Read Online Kissing in Manhattan by David Schickler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Schickler
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reprising his Tony-award-winning role as the Familiar in Coven . Most reviewers, though, suspected that a newcomer lurked behind Fourth Angry Mouse, a dark-horse tyro with few credentials beyond instinct.
As for Jeremy Jax, he was flabbergasted. He tried in each performance to implement the critical notes he’d been given by Michael Hye and Of Mice And Mice ’s livid playwright. However, Jeremy was no actor. He had no knack for detail, no timing, no sense of his body as perceived by others, and so no clear motives for how to move when dressed as a seven-foot mouse. He got upset at the laughter he aroused—he didn’t want his fellow mice to think him a showboat—but the more upset he got, the harder people laughed and the more money the Lucas made.
Relax, Jeremy told himself. Relax.
But Jeremy couldn’t relax. His fame was a farce to him. He wanted no one to acknowledge it until he decided if it was shameful. If he’d been a praying man, Jeremy might’ve consulted the spirit of his dead grandfather directly for some assurance that he was authentically comic. Instead, he stood in the lobby of the Preemption, staring at the four portraits that hung on the wall over Sender’s desk. These portraits were of the Rooks—Elias, Hatter, Joseph, and Johann—who had, in succession, owned the Preemption since Elias Rook built it in 1890. The portraits showed four men of unsmiling German lineage. Jeremy respected their shared, serious countenance and the fact that they all looked like svelter versions of his grandfather Robby. Each Rook wore a dark suit or tuxedo, and each, except Johann, had his date of birth and death engraved beneath his name.
Jeremy was particularly taken with the portrait of Johann Rook, the Preemption’s current owner. This man was known for his secrecy and spectacular wealth, and his image carried a severe aspect. He had a full head of shock white hair, and wore a black tuxedo, and rumor went that Johann Rook traveled the world under various aliases, now practicing medicine in Paris, now mining diamonds in Johannesburg, and occasionally intervening in the lives of his Preemption residents. Jeremy, though, studied Johann’s portrait only because, of the four Rooks, this man looked most like Robby Jax, the one soul whose approval Jeremy most craved.
Am I funny? Jeremy thought, staring at the portrait when the lobby was empty. Deep down, am I?
Of course, he got no spoken answer from Johann Rook. So, frustrated, Jeremy got drunk at Cherrywood’s with Patrick Rigg.
“You no longer suck,” said Patrick. “Why not spill your name?”
“Because,” hissed Jeremy. “Because I’m a fucking mouse, that’s why.”
Patrick shrugged. Outside of Michael Hye and the other cast members—whom Michael had contracted into secrecy—only Patrick knew Jeremy’s alter ego.
“You might be a mouse,” said Patrick, “but you’re definitely the man. Everybody loves you.”
Jeremy scowled. If I were a man, he thought, I’d be drinking vodka in Siberia. I’d be living on tundra, with a beefy wife.
To cheer his buddy up Patrick dragged Jeremy to Minotaur’s, a basement nightclub in the meatpacking district. Minotaur’s was a labyrinth of halls and dark corners. There were doors off the halls, some of which led to rooms of bliss. Other doors led nowhere. If you got separated from someone at Minotaur’s, you might not see him or her till morning or ever again. The idea, though, was to dabble in as many corners as you could, then follow the maze to its center, a wide clearing called the Forum. In this room were several bars, a high ceiling, a dance floor, and a stage that had revolving entertainment: house on Mondays, blues on Tuesdays, swingon Thursdays, ska on Fridays. Patrick brought Jeremy tothe Forum on a Wednesday. Wednesday was Anything-Can-Happen Night.
Jeremy groaned again. “Why am I here?”
Patrick whinnied a high, eerie laugh. He pointed at the stage.
“Watch,” he said.
Jeremy watched.
As for Jeremy Jax, he was flabbergasted. He tried in each performance to implement the critical notes he’d been given by Michael Hye and Of Mice And Mice ’s livid playwright. However, Jeremy was no actor. He had no knack for detail, no timing, no sense of his body as perceived by others, and so no clear motives for how to move when dressed as a seven-foot mouse. He got upset at the laughter he aroused—he didn’t want his fellow mice to think him a showboat—but the more upset he got, the harder people laughed and the more money the Lucas made.
Relax, Jeremy told himself. Relax.
But Jeremy couldn’t relax. His fame was a farce to him. He wanted no one to acknowledge it until he decided if it was shameful. If he’d been a praying man, Jeremy might’ve consulted the spirit of his dead grandfather directly for some assurance that he was authentically comic. Instead, he stood in the lobby of the Preemption, staring at the four portraits that hung on the wall over Sender’s desk. These portraits were of the Rooks—Elias, Hatter, Joseph, and Johann—who had, in succession, owned the Preemption since Elias Rook built it in 1890. The portraits showed four men of unsmiling German lineage. Jeremy respected their shared, serious countenance and the fact that they all looked like svelter versions of his grandfather Robby. Each Rook wore a dark suit or tuxedo, and each, except Johann, had his date of birth and death engraved beneath his name.
Jeremy was particularly taken with the portrait of Johann Rook, the Preemption’s current owner. This man was known for his secrecy and spectacular wealth, and his image carried a severe aspect. He had a full head of shock white hair, and wore a black tuxedo, and rumor went that Johann Rook traveled the world under various aliases, now practicing medicine in Paris, now mining diamonds in Johannesburg, and occasionally intervening in the lives of his Preemption residents. Jeremy, though, studied Johann’s portrait only because, of the four Rooks, this man looked most like Robby Jax, the one soul whose approval Jeremy most craved.
Am I funny? Jeremy thought, staring at the portrait when the lobby was empty. Deep down, am I?
Of course, he got no spoken answer from Johann Rook. So, frustrated, Jeremy got drunk at Cherrywood’s with Patrick Rigg.
“You no longer suck,” said Patrick. “Why not spill your name?”
“Because,” hissed Jeremy. “Because I’m a fucking mouse, that’s why.”
Patrick shrugged. Outside of Michael Hye and the other cast members—whom Michael had contracted into secrecy—only Patrick knew Jeremy’s alter ego.
“You might be a mouse,” said Patrick, “but you’re definitely the man. Everybody loves you.”
Jeremy scowled. If I were a man, he thought, I’d be drinking vodka in Siberia. I’d be living on tundra, with a beefy wife.
To cheer his buddy up Patrick dragged Jeremy to Minotaur’s, a basement nightclub in the meatpacking district. Minotaur’s was a labyrinth of halls and dark corners. There were doors off the halls, some of which led to rooms of bliss. Other doors led nowhere. If you got separated from someone at Minotaur’s, you might not see him or her till morning or ever again. The idea, though, was to dabble in as many corners as you could, then follow the maze to its center, a wide clearing called the Forum. In this room were several bars, a high ceiling, a dance floor, and a stage that had revolving entertainment: house on Mondays, blues on Tuesdays, swingon Thursdays, ska on Fridays. Patrick brought Jeremy tothe Forum on a Wednesday. Wednesday was Anything-Can-Happen Night.
Jeremy groaned again. “Why am I here?”
Patrick whinnied a high, eerie laugh. He pointed at the stage.
“Watch,” he said.
Jeremy watched.
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