Enter…The Ghoul Squad–Part IVb: Anenome

Ghoul Squad Roll Call:

Ritchie Sauces
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)

Richie and I took a taxicab (driven by a delightful Yugoslavian man, I
recall) to Dickie’s apartment. I don’t drive and Richie only had a
unicycle for transport. Sitting in the cab with him, I felt uneasy
and attempted to lighten the mood with a little small talk. (Nowadays
I wouldn’t feel comfortable in a football stadium with R.S, but back
then he was much less unsettling)

“Soooo. . . .”, I said, fumbling for the next sentence. “Do you think
Serious is guilty?”

“I don’t know. I mean, those crazy statements he made in chemisty
class were pretty incriminating. “
“You were in that class?”
“Yes. Dickie and I are lab partners in organic chemistry. It’s even
possible that it was Dickie that made that recording that Drummond
had. He tapes all of our classes.”
“You and Dickie are lab partners?” I asked, silently musing about
Drummond’s lack of care regarding conflicts of interest. However, he
was the trained professional, and I only a recently sworn in associate
of the law. . . . I decided to switch to an area I had more expertise
in. “This whole glowing hand thing is interesting. Perhaps I could
examine the crime scene for traces of ectoplasm.”

“Hmm.” This seemed to interest Ritchie.

I was more than surprised when we reached our destination―Dickie’s
apartment was in a building well known to me! It was once the
residence of the notorious dark magician Luce Hadden. My opinion at
the time was that he was nothing more than a charlatan, but my view
changed drastically afterwards.
We entered the elderly elevator and were greeted by an equally elderly
man and a young Japanese woman. They were both in elevator operator
uniforms.
“I hope you don’t mind,” the older man began “but I’m training a new
employee today. Would it be all right if Yuka served as your elevator
operator today? I can assure you she’s been through all of the
required classes. She has an internship at the 株式会社そごう department
store coming up this summer. And I will be present at all times. But
if you’re not comfortable with that arrangement, I would be happy to
transport you myself.”
“No, that’s fine.” I said. I thought it quite unusual to see an
elevator operator in the first place, but I do so enjoy the idea of an
elevator operator, if you understand me.
“And is it all right with you, sir?” he asked Ritchie.
Ritchie stood thinking for 20 seconds or so thinking before replying: “Ok.”
“What floor please?” Yuka asked, looking a little uncertain.
The elevator moved in a laborious and creaky fashion to the 13th floor.
“I hear that some buildings are featuring self-serve elevators.”
Ritchie ventured. The older man barely controlled a shudder.
“Yes, well. Each building needs to do what it feels is best for its
patrons.” he said diplomatically. Ritchie whistled the chorus to
Wuthering Heights by Kate Bush until we reached our destination.
Ritchie tipped both elevator operators, something that would never
have occurred to me to do. It goes to show that he once was the sole
of gracious behavior―which makes his current demeanor that much more
shocking!
While Dickie’s apartment was as lavishly decorated as I would have
expected, it was fairly small. Dickie greeted us saying, “I’m really
sorry, I’m in the middle of something very important. Can you wait in
the living room for a few minutes?”
As we waited, I looked around a little and thought out loud.
“Well, there’s nothing that looks terribly incriminating. But then, I
wouldn’t know what to look for. And he’s had time to dispose of
anything suspicious. I see no signs of paranormal activity, either.”
“I don’t think so, either” said Ritchie. “It looks pretty much the
same as it did last time I was here.”
“You were here before?” I asked incredulously. And more than a
little annoyed. Ritchie seemed to always be revealing some choice
tidbit that turned every one of my assertions upside-down! “You
never mentioned that you were lab partners with Dickie or that you
were in Serious’ chemistry class. You never mentioned that you’d been
to this apartment before. Is there anything else that you haven’t
told me?”
Ritchie thought for a moment and replied. “I’m interested in
milkmaids?” he asked, even though it wasn’t a question.
I ignored his aberrant statement. I have to admit that I was starting
to become a little impatient. “What were you doing here anyway?”
“Dickie is my lab partner in organic chemistry. We were … experimenting.”
I looked around the room. Nothing at all appeared to indicate that
young Dickie knew a beaker from a turnip. There were a lot of wrinkly
prints of young men body builders on the wall. Perhaps the two of
them were working on developing some health tonics?
“I don’t see any chemicals or lab equipment around. What on earth
were you experimenting with?”
Ritchie looked up at me* and looked as if he was about to answer.
After about 25 seconds, when I had assumed that he was going to ignore
my question, he responded in a slow, deliberate tone that he often
used.
“We were experimenting … (a long pause here) …. with …
chemistry.” I briefly considered this to be a euphemism for some
dicey activities—but before I could respond, Dickie entered the
room.
“Sorry”, he said. I’ve been trying to reach level 9 for days now. I
finally cracked it!” He had been making us wait while he was playing
a computer game! I muttered under my breath something about his
ancestry which may or may not have been true but was certainly
impolite.
He offered us kumquat-flavoured sodas** and politely answered our
questions. Ritchie proved to be a rather effective interviewer.
Dickie’s description of the backstage activities agreed with Serious’
and Harriet’s accounts. (I didn’t know that at the time, of course,
but learned it after we returned and assembled all of our facts
together.) He said that he thought that he had seen both security
guards before, but he wasn’t sure where. What was more important was
what he said happened after they left the back stage area.
“After we left, my mom said she left something behind. She returned
backstage to get it. It was 3 or 4 minutes. Then she returned, a
little flushed and we left.”
“So you didn’t see a glowing gloved hand or anything like that?” Ritchie asked.
“Well, yes.” Dickie said, surprised. “I saw a glowing gloved hand
messing around with the stage curtains. I just assumed that it was a
prop.” Note: Bulldog had determined that there was no prop
resembling a glowing gloved hand.
In the cab back, I asked Ritchie, “I feel his story about his mother
to be a bit weak and convenient. Do you think HE shot Harriet and is
setting his mother up?”
“Maybe.” Ritchie considered. “Even if he didn’t shoot Harriet, he
might try to frame her. He was very upset about his mother
embarrassing him in front of the entire school. He said the security
guards looked familiar. Interesting.”
Then we went our separate ways and met up with the rest of the Ghoul
Squad the next day. It was one of my last normal afternoons with
poor, poor Ritchie.

