Mouse Montgomery was sitting at the bar at Triangles, engaging in one of her favorite pastimes, chatting while admiring barmaid Sharon Patterson. Mouse was a petite girl, three years out of drama school, slim, and short, with heavily curled brown hair parted on the left. Her real name was Mallory, but people called her Mouse because she was shy, had mousey brown hair and stood less than five feet and maybe ninety pounds soaking wet. She was cute in her way, but besides her stature what most people noticed most about her were the thick, coke-bottle lensed glasses that rested on her nose.
Mouse favored loose sweaters, jeans, or corduroys that were sized for comfort. She was a drama major who had found work off-Broadway as a costumer and set designer and had gotten some nibbles on Broadway, but so far made her living as a temp. She dreamed of working on Broadway, and especially of becoming a playwright herself. But it's hard to write a play at a bar, which Triangles very much was. Best of all, Triangles employed Sharon, a shapely butch with beautiful tattoos, a taste for leather and low-cut tops, short dark hair, plenty of piercings, and dark, beautiful eyes, and whom Mouse swooned over whenever Sharon came anywhere nearby.
Mouse liked to sit next to Charlie, an old regular whom some said had occupied the same bar stool since Triangles had opened way-back-when. Charlie was a reservoir of stories from decades of work as a foreign photojournalist. By sitting next to Charlie, Mouse killed two birds with one stone. She could steal frequent glances at Sharon, and attempt to catch the eye of their enticing bartender.
In between Mouse's attempted flirtations, Charlie regaled her with a lifetime of stories of war, peace, and the many men he had bedded. Tonight, Charlie was waxing over his conquests, sipping malt whiskey and telling her of the Bedouin he had an affair with sometime around 1970. "I tell you, he had a bent cock and I fell in love with him the moment he rammed me in the prostate!" He grinned and tapped his glass to her margarita, and they laughed and sipped together.
"You know, Mouse, I can't understand why a pretty young girl like you spends so much time with a dying old faggot like me, when the room has so many beautiful women for you to seduce. Like Sharon here," he said, in his lovely English accent, pushing his now-empty tumbler the barmaid's way.
"You want another, Charlie," Sharon said, with a smile, before turning Mouse's way. "Want anything, Mouse?"
Mouse inspected her margarita, short of half full. Her purse wasn't very heavy at the moment. Her next show wouldn't start until after the New Year, and while temping paid the bills, it did not overpay them. But she couldn't help but turn a delighted smile and a tilt of her head Sharon's way. "Not quite yet," she said, with a grin, as the barmaid's eyes flashed in the passing car lights. Sharon was an actress, who sometimes worked off-Broadway, though Mouse hadn't worked with her yet. She was praying for the day she got to do a fitting.
"Oh, bring our lovely Mouse another," said Charlie with a pat on Mouse's shoulder. "I can afford it, and after all, I can't take it with me. I can afford to be generous as my last Christmas approaches." One of the reasons not so many people sat with Charlie these days was because it was clear that this year's Holiday would be Charlie's last. He'd once sported a full beard, but the hair that had once covered his head, face, eyebrows, ears, and presumably places lower was all gone. His skin was paper thin and he'd shrunk to a near skeleton.
Mouse knew Charlie couldn't stay late anymore. Soon his partner Dale would come for him, if for no other reason than the small oxygen bottle at his side wouldn't last forever. Mouse had a hard time accepting the inevitable, but Charlie did not. Once he'd said, "I survived five wars, HIV and one crazy ex-boyfriend only to fall victim to Marlboros." Charlie didn't smoke anymore, but he'd smoked plenty in the past and made no excuses.
"Thank you, Charlie," she said, turning to watch Sharon walk toward the liquor, admiring her backside with great pleasure.
"Oh, watching that look on your eye makes it worth it. Reminds me of Myself back in the Stonewall Days when I caught sight of a strapping young lad. I was quite the charmer in my day."
She smiled. "You still are, and were I straight, I'd give you a tumble."
He laughed. "And were I still young and fit I'd grant you my first heterosexual salvo in many a decade. You're a prize in your own way, Mouse, you just can't see it through those thick lenses."
"Please keep up the flattery, particularly when Sharon comes back."
"Is she who you want for Christmas?" he said.
Mouse sighed. And watched Sharon's lovely back arch while she scrubbed out glasses. "No elf could make Sharon."
"Say no more," he said. "I can admit when my competition has won."
