February 11, 2010
From: Lawrence Ryan
To: Douglas Monroe
Subject: Re: Ronald Gordon's plays
Dear Mr. Monroe,
Thank you so much for sending the recording and your draft of the libretto. I must say, whoever you found to sing those selections has quite a beautiful voice. I have absolutely no complaints about your music, quite the opposite in fact, except that I did miss and very much look forward to hearing at least one or two of the duets that you have planned for the lovers.
With regard to the libretto, however, I am puzzled as to why you elected to edit the three plays down into two. Deleting incidental characters such as Henry's parents is a typical adaptational strategy, but why meddle with the overall dramatic structure so drastically?
It would be helpful, and indeed pleasant to meet face to face and work through the libretto together, but I'm afraid my schedule is rather full at present. In addition to preparing for the premiere of
Queen Mab
here in town shortly, I am scheduled to travel to Austin next month for the trilogy's Texas premiere there. Moreover, I have suddenly been tasked with an unexpected and somewhat delicate academic responsibility. But I suppose I needn't bore you with the details.
If you can find some time available later in the year, perhaps early this summer, please let me know so that we can plan for a proper collaborator's meeting.
Respectfully yours,
Larry Ryan
* * *
* Larry *
"Good morning, Larry. Terry's waiting for you," Sally greets me with her trademark practiced air of friendly efficiency from behind her well-ordered desk. The Theater department's administrative assistant for the past twenty-six years, Sally keeps us all in line with grace, humor, and infinite patience.
"Thanks, Sally." I throw her a fond smile before making my way past her desk to the office marked "Theresa Brooks, Department Chair."
I find Terry seated behind the wide desk in her crowded but immaculate office. As always, she is impeccably dressed in a sensible business suit, her iron gray hair perfectly coiffed. We've always gotten along well, but truth be told she frightens me just a little. I've seen her play Electra.
She looks up over her glasses and spots me standing in the door. "Larry! Thank you for coming by. Could you close the door, please?"
I blink and comply.
"Perfect. Thank you. Please, sit." She indicates the chair across the desk from her and, once I am safely ensconced there, folds her hands deliberately across the fat blue file folder placed squarely in front of her.
"I hear the Lexington premiere was an enormous success. I hope you're pleased."
"It was very gratifying, yes," I cautiously allow.
"Good, good. And two more productions coming this spring, I understand."
"That's right. The trilogy in Austin and
Queen Mab
here in town."
"Excellent. I'll be sure to put the local show on my calendar."
"I look forward to seeing you there."
Terry knows all this. Why are we going through this dance of courtesy?
We sit in awkward silence for a few seconds.
"Terry, what's this all about?" I finally venture.
She drums flawlessly manicured fingernails across the file once, twice, three times before answering. I can't help noticing the label on the file tab reads "L. Ryan / R. Gordon."
"Larry, I've been putting off bringing this up to you. I know you've had a great many things on your plate. But when I learned you'd be taking another trip this spring, to Austin this time, I knew I couldn't procrastinate any longer."
"Is there a problem with my going? Jim said he was happy to cover my classes for me that week I'll be out of town in March. Is there a conflict I'm not aware of?"
"Not... per se," Terry answers judiciously, "but there may be going forward."
I stare at her. "Enlighten me."
She opens the file and extracts a paper-clipped sheaf of documents. Before handing it across to me, though, she asks, "Have you received any sort of—push back—over the subject matter of Mr. Gordon's plays?"
"Push back?" I allow myself a small, scornful smile. "You mean hate mail? I'm destroying this country, corrupting our youth, peddling filth, flouting God's law... that kind of thing? A bit, yes," I concede. I have a designated "Bigots" folder in my e-mail containing fifty or so such charming missives. My first impulse had been simply to delete the vile things, but on second thought, I decided to save them as morbid historical curiosities—or as ammunition. A suspicion creeps into my mind. "Have you?"