*Although Ritchie is a great deal taller than me, he was sitting in
his usual hunched over manner and I was standing.

**to this day, I wonder about the wisdom and strategy necessary to
launch a kumquat flavoured soda.

re:Dickie Betel’s Thoughts

Binnacle

–Oliver Weldon

Enter…The Ghoul Squad–Part Va: P.

[We're still waiting on Anenome's post. In the meantime, I'll continue with our story.]

Ghoul Squad Roll Call:

P.
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)

Iliana’s apartment wasn’t too far away, and the weather was so beautiful, we decided to walk. This gave us a chance to clear our heads, get some fresh air and formulate our game plan. The planning didn’t take very long. Both of us shared classes with Iliana. I took Russian lit. with her and she and Pepper had some journalism class together. While neither of us really knew her, our experience told us that getting her to talk would not be a problem. Getting her to stop talking or to keep to the topic at hand would be far more challenging.

Our planning session completed, I got to spend the rest of our walk gazing at Pepper without trying to be too obvious about it. One of life’s greatest pleasures is to watch Pepper Weckelsby walk down the street on a sunny day. My spirits fell as she mentioned Renaldo, her fiancee. Was this just what she had on her mind or did she sense my interest and intend this as a subtle reminder that her heart belonged to another? She said that he was out of the country researching Peruvian accounting practices. He said that he was taking plenty of pictures and she was very excited about this.

We reached an impressive apartment building on Robinson Ave. Pepper’s eyes lit up.

“I thought I had recognized the address! This building was once the home of Luce Hadden, otherwise known as ‘the Gentleman Ghoul’! I’ll tell you more on the way back!”

We entered the elevator and were greeted by an older man and a young Japanese woman who would later become a great friend of Pepper’s. They were both in elevator operator uniforms.

“I hope you don’t mind,” the older man began “but I’m training a new employee today. Would it be all right if Yuka served as your elevator operator today? I can assure you she’s been through all of the required classes. She has an internship at the 株式会社そごう department store coming up this summer. And I will be present at all times. But if you’re not comfortable with that arrangement, I would be happy to transport you myself.”

I grew a little impatient as we slowly ascended to the 14th floor, but Pepper seemed quite excited at the novelty of the operators. She whistled “Come on, ghost” by the Pillows. I wasn’t sure how much to tip. I hope it was an appropriate amount.

