It's hard to imagine the coming of spring without the Westlake Vanities. But here we are ... spring in Westlake Village ... the relentless roar of lawn mowers, and no Vanities! All because of a broken ankle. I mean, come on! How can you sweep a thirty year old tradition under the rug for a broken ankle?
Before her broken ankle, Frances Poultice had broken her knee while bobsledding in Great Gorge in February. We were all sorry, but no big deal, right? A lot of people do that and, if their medical plan covers it ... no real harm done. There's nobody to sue. You take your chances when you bobsled. It's like climbing Mt. Everest ... suppose you fall off? Who are you going to sue, your sherpa? Nobody, that's who!
That's the way it should be.
If you're dumb enough to get your senior citizen butt on a bobsled, you should be old enough to take your lumps. Go home, nurse your broken knee and stay away from the Westlake Vanities. But no! Last year Frances insisted that her husband George trundle her down the aisle to see the show.
You see, the "Vanities" are a Westlake tradition, like planting tomatoes on Memorial Day. The first weekend in spring the old folks of Westlake Village take wing. They kick up their heels, dust off the talent they once had in their barely remembered past ... when love was young, when ears could hear the slightest sound, when eyes could see the subtlest of colors. When the sound, the scent, and the sight of a woman in spring would animate a man like a puppet on a string, to dance and sing. Well, that's what we do in the Westlake Vanities. We don't draw much of a crowd. A few young folks show up for laughs, but they sneak out long before it's over. When you get right down to it, we are our own audience. Without our "Vanities," we are just grumpy old men and women.
Last year Frances Poultice showed up at the Westlake Vanities in a wheelchair still nursing her broken kneecap. Normally Frances would have been up on the stage with the rest of us. She, Amber Waverly and Tom Hurley's wife Emily, do this impersonation of the Andrews' sisters singing "The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy From Company B." It looks deadly when you see it set in words, but really ... really, if you were there, you'd never believe they were lip-synching. It was just like being back with Patti, LaVerne, and Maxine at the USO in 1943. You weren't there, I know. I can't tell you how magical it was. Well, Frances couldn't be with the threesome that year so Florida Oregon took over for her. Yes, Florida Oregon.
It's customary when writing non-fiction to protect the innocent. They can often turn around and bite you with a lawsuit if you say something tactless. For this reason we often resort to fictitious names to avoid lawsuits, or at the very least, harsh words and threats in the supermarket parking lot. However, I am taking the bit in my teeth and using Florida Oregon's God-given name in the holy rite of Baptism because she would want it that way ... none of this Madam "X" stuff for Florida. She wasn't a likely choice for an Andrews' sister, being black and all. But with a blond wig and that drop-dead, silver lame gown, she looked for all the world like a hood ornament on a jaguar. Emily Hurley and Amber Waverly were hard-pressed to keep up with her.
Their act brought the first half of the program to a close. The applause was deafening ... it seemed it would never stop, and although all three girls were breathing hard, they consented to an encore. Frances, in her wheelchair with one foot stuck out in front of her like a battering ram, was not pleased. The audience had never demanded an encore when she was with the group. In a fit of pique, she did a quick about-face and propelled herself up the aisle and through the lobby with her husband after her.
As they approached the exit door, her husband put on a burst of speed, rushed around in front of her, and opened it. Frances, in a rage and forgetting she was in a wheel chair, burst through the open door and down the twelve steps to the concrete sidewalk. If the folks back in the auditorium had been on hand to witness her exit, I'm sure Frances would have gotten as big a hand as the girls doing their encore inside.
When the audience filed out to the lobby for intermission and headed for the punch bowl they were still elated. The Andrews sister act had certainly been a showstopper. But wait! ... there were blinking lights outside. The police ... an emergency ambulance, and there in the middle of it all lay Frances under a blanket staring at the starry spring sky. George knelt by her side and held her hand, and before we could make a move in their direction, she was whisked aboard and driven away.
My friend Seymour, who has seen tragedy in his day and will share it gladly with anyone in the mood to listen, suggested, "Perhaps it is suicide ... she is an emotional woman." I could not agree. I was certain it was acute trauma brought on by the realization that Florida Oregon was a far better Maxine than Frances had ever been.