Mouse shrugged. "There's no competition," she said. "Tell me, Charlie, what's the best part of the Holidays for you?"
He shrugged and smiled when Sharon returned with their drinks. "You'd just think me an old fool."
"No, I wouldn't!" Mouse seemed a bit hurt at the suggestion.
"Well, I'll tell you," he said. "What I miss the most about this time of year is the Mummers."
"Mummers?" she asked. "This bar is full of people on and off-Broadway. Including me."
"Including the lovely Sharon," he noted. "But that's not what I mean. Back when I was a wee lad in Cardiff, for the holidays we had troupes of Mummers come around and perform small plays. They were amateurs, not like this lot. Ordinary folk dressed up and put on little plays in the streets or in the pubs. Silly things with amateur costumes. Sometimes you'd get St. George versus the Dragon, with a doctor to resurrect the slain."
"You resurrect the dragon?" Mouse asked, with a grin, her eyes for the moment not on Sharon.
Charlie feigned shock. "You can't have killing at Christmas! We're not barbarians after all."
"Okay, okay," she said, noting Charlie's husband Dale coming through the door with Charlie's wheelchair in front.
"Time to go, old man," said Dale with a grin. He was a bit younger than Charlie but hardly young with a balding head and skin the color of a Mound's bar.
"Oh, you barbarian," Charlie said. "Dale, sit down and have a drink. I was just explaining to Mouse here what Mummers were."
"Still are," said Dale, a high-school English teacher. "Alright, I'll have one with you and Mouse. Just one. You need your rest!"
"I'll tell you what I need," said Charlie, reaching around to squeeze his man's bottom.
"When we're home," said Dale, with a twinkle. Everyone knew nothing would happen. Charlie's spirit made promises his cancerous flesh could no longer fill. Soon Dale helped Charlie into his chair, and he left with his oxygen and cane on his lap.
Mouse watched him go and then motioned Sharon over.
"What can I get you?" she said, with her typical lovely smile.
"If I wrote a short holiday play for Charlie to put on here, would you be in it?"
Sharon bent her head, with a quizzical look on her face. "Sure. What kind of a role would you have me play?"
"I was thinking St. George."
"Like with the dragon?"
"Yep. With a twist."
"Sure. Are you thinking of putting it on for the Christmas Party?"
"I am."
"I'm in, so long as I get top billing," she said, winked at Mouse, and headed off for her next paying customer.
Mouse looked around the room. A lot of theater people drank at Triangles, many of whom were gay. Robbie did makeup on Broadway. Betty and Jan had worked as Rockettes. John had just finished a run of "Vampire Lesbians of Sodom". Peter did costumes, like her. She realized she could put on a small play just using regulars.
Mouse got up and started making inquiries of people she knew liked Charlie. No one said no. Not if it was for Charlie. Plus, she'd get to do something with Sharon. Mouse settled up her bill and headed out the door. She had a play to write.
For the next few weeks, Mouse didn't spend a lot of time at Triangles. Shew was too busy writing and polishing her script, handing it out scripts to her cast members, letting them know the costumes she had in mind, and began sewing a cape for Sharon. What worried her was Charlie had been scarce too. She'd known this was coming, but still dreaded his decline and hoped he would make the party. Terrified she might be too late, she focused on her cast and crew. She told them not to take the play too seriously, that this was just for fun. Sharon's eyes got big and she shook her head when she finally read the script. "Finally, I get to play the hero."
"Think Charlie will like it?"
"Like it? That dirty old man will love it! I just wonder how many of the cast will be able to keep a straight face until the end..."
"I'm counting on you Sharon," said Mouse, hopeful, afraid she'd gone too far.
Sharon laughed. "You only live once, and I've always wanted to play a knight. About time King Arthur integrated."
John laughed his head off and agreed the moment he saw his part. Robbie was a thin man of forty, who did a lot of makeup. His jaw dropped when he told him what she had in mind.
"You're kidding me!" Robbie's eyes were huge as he read the script and her make-up plan.
"I'm completely serious."
"Like living dangerously, don't you?" He kind of rolled his eyes.
"I never live dangerously. That's the point."
Robbie rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. "I'll do it. The makeup will take a couple hours to do. We can do it in the storeroom downstairs at Triangles. It used to be a speakeasy. I'll bring the makeup and whatever else we need."
"I know about the place and hatches in the main floor. I'm using them in the play." Mouse leaned over to kiss his cheek. "Your part in this may be the most important."