Iliana greeted us warmly, offering each of us a tumbler of vodka. She was dressed quite provocatively, in a revealing nightgown and high heels. It was clear that she had already been drinking that evening. Before we could sit down, she told us exactly what she thought of us, as if reading off a checklist.

“P.! Your poetry is juvenile and without passion. Your insights into Russian literature might have some merit if you would read the works in their original language rather than the hideous ‘translations’ of Constance Garnett.”* After pronouncing the name she spat on the floor. “Perhaps someday I could teach you something about the Russian mind and of …. passion.” She moved closer to me. It’s possible she was coming on to me. I’m still not certain.

“Pepper! Your painting is worthless. Stop wasting your time on it. You have great journalistic instincts, however. Pehaps I could help you with your … investigations.” She raised an eyebrow. I’m fairly certain she was coming on to Pepper. She attempted to edge up to Pepper suavely. Her suaveness was derailed by two items. Her spittle on the floor from the Constance Garnett comment and her high-heeled slippers.** Pepper and I managed to catch her in time.

Pepper got out her notebook and began: “Can you..”

“Ah yes, the night of the shooting.” Iliana interrupted. “I was backstage with Harriet. The amateurs onstage were so pathetic. Barbershop quartets? No wonder you Americans cannot produce a decent opera! The skiffle band led my that lecherous British buffoon?! I had to stuff my ears with cotton! And that Amy Greathouse! Her so-called ‘interpretive dance’ is more suited to the monkey-house at the zoo, filled with monkeys, rather than..”

I could not bear any more of this. “Ms. Chaikovskaya!” I broke in. “I have had quite enough. I enjoyed Amy’s performance a great deal and even if I had not, she is a friend of mine and I will not permit you to speak about her in this manner!” I had expected Iliana to react quite antagonictically to this outburst. On the contrary, she smiled and seemed to regard me in a curious way. “Now,” I asked. “Who else was in the backstage area?”

“When we arrived, it was only the two security guards. No,” she corrected herself, “at first, just the one. The bearded one with the gut. He kept staring at me. All men do. Then the younger, thin one arrived soon after we did. He looked a little confused, unsure of himself. All men feel this way in my presence. He looked like he was trying to get Harriet’s attention, but she was absorbed in her preperations. She does not like to be disturbed before she goes onstage.”

“Then that idiot Betel woman and her idiot son came in to talk with Harriet. She spoke with Harriet in hushed tones as the boy sulked next to me on the sofa. Jan Betel thought no one could hear what they were saying, but I could hear. She was attempting to romance Harriet.”

“Harriet said ‘I’m not interested in women.’ I yelled from the couch “I am interested in women!” This surprised the Betel woman. Harriet made more excuses. This was just to get rid of the Betel woman. I can assure you that Harriet is interested in women. “

“Then that idiot Serious arrived to further interrupt her. I was leaving the room when I heard the gunshot. I ran toward the backstage area and ran into Serious. You know the rest.”

“Did you see a glowing hand or anything of the sort?” Pepper asked.

“Do you think I’m an idiot? Of course I didn’t see a glowing hand.”

Before we left, Pepper made a sketch of ‘Radish’ based on Iliana’s description. “Hm.” said Pepper. “He looks a little familiar. Maybe he’s a student as well.”

We left more confused than ever. We decided to take a cab home. Pepper regaled me with lurid tales of Luce Hadden and I thought of bread and cheese.***

*While I have yet to learn Russian, I did take Iliana’s advice and get rid of my Garnett translations. Best move I ever made in terms of Russian lit.
** Perhaps the vodka she was drinking contributed as well.
*** I was getting hungry.

Enter … The Ghoul Squad–Part III

Ghoul Squad Roll Call:

Nigel Cuttlefish (chairman)
P.
Ritchie Sauces
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)
Sol Weckelsby
Persephone Smallweed

Detective Drummond returned to the interrogation room.

“I’ve just had word that the victim regained consciousness. However, she’s understandably shooken up and is only speaking French. Our only French-speaking officer is on leave in Surinam, so we’re in a bit of a bind.”

“I speak French fluently” Serious volunteered.

“Perfect!” Drummond leapt toward the door. “Everyone, come with me!”

“But wait!” said Pepper. “Serious is a suspect! And you’re having him interview the victim!?”

