Fire Trap

15 - Tiny Alice

We talked to the manager first. He was an elderly man with a beaked nose and pleasant eyes who had nothing but praise for Simon. An ideal tenant with two excellent qualities, paid his rent on time and was rarely seen.

Simon's neighbor on the left wasn't home, but the lady on the right answered her door still dressed as a waitress in a brown button-down dress with a white collar. She'd met Simon several times and found him standoffish. She identified him in the photo, commenting that she also knew another of the gentlemen pictured.

"That fellow," she said, indicating Neal Wilson, "went fishing with him once. At least they were carting around a lot of fishing gear, poles, and whatnot."

I asked about recent visitors. Excluding the police, she couldn't remember anyone, but then she'd been working a lot lately and wasn't around much. I thanked her and left, not much the wiser.

We went on to the theater and parked in the same public lot as last time. I locked the car and brought the audition forms with us, so I wouldn't have to run out and get them after the performance.

#

This time we entered the building at the front door. The audience looked respectable for a weeknight, and I was cheered that Albee's play still drew the cognoscente. Of course, I had no real way of knowing if most of the audience weren't thinking Tiny Alice was about a diminutive woman. I gave the audience the benefit of the doubt. Jean and I took our seats.

However Monday night had gone, Tuesday was terrific. The actors were right on cue with the snappy dialogue and their entrances and exits. The indictment of organized religion and its promise was unfolding with all of Edward Albee's genius. The sets worked magically and the lights moved through the rooms of the doll house on schedule. The butler was appropriately reserved, and the influence of Alice's potential gift to the church lay behind every scene.

We had a glass of Chardonnay at intermission and were so captured by the play, I didn't think once about the Genetrix fire or Simon. I'm sure Jean didn't either. At the final curtain, half the audience stood and cheered, clapping their hands off, and another quarter booed with vigor. I can't think of a stronger testament to a successful play than that division of emotion. The message of the playwright had been delivered superbly. Some agreed, some disagreed, but all were profoundly moved.

Backstage, we congratulated Henry in his dressing room. He grinned from ear to ear. "Fucking