Without answering, Terry hands me the stack of papers. I leaf through it, discovering a series of variations on the same familiar, single-minded (and simple-minded) theme: printed e-mails, typed and hand-written letters, telephone memoranda taken in Sally's careful, even handwriting. I notice with amusement that Sally has not been able to resist adding her own commentary in the margins of some of those: "Asshat!" underlined three times adorns one particularly vehement example. I had no idea Sally was even capable of swearing.
"That," Terry says tightly, "is a choice selection of the dozens of communications this department—and the office of the President, you should be aware—has received in the last two and a half months. Mostly from self-proclaimed 'concerned citizens'"—her lips curl derisively—"but a substantial number of them from parents incensed at the thought of their fragile, precious darlings being made to study under 'that sodomite professor,' as I believe one of them so charmingly dubbed you. Some of the other appellations were slightly more colorful, if you can imagine. We've also had three letters from various church coalitions around the state, and calls for a federal inquiry from one of our state congressmen—who clearly needs a refresher course on the First Amendment." She removes her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "You've put us right in the crosshairs of the culture wars, Larry."
I sit speechless, appalled. Is the college really going to cave in to this reactionary temper tantrum? Is Terry? I never would have imagined this of her. She has a lesbian daughter, for Christ's sake!
Terry pauses to compose herself, her black eyes flashing, before replacing her glasses and lifting the next stack of papers, this one larger and held together with a binder clip. "And here," she continues, "is a selection from the
hundreds
of letters of congratulations and support I've received from members of the theatrical community, from gay and lesbian organizations, from some of our more open-minded religious congregations and clergy, and from alumni around the country—all thrilled that one of our own faculty has helped bring such an important issue to the forefront of our national conversation and, however belatedly, introduced the work of a major American talent to the public.
"I have also," she goes on, her eyes unexpectedly misting over, "been so proud to receive letter after letter from gay and lesbian young people—and their parents, what's more—begging for the chance to study at this institution, in a department that they now perceive to be a safe and accepting place to nurture their talent. And you bet your ass I've shared each and every one of these with the President. He was... impressed."
She drops the packet of correspondence in front of me with a soft thud. "Bravo, Larry," she says softly.
My own eyes well up. We sit staring at each other, a couple of sentimental old fools at a loss for words.
Terry eventually clears her throat. "Which brings me," she continues, "to my dilemma. You, no doubt, will have more productions of these plays coming up to steal you away from your teaching duties."
"Um, actually," I interject sheepishly, "I suppose now would be the appropriate time to talk to you about the requests for speaking engagements I've been receiving."
She closes her eyes. "I might have known. How many?"
"Half a dozen so far. Baltimore, San Diego, Portland, Salt Lake City..."
Terry exhales vehemently through her nose. "Larry, I'm thrilled for you. Truly. Not only is this a fantastic professional achievement for you, it's made us overnight into one of the hottest theater departments in the country. But what am I supposed to do when I have hundreds of talented young actors wanting to come here to study specifically with you, only to learn you're going to be spending half the year lecturing out of state? Jim's a fine actor and a good man, but he's not the one bringing in the applications, and he can't keep on indefinitely teaching your classes as well as his own in any case."
I lift my glasses and rub the bridge of my own nose in turn, thinking. "I know. I've been worried about that myself. I didn't know about the rise in student interest, though. Are there really that many kids out there wanting to come to us?"
"I expect enrollment to increase by as much as fifteen percent," she tells me bluntly. "And Larry, I've looked at every one of these kids carefully. Some of them are talents we simply can't afford to let slip through our fingers." She pauses, considering. "With those kind of numbers I
may
be able to convince the university to cough up enough money to add a lecturer position. That could help take some of the teaching load off you, so you could cut back to just teaching upper division courses. But it would have to be someone who's at least as big a draw as you are, and I can't imagine too many people out there like that who'd be willing to settle for a lecturer's salary."
I shake my head ruefully. "Nor can I."
"Well, give it some serious thought, will you? I'd prefer to have someone in my pocket before you disappear to Austin and we have to start issuing acceptance letters."
"That's not very much time, Theresa."
"Then think fast,