“You’re right” Drummond groused. “That sort of thing won’t fly these days. Not with this new liberal female police commissioner.”

“Female?” Pepper asked. “Commissioner Abramson retired almost two years ago. I’m pretty sure Commissioner Jackson is a man.”

“At any rate,” Nigel piped in, “I believe that our good friend P. here is the man for the job. He is quite fluent in French.” This was a bit of an exaggeration. While my reading ability is quite good, I have to admit that my conversational skills are somewhat lacking, especially when I’m nervous. And interviewing an actress that I am attracted to while a room full of my friends and a police detective look on is not the most comfortable of circumstances. But what could I do but agree?

We sped off once again in Drummond’s roadster, cutting off an ambulance as we pulled in front of the hospital. When we entered Harriet’s room, I found myself less nervous than I had expected. Weak and disheveled as she was, Harriet had less of an effect on me. Now, before you label me a cad, I have to say that I have seen other love interests of mine not looking their best and it never reduced the level of attraction I had for them in the least. But this was the reaction I had with Harriet and perhaps this should have told me something.

She essentially confirmed Serious’ story, although she could not recall the last few moments properly. She couldn’t remember whether Serious had been there or not when she had been shot. She did, however, recall the glowing hand holding the revolver. She also added that one of the security guards kept trying to catch her attention but she had been too preoccupied with her other visitors to see what he wanted.

Bulldog quickly deputized us. We swore an oath on a stack of The National Police Gazette in a candlelit room while wearing Cheshire constabulary helmets. (Perhaps a Cheshire is a sister city of ours?) He split us into teams to interview the witnesses.

Ritchie & Anenome: Interviewing Dickie Betel
Sol & Persephone: Interviewing Humberto Quackenbush
P. & Pepper: Interviewing Iliana Chaikovskaya
Nigel & Bulldog: Interviewing Jan Betel

See you next time!

CAN YOU GUESS WHO SHOT HARRIET?

PIT YOUR WITS AGAINST YOUR FELLOW T.A.Z.MAHAL READERS AND VOTE FOR WHO YOU THINK THE CULPRIT MUST BE!

WAS IT ….

THE ECCENTRIC ARTIST?

THE JILTED LOVER?

THE ROGUE SECURITY GUARD?

THE MISCHEVIOUS GHOST?

OR SOMEONE ENTIRELY UNEXPECTED?

Poll: Who do YOU think shot Harriet?

re: Dickie Betel

Ants

trace the master’s shadow; foot poised in the air, he bends

his torso.

–Jose Kozer

Enter … The Ghoul Squad–Part II

Another letter!

Johanna Prashad of Tasmania asks “Where did the name ‘Ghoul Squad’ originate?”

Well Johanna, you’re in luck. Today’s episode of the T.A.Z. Mahal not only continues our narrative, but answers that question. Enjoy!

Ghoul Squad Roll Call:

Nigel Cuttlefish (chairman)
P.
Ritchie Sauces
Amy Greathouse (treasurer)
Pepper Weckelsby (secretary)
Sol Weckelsby
Persephone Smallweed

Not sure what to do next, we all congregated at the Artful Mug, the coffee house run by Persephone’s father. We sat in silence for a few minutes, followed by rampant speculation. What had each one of us seen? Did Serious shoot Harriet? If not, who did and why?

Before long, we were approached by a meaty looking police detectice with a walrus mustache. He identified himself as Bulldog Drummond and asked if we were the students who had been speaking with Serious during the intermission. We confirmed this.

“I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a statement. Nigel Cuttlefish, eh? You’re Cordelia’s younger brother, aren’t you?”

Nigel gave him a grim steely gaze and said firmly “I have no sister.”

The detective appeared confused and taken aback.

“But … I met you at her house. Just on Tuesday night. Don’t you recall?”

“Oh, yes!” Nigel brightened. “What a jolly get together. It was a pleasure. Cordelia always puts out a nice spread. Drummond’s the name, if I recall correctly.”

“Yes,” Pepper said. “He introduced himself about 90 seconds ago. We all know his name.”

Bulldog regained his stride. “I hear you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth yourself, Nigel. How would you and your little friends like to learn how a real police investigation is conducted?”

“But wouldn’t that be a severe breach of ethics?” asked Pepper. “And besides, we were talking to one of your suspects, minutes before the crime occured.”

