Long Live the Queen!
(From an e-mail to my daughter, Sept. 10, '02)
Never heard from the Jabberwocky Bookstore about that part-time job,
but having done the math for it made me aware that any such PT job,
earning about the same pay as my three nights running the Screening
Room's projectors, would be my ticket out of the fluorescent jails
that Massachusetts calls "higher education" and the futility of
trying to motivate Generation Whatever. Already took myself out
of day classes, and so I only had one scheduled, a Monday night
class. Due to the Labor Day holiday, the first meeting was last
night.
On the Wednesday before Labor Day weekend, which opened King
Richard's Faire, I played Salem. Flying back on Route One with
hunger pains I spotted a sign, "Need PT Driver," outside a
fudge and chocolate company. Whipped a u-turn in a parking lot
just south of the Agawam Diner. Luckily, I had a normal
shirt in the back seat so I wouldn't have to introduce myself wearing
pirate garb. He seemed to like me very much, and my
availability on all weekdays suited the job: a full day to Cape
Cod Wednesdays, another to Central Mass Thursdays, and up the Maine
Coast Friday mornings.
Sure suited me. But all the next week went by and I didn't
hear.
Meanwhile, the faire started with several new performers replacing as
many mainstays. One who was not replaced was the queen. I
mentioned to you sometime this summer that I heard through the rennie
grapevine in Salem that she was fighting lung cancer. She may
have already died by that time. On Labor Day, our
end-of-the-day revels were to be replaced by a memorial tribute, but
that day was rained out, and so it was rescheduled for this past
Sunday.
Spent the week on the beach and awaiting that call from Rowley, which
didn't come, then, noticing that the sign was still up, stopped in to
see him. Not there, but at least I let someone know I wanted
it. Friday I played N-port, all the baroque sheets that I never
get to play at the faire, all of it precise, elegant, and with
numerous inspired, spirited riffs coming out of it. Few people
around to hear it, of course, on a weekday after Labor Day, so I took
it as a sign of new life that I could so motivate myself. Never
felt so serene as when I walked off Inn Street that day.
At the faire, I was back to my Hamm Lynn rampage. Whatever I
thought of, I could play, and even play with, decorating, fast and
slow, working the lines, wild with motion, with a lot of tips stuffed
into my coffee cup, worn upright on my sash, to prove it.
I was thoroughly exhausted by the end of the day when it came time
for the memorial.
I've always been glad to be a part of this, but I never realized what
an honor it is to be among these people. Many of our departed
players, including the original king, were there. Though it was
all done in character--perhaps because it was all in
character--it was as moving a ceremony as I've ever witnessed or
heard described. And the frequent mention of her generosity and
thoughtfulness--as that day last year when she collared me upon
seeing how affected I was by the heat--had me transposing
rememberances of her as rememberances of Grandma. As if on cue,
the wind picked up just as the cast sang "Wild Mountain
Thyme." playing the leaves in soft accompaniment.
When the tributes were over, we had a procession, following a
bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace" across the realm. I
walked beside Baboo, the I-don't-know-how-tall puppet, at all other
times an incessant chatterbox in his Middle Eastern accent engaging
anyone he comes near. We always think of something visual when
we talk of images, but among the two most searing for me that day was
the audio image of Baboo's silence. Only as I write this do I
wonder if others might have been struck as much by mine.
The other was upon our arrival at the front gate where the throne
with the late queen's costume and crown upon it were set upon the
outside stage. Our two royal guards, two large, muscular
fellows in their mid to late 20s in black costumes with white shirts
stood to either side while the rest of us brought our flowers and
candles, one by one, to place at her absent feet. One guard,
very much in character, maintained an erect posture, a serious stare,
and the other tried to do the same but was visibly fighting back
tears. If the two masks--one laughing, one crying--represent
theater, the image of those two together very powerfully captured
what it is to be a rennie, the marriage of performance with real
life.
Before I left, I had to hunt for Percy, the Lord High Chancellor, who
MCed the event, to thank him for his match of lament with
celebration. Found him alone in the trailer that serves as
their costume closet and dressing room. I started stammering as
soon as I started talking. He threw his arms around me and
thanked me--he thanked me! Driving home, I knew that I could
not allow myself to be part of anything ugly or mean ever again.
Next morning I drove down to Rowley, but it was the manager's day
off. Now, I was faced with an existential choice: Do I
quit the college before landing Winfrey Fudge & Chocolate?
It was an extremely hot, humid day and so I took to the beach before
noon. Nice sea breeze, and the reserve was finally open, so I
could take my very first walk of the year to the south, knowing that
if I went past Parking Lot Three, I'd never make it to class by
5:30. When I got that far, I guess I thought, "Oh, Fudge
it!" And I didn't turn around till I was all the way to
Lot Four. When I got back to my chair, I went in for a dip
before sitting down, taking another bottle of water from the cooler,
and opening to another chapter in the life of Harry
Truman. At about the time that some twenty students would
be looking for me in Framingham, I was fully absorbed in rural
Missouri, circa 1920.
To my amazement, the phone never rang last night, nor did it ring
before 9:30 when I would have expected it. But at ten I let my
outgoing message play until I heard the voice of the fellow in
Rowley. What's the status of my classes, you ask?
None whatsoever. My teaching career ended back in June.
Tomorrow I'll be listening to 9/11's first anniversary memorials on
the radio of a van I will drive to fruit-stands and candy shops
between here and Cape Cod, relieved that I am no longer any part of
the hijacked cruise control of American higher education.
Long live the Queen! Last year she looked to prolong my life,
and this year she has done it.