We were both wrong. Frances had a broken ankle, and that is why there is no Westlake Village Vanities this year. Frances and George finally found someone to sue and under the guidance of Jeffrey Seltzer they have been in litigation for nearly a year. Attorney Seltzer is one of the best falling-down lawyers in the business and certainly the best we have in Westlake Village.
Frances' ankle has now completely healed and the brace is off her kneecap surgery. She walks without a limp when no one is near, but in the presence of neighbors, it magically reappears. It is a cross she must bear while she remains in the company of those who know her. I am sure they will both move to plusher quarters when the case is settled. Then she will be able to walk as she did before. We will all breathe a little easier when they are gone, for while the case is pending, our insurance company has threatened to drop our coverage if we present another performance of the Westlake Village Vanities. With a pearl of a performer like Florida Oregon waiting in the wings, we can't wait forever. The show must go on.
Two years is a long time to wait between "Vanities," especially when you're not getting any younger. But now that Frances' knee/ankle case is settled, the insurance company has been persuaded to write us a policy again. Nothing can stop us now!
I've told you how important the "Vanities" are to us here in Westlake Village. We talk of nothing else for weeks before and weeks after. The high school auditorium can't hold the crowd, so we have to run the show Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Gus Juliano and the high school orchestra are completely blown out by the last performance, and Frank and Debby Quinn, "The Waltzing Quinns", are ready for the chiropractor.
I am to be the chronicler of the event. The Westlake Village Guardian will cover every precious moment in much the way the Bayreuth newspapers cover Wagner's "Ring" cycle. My senior partner (yes, we are partners now) Lucas Crosby has decided to devote as many pages as necessary to assure full journalistic reportage.
"I mean, don't go overboard or nothing like that, but I'm willin' to chip in a few bucks to make it a success." He smiled that crooked smile of his and began to pace back and forth. Lucas is a devious man. Largess is a difficult, if not impossible, pill for him to swallow, and when he goes into body language like this you can bet the farm that he's holding something back.
"Is Muriel doing her bird calls?" I asked the question as innocently as I could. Muriel is Lucas's wife and the current president of the Westlake Village bird watchers society. She is also a frequent reporter of Westlake Village bird sightings in the Guardian. Lucas stopped walking, sat down, and sighed.
"Look, don't make things any tougher for me than they are ... O.K! ... you can take in the three shows, can't you?" He reached into the side drawer of his creaky metal desk and handed me six tickets.
"I only need three, Lucas."
"Take somebody."
I am a widower. I do not date. The thought of picking up a woman, bringing her to the Westlake Vanities, and taking her home again is absurd to me. You may not agree ... but then you may not be in a position to judge. It is a sad fact that loving couples rarely depart this vale of tears together. They go one at a time. Those left behind must carry on the love affair alone. This does not mean I didn't accept the six tickets. Oh no! I planned to give one to Florida's husband Emil. I see Emil often at the high school basketball court; he plays in baggy shorts and is naked from the waist up. From the look of him, he will live forever. But I know he will be reluctant to sit with 600 white people to watch his wife perform. I must exercise tact and discretion.
The other two tickets I will give to two talent organizations in a neighboring town who cater to business gatherings and family get- togethers. Tanya runs the "A to Z Belly & Hawaiian," and Sam Spectre runs "Dial-A-Show." They are both regular advertisers with the Guardian. I know they'll be interested in Florida, but I have my doubts about the entertainment value of the Waltzing Quinns.
The Village Guardian is issued every two weeks (people in Westlake Village get confused when you tell them it's a bi-weekly), so normally our review of the Vanities would appear long after the show was put to bed and the thrill was gone. Lucas has arranged for the printer to stand by and go to press on the Monday after the last performance. But before we credit Lucas with public spirit and generosity, let us remember that our paper is still 85 percent, (down from 90) advertising. The son of a bitch could turn dog turds into pate de fois gras.
It is Wednesday night, and already I'm a nervous wreck. I've watched all the rehearsals, listened to the band, and nothing seems to be ready. Maybe I should call Tanya and Sam and tell them the whole thing's off. They're still painting sets ... "The show's tomorrow, and they're still painting sets!!!" I'm too old for this kind of thing! On top of everything else I succeeded in convincing Emil to sit with me and watch Florida. "I gotta wear somethin'?" He asked me.