“Oh, ho, ho!” Bulldog laughed heartily. “Breach of ethics! Oh, hang on to this one, Nigel. She’s a keeper!” Pepper was about to tell him off when Nigel jumped up.

“My friends and I would be honored to accompany you, sir!” cried Nigel and he clicked his heels together.

“None of you are well…, weirdos, are you?” asked Detective Drummond. “There have been rumours about the university theatre. Rumours of … the occult“.

At that moment, Amy did something that I have never seen her do before or since. She squeaked. Luckily the detective did not notice.

Minutes later, we were racing through the city streets in Bulldog Drummond’s modified roadster, Ritchie in the sidecar. At the station, a block and a half from the coffeeshop, we observed Bulldog interrogate Serious from behind the one-way mirror.

BD: Now, we have a statement from one of your classmates. He tape recorded a class you take together and has quoted you asking this question to your professor. “Professor Thornborrow, wouldn’t you agree that the highest form of artistic expression would be the act of murder. Argueably, a purely random and meaningless act of violence has more artistic value than the entire creative output of Christopher Marlowe and Madonna combined. Wouldn’t you agree?” Now that was recorded on Oct. the 13th in your … Introduction to Organic Chemistry class. Do you deny making this statement?

SD: I don’t recall that exact statement, but it sounds like something I would say.

BD: Hurm. Now, what were you doing backstage?

SD: I was delivering a note to Harriet. P., a poet of no small talent* had taken a fancy to her.

BD: And you know her in what capacity?

SD: I am her buddy. I had volunteered to show international students around campus, introduce them to people, make them feel comfortable, etc. I was assigned to Harriet.

BD: And at precisely what time did you shoot Harriet?

SD: I did not shoot her.

BD: Well, can’t blame a fellow for trying. Go on. Who else was back stage?

SD: When I entered the room, Harriet was having a hushed conversation with Jan Betel. Her son Dickie was sitting on the couch on the other end of the room with Iliana Chaikovskaya, an accomplished dancer and confidante of Harriet’s. She was reading a lurid-looking novel with a rather garish cover. I averted my eyes quickly so as not to look at it for too long.

BD: And that’s all?

SD: Oh yes, there were also security guards present. One of them was named H.Q.

BD: And how did you come to know his name?

SD: Well, he kept repeating it. He was speaking quite loudly to the other guard whom he called ‘Radish’, but I’m not sure if this was a nickname or an insult or what? I mean, he couldn’t possibly be named Radish, could he?** He kept saying “Just listen to your pal, H.Q.” or “H.Q. will show you how it’s done” and so on. He also pulled out his gun quite a bit, showing it to ‘Radish’.

BD: Hmm. The theatre says there was only one guard backstage. One … Humberto Quackenbush. We’ll have to track down this ‘Radish’. And then what happened?

SD: I waited until Harriet was finished speaking with Ms. Betel. The Bete;s left the backstage area with Iliana and the guards seemed to have disappeared as well. I was giving her the note when I saw a glowing gloved hand holding a pistol emerge from behind a curtain. Before I could do or say anything, the hidden figure fired. I am rather ashamed to tell you this, but I have to admit that I soiled my trousers.

BD: Well, … er … don’t feel too bad, lad. You were in a life and death situation.

SD: No, I mean just now, as I was telling you my story.

BD: Er, I think we can take a bit of a break right now.

SD: Certainly. Thank you for interrogating me today. Would you like to answer a brief customer satisfaction survey? Please press or say ‘one’ to continue. To complete this interrogation, please press or say ‘two’.

BD: Er, two.

SD: Thank you for participating in our survey. Did Serious answer your questions in a courteous fashion this evening?

BD: No, I said ‘two’.

SD: My apologies. Have a nice day. By the way, can I say hello to my friends in the next room?

Bulldog looked in our direction.

“Drat,” he said. “Forgot to turn on the one-way mirror again.” He ushered us into the interrogation room and left.

Amy was the first to speak. “This glowing hand you saw. Did it leave an ectoplasmic trail? Did you hear any unusual sounds? Was there a lingering scent of pine?”

Nigel jumped in. ” Did you happen to notice any distinctive mud on the ground?”

“Ectoplasm?” Serious laughed. “Distinctive mud? I do believe you and your little Ghoul Squad intend to solve this mystery! Ghoul Squad...” he mused, savoring the sound of the words. “Yes… yes. I do believe you should call yourselves the Ghoul Squad.”

