without a few moments of witty banter. And, Mr. Grisham obviously needs a buffer for being put on the spot."

"Of course." Betty linked arms with us both and we proceeded out. "Now, be nice to the brilliant man, Sean. That's an order!"

"I'm confused. Are you Roxanne now or Miss Moneypenny?"

"Well, if I had to pick a 'gal friday,' I'd go with Velda from the Mickey Spillane novels."

"Excellent choice," Sandy said.

"Why her?" I asked.

"Because she's got 'moxey,'" she said. "Not to mention tits and grit."

Betty walked us out, and grabbed her long board from the cab of my truck.

"Pleasure meeting you, Miss Silk, Sandy said. "I assume your contract information was left with the receptionist?"

"Sean has my number," she said. "I'm only just registered for the summer term, Mr. DeMille."

She tossed her board down and hopped aboard it. "Later, gaiters!"

She kicked away and began thumping off over the cracks in the studio parking lot.

"We aren't 'we' sampling all 31 flavors," Sandy smirked at me, after Betty had scooted off on her longboard.

"Sorry?"

"Oh, come on. It couldn't be more obvious. I can read body language, Sean. And hers says she's calf-roped you with her g-string probably within the last two hours."

I checked my watch.

He laughed and pushed me away, shaking his head.

"It was a thong," I said.

"I hope you had your Wheaties this morning. Speaking of which, does Nan know about..." he held up his thumb out, pointing from his chest to mine.

"Why do you ask?"

"She's invited me to that cabin getaway she had to reschedule for next weekend. The way she asked was a little too cute," he said. "If your boyfriend can't make it I'll see if I can loan you mine."

"We talked," I said. "I had to be honest, right?"

"A regular eagle scout," he said.

"But i applaud you. Could have kept me a deep dark closeted secret."

I shrugged. "So Nan knows. She's cool with it."

"Is she also cool with your slender transgender sk8ter-girl?"

"It's new," I said.

"So new you're wearing tea-blossom body wash as opposed to Irish Spring," he smiled.

"I will not be judged by someone who wears 'Dove for Men,'" I said.

"I said 'yes' to Nan's weekend getaway," Sandy said. "And I've only got an hour before I need to be back. Let's call this our first platonic date?"

"Platonic," I nodded. "I get a feature interview and you get?"

"Buzz for my next movie. Which has to be 'an adaptation of a classic script,' if you had not surmised."

I produced my tape recorder. "March 16, 2009," I said. "Interview with Alessandro D'Goya. You're hometown and class distinction for the record, Mr. D'Goya?"

"Second year Master's student in film," he said into the recorder. "Born in Seville, Spain."

"How does someone born in Seville end up in our Midwest college town?"

"My mother died. My father raised me. He's from the area. It is not something he or I like to discuss."

"But you retain your mother's surname?" I asked.

"Well, Alex Smith is so dangerously close to 'Alan Smythe,' I didn't want people thinking I was ashamed of the movies I made."

We took his car to a little barbecue stand outside of town. We ordered and took a table far off from the crowd.

"You've done a documentary recently on conservative churches in the midwest?" I set the recorder on the table between us.

"It won an award," he said. "HBO is optioning it for a limited series."

"You must be proud, then?"

"Not at all, actually."

"Why not?"

"Because I feel there's more to it than just the tip of the iceberg. I didn't grow up in a small town. But, a lot of people who did are leaving those small towns. And why? Because they don't fit. They grow up loving their home, their family. They play on the soccer team, they're in boy scout troops, they sing in the church choir... but they're different somehow. "

Sandy stopped. "Sean, help

I stopped the tape. "I can't feed you lines in an interview," I said.

"But you know what I'm talking about, right?"

I sighed. "Good ol' boys in their pick-up trucks. It's not as simple as all that, though, Sandy. Hell, I didn't know I went that way, even slightly, before..."

He cleared his throat. "I see." He shook his head. "But think, though? How many people like you have been conditioned never to even consider it? To think it wrong to just love someone for who they are?"

"Collect your thoughts," I said, holding up the recorder.

Sandy smiled. "And leave you out of it, right?"

I restarted the recorder and we finished up in about 20 minutes.

When I shut off the recorder and we'd returned our empty trays to the barbecue stand. Sandy climbed into my battered old pick-up.

"So," he said. "How you feeling?"

"Like it's Monday," I said, shrugging. "And you've got more auditions to manage, while I'm due at a Van Gogh exhibit."

"To be calf-roped by another woman's pair of panties, no doubt?"

I carefully considered a few heartbeats before responding. "Am I... a top?"

"For the moment," Sandy responded. "I would ask about your plans tomorrow night, but..."

I considered. "Your apartment complex has a pool," I said.

"And a hot stone sauna, steam room, hot tub," he said. "You live on the cheap, huh?"

"Well, you could swim in my complex pool, but we'd be observed by the Armenian Mafia."

He nodded. "Tomorrow then," he said. "My place."

I drove him back to the studios and dropped him off at the main entrance. "Oh, text me your little friend's number. I might have a part for her."

"You got it," I said.

"And..." he opened his bag and took out a small bottle of cologne. "If you're going on a date, you might want to smell like something more manly than tea-blossom."

I sniffed the cologne and applied some before passing it back.

"You know, you wouldn't look half bad with a big nose," he said. And with a wink, he shut my heavy truck door and walked back inside the building.

Sniffing the cologne once more, I detected hints of cloves and bergamot. I put the truck in gear and headed back toward campus.

I was three minutes late for my date with Fiona, as I parked once more at the student union and walked down the hill to the art museum near the quad. I had considered running home to change clothes but figured my semi-professional look of a grey button-up under a light grey jacket and blue jeans was fashionable enough for a casual first date.

As I approached the museum entrance I saw Fiona waiting for me. The sight of her nearly stopped me in my tracks.

The girl from upstairs who always wore tattered overalls or blue jeans stained with charcoal or pastel crayons was sporting a pair of classic red heels and a green satin dress that showed off all the best aspects of her body.

She wore 1950s style lace gloves and clutched a small red purse that matched her heels and lipstick. Her eyes sparkled as she saw me approach.

"You look," I said, holding up a hand to try and choose the best word.

She gave a twirl. "I know," she said. "It's very retro, rihht?"

"Stunning," I said. "Have you been waiting long?"

"Just a few minutes," she said. "I was worried you'd beat me here."

"I got caught up doing an interview for the features section. Care to go in?"

She looped her arm through mine and we strolled through the museum's great double doors. It being spring break, the place was practically deserted save for a clerk at the information desk who barely looked up from his Nintendo DS.

Fiona approached and deposited $5 in the kiosk box. The attendant presented her with a tablet from a charging port.

"This will help us look up anything we like," she said. "We just scan the little squares next to the placards and get the full skinny on everything."

"Delightfully clever," I said.

"Well," Fi said. "Do we go straight for the Pieta, or do we cruise around a bit? I can show you some of my favorites from the permanent collection?"

"Lead the way," I said. "We'll save Van Gogh for last."

We wandered to the left of the information kiosk into a gallery of early Phonetian and Egyptian ceramics and statuary. She pointed to a few pieces telling me the story behind the statue of Nefertiti, a ceramic Jar depicting the Myth of Arachne, and we scanned the little coded squares beneath a few other items huddling together to read about the upper and lower kingdoms of Ancient Egypt.

She was not only knowledgeable, but eloquent and engaging in the way she brought every piece that was dear to her to life in someway.

From the ancient world we moved through the Middle Ages where illuminated manuscripts, guilded triptych and reliquaries took center stage.