"Course not, Emil, just a shirt, O.K.?"
"I ain't goin' wanderin' around there, unnerstand ... I'm gonna sit with you."
I'm sure you and I would feel the same way if we found ourselves talked into the same situation Emil found himself in. I only hoped I hadn't let him down.
"I promise you, Emil ... just you and me watching Florida. She'll knock their socks off." Promises, promises! I should have thrown the three tickets away.
But Gus Juliiano is smiling! "I think, by Christ they got it" he shouts as the final strains of "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square" are extinguished. Perhaps I am unduly pessimistic, but, after all, it starts tomorrow night, and if things don't look any better than they do at the moment Emil would be justified if he stuffed my ass in the hoop.
Wish us luck!
Not so many years ago, I lusted for a bicycle, I wanted that bicycle so bad I could taste it. For two years I dreamed of that red Columbia and me speeding through the streets of Brooklyn on missions of adventure. I finally got it and ... I didn't want it. The real thing was not nearly as exciting as the dream of the real thing.
So it was with the long-awaited reappearance of the Westlake Village Vanities. The memory of the last one and the agonizing wait for the next one made the reality of this one as much of a disappointment to me as the red Columbia had been.
Of course it's over. Three nights of it and two intervening days of tension and stress. We cheered and called for encores and almost convinced each other that the Vanities were better than they ever were. It was my friend Seymour who came up to me during the intermission and lifted his paper cup of pink punch in salute.
"Ve haf a saying in the old country; may I tell it to you?"
"You're going to go philosophical on me aren't you, Seymour?"
"Vell, you hav to write a review, no? It couldn't hurt."
He put the paper cup down and smiled. If ever a Jew could play Santa Claus, it is Seymour when he smiles.
"Fraytik af der nakht is dokh yeder yid a maylekh* ... It means simply that on Friday night every Jew is a king."
So I wrote a rave review, full of what everyone wanted to hear, one that I think pulled the wool over the eyes of those who might have doubted the magic of it all. Except for people like Seymour, Florida's husband Emil, and myself.
I lavished praise on "Presto" Kirby who made his wife disappear ... Tracy Pomerance and Minx Kaplan, the aging contortionists. Tracy pulled something the first night, and the act was changed to exotic dancing on Friday and Saturday. "The Waltzing Quinns," as Fred and Ginger, did "Cheek to Cheek." Betty Postum sang "Kiss me Again," and Rudy Gimback played "My Heart is Back in Napoli" on a cross-cut saw. It was challenging to wax enthusiastic over my senior partner's wife Muriel and her bird impressions. The aforementioned were the people that made the writing of a rave review most difficult. But, as Seymour says, everyone can be a king one night of the week.
The shiny, let-out seat of Frank Quinn's pants ... Tracy's contorted prisoner-of-war grin ... Rudy's stainless steel cross-cut saw, gaudy and tasteless in sight and sound. My love for these people must be powerful to encourage me to sit here at a lonely typewriter on a Sunday afternoon and think of something nice to say. Something that will give all of us a reason to have another Westlake Village Vanities next year.
As I sit at that typewriter with its crooked capital "L" (Lucas is currently bargaining with Office Work Station for a word processor), the performances run together. I can no longer separate one night of the Vanities from the other. If that isn't bad enough, the people and the acts run together in diverse and incongruous atonality. Everyone is on stage dancing and singing at the same time. I have been up late three nights in a row. Perhaps I need sleep, but the vision will not let me rest.
Erato, I beg you -- sweet Grecian Goddess of letters -- have pity on a man old enough to be your father.
She is relentless, however. She's got a pushover with a typewriter, and she will not let him go without forcing him to peck out what she wants him to say.
"Join hands. Let no one break the ring! All of you together, dance and sing. Let the band play, let the Quinns dance, let Betty sing, yes, let even Rudy play. Play, sing and dance together. And you! There at the typewriter! Get up off your wrinkled old ass, join hands with them and sing, sing! SING!!"
I think I know what she means. It's not the singer, it's the song.
*A Yiddish expression, generously donated to me, (perhaps "stolen by me" would be more accurate) by Henry Roth.
(Copyright 1997 by Harry Buschman - No reproduction without express permission from the author)