“Well, I was thinking…” Nigel started.

“GHOUL SQUAD!” Serious shouted. “Ghoul Squad! Ghoul Squad! I’ll pay you each $100 dollars to call yourselves the Ghoul Squad!”

We all looked at each other. One hundred dollars for doing nothing. Why not?

“Fifty dollars!” cried Serious. “Will you call yourselves the Ghoul Squad for fifty dollars each?” Nigel haggled him up to $75.

“Marcel!” Serious bellowed. “My changepurse!” Marcel appeared out of nowhere (Weren’t there policemen guarding the room?) and presented us with $75 each and a receipt.

The Ghoul Squad had it’s first case.

Well, that was a rather exhilarating episode, wasn’t it? Hope your questions were answered, Johanna. Join us next time.

CAN YOU GUESS WHO SHOT HARRIET?

PIT YOUR WITS AGAINST YOUR FELLOW T.A.Z.MAHAL READERS AND VOTE FOR WHO YOU THINK THE CULPRIT MUST BE!

WAS IT ….

THE ECCENTRIC ARTIST?

THE JILTED LOVER?

THE ROGUE SECURITY GUARD?

THE MISCHEVIOUS GHOST?

OR SOMEONE ENTIRELY UNEXPECTED?

Poll: Who do YOU think shot Harriet?

* I blushed. I keep this statement in strictly for posterity’s sake.
** This coming from a man named Serious Dogstar.

Enter … The Ghoul Squad–Part I

So busy!

I’ve been plotting with Anenome on how to deal with Nigel, meeting with the planning committee for PC2007, editing a new poetry volume, trying to write new poetry AND taking a Chinese cookery class at the Learning Annex at the Institute. And I haven’t forgotten about all of you commenters. I intend to respond to each and every one of you when I get a free moment. And back to our story!

Every other week, the University puts on a major theatrical, musical or artistic production, prefaced by student presentations that anyone can sign up for. When I arrived at the theatre with Sol & Pepper, I was overjoyed to see several familiar names on the program.

Before the first act, the dean introduced a very special guest, Jan Betel, whose patronage paid for the event. She was seated next to her son Dickie who Nigel & I knew from our fencing class. “I’m so sorry all these horrible people are spoiling your birthday!” Jan hissed to Dickie not realizing* that there was a microphone nearby. “We’ll have a real party as soon as they all leave. Can I buy you something to make it all better?” Poor Dickie squirmed in his seat looking mortified.

Ms. Betel approached to podium. “My dear students. Welcome. Many of my friends (no one any of you would know) have asked me why I’ve sent my dear son Dickie to this university. After all, I have a great deal of money.” She stared into the distance lazily for a moment contemplatively before resuming her speech. “Yes, a great deal of money. Why send my only son to this school?”

“Only son? I thought she had two other boys!” I heard a whisper from behind me.

Ms. Betel continued. “I sent young Dickie here because there is so much that people of your station can teach him. How to procure illegal substances. Relations with the local bail bondsman. The latest dance steps.” Without another word, she left the podium and sat down leaving the audience unsure of whether she had finished or not. There was a smattering a polite applause.

The evening began in ernest with The Nice Young Men, a barbershop quartet featuring our own Ritchie Sauces as well as Dickie Betel. It was enjoyable if you like that sort of thing, although we were surprised to see one of the quartet wearing short pants.** Odd since he was performing onstage and this was in the middle of winter! Apparantly, he wears these abbreviated slacks wherever his travels take him.***

Next on was Wotcher!, a skiffle group led by a man who must have been my parents age or older. I asked Pepper if he was a faculty member. “Colin? No. He’s a local eccentric. I have a few classes with him. He’s been an undergrad for decades! I hear he’s quite the charmer, though. If you have a girlfriend, you should probably have her steer clear of him.”

If I have a girlfriend! Oh, these words stabbed through my very being like a icepick through the cornea! If I had a girlfriend, she wouldn’t be attending the theatre or art museums alone, say I! I busied myself looking through the program. “Oh my good friend Amy is on next! She will be giving an interpretive dance! That one is filled with hidden depth!” I tried to keep my tone of voice cheery.

If I needed a distraction at that moment, Amy certainly provided it. Her dance was captivating and absorbing. I was at the edge of my seat, eyes glued to the stage. Only the boos and catcalls following her performace broke my trance. It seems no one else shared my appreciation for her work. Their loss.

And then, after a brief intermission: Hamlet. While my primary literary interests lie in the past century and a half, I’ve always had a special place in my heart for the bard. The performance was adequate, but I kept being distracted by the two men seated in front of us. Since one of them kept whispering in the other’s ear, I mistook them for a couple.**** As I leaned forward to shush them, I noticed that the whisperer was reading to the other young man from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Between the 2nd and 3rd scenes, I politely asked them to keep it down. The whisperer apoligized and said “Sorry, Serious likes to listen to the dialogue from one Shakepeare play as he watches another.” As I absorbed this odd bit of information, I recognized the whisperer as Marcel, a young writer whose poetry was over-rated, but whose dramatic work showed tremendous promise, greater than any other English major I knew of.

I would have responded, but I was struck dumb by the entrance of Ophelia. Longtime readers perhaps have already guessed that Ophelia was played by the young French actress Harriet. I had not suspected her nationality though since she bore no trace of an accent. Her beauty and extraordinary acting kept me captivated.

Pepper must have noticed this. “Why don’t you send her a note?!” she suggested at the intermission while we stood in line for snowcones.***** As I hemmed and hawed she fumbled though her purse for pen and paper. Finally, she turned to the gentleman standing behind us in line, who turned out to be none other than Marcel’s companion. “Excuse me”, Pepper said. “Can I borrow a pen really quick?”

His eyes brightened and he replied. “Yes, but first let me ask you, are you …. serious?” He arched an eyebrow as I noticed Marcel appear out of nowhere, roll his eyes and exale with resignation, a harbinger of what was to follow. Pepper began to respond, but he interrupted her by singing loudly “HAVE YOU EVER BEEN SERIOUS?”****** while gyrating and giving Pepper odd and improbable looks. This, of course, attracted a great deal of attention. Marcel, acting as if he had done this countless times before began to sing the bass line of the song while miming the onstage persona of Noel Redding. “Well, I have”.

He finished singing and presented Pepper with a pen. “A blue pen to go with your lovely blue eyes,” he purred. “But my eyes are grey,” she said hesitantly, as if approaching an unpredictable animal. “Marcel!” he yelled. Marcel, who had just disappeared reappeared just as suddenly holding out what looked like a contact lense case sitting atop a purple pillow. Pepper examined the case. “Color contacts?” she asked.

As Marcel and his friend walked away,******* Nigel appeared behind us.

“Ah, I see you’ve met the young Serious Dogstar.”

“You know him?” I asked my roommate.

“No, never met the man.” he replied.

“Then how do you know his name?” Pepper asked “And who the heck are you anyway?”

“Nigel Cuttlefish at your service!” he beamed, sticking his thumbs in his armpits. “As to how I knew his name, merely look at the pen he gave you!” Nigel chuckled.

Pepper and I gave the pen a closer look. On it was engraved, “A blue pen to go with your lovely blue eyes from Serious Dogstar“

“Oh brother,” thus Pepper. She took a napkin and quickly wrote out a note, not letting me see. “Now, how do we get this to Harriet?” she mused.

“Never fear,” an already familiar voice bellowed, “Serious is present!” He and Marcel were approaching us again.

“Uh, thanks for the pen. Bye.” Pepper started to walk away.

“But Harriet is my buddy!” Serious said.

“It’s true”, Marcel spoke up. “She’s an exchange student and Serious is showing her around.” The crowd had made their way back into the auditorium and we were nearly alone in the lobby. Pepper reluctantly agreed to give Serious the note and as he vanished through the backstage door, we returned to our seats.

Just as we were sitting down we heard a loud bang. I assumed that it was a part of the production until I recalled that we were seeing Hamlet which traditionally does not make use of firearms. The bang was followed by a high-pitched scream and a female voice with a Russian accent yelled “Harriet! She’s been shot! Serious has shot Harriet!”

To be continued ….

* Or perhaps not caring
** Junie tells me this style of trousers are called “shorts.”
*** I’m told that he is quite the world traveller.
**** Forgive me, Marcel!
***** A local theatre custom. Odd, but charming.
****** To the tune of “Are You Experienced” by the Jimi Hendrix Experience
******* I don’t understand why they left. They didn’t want their snowcones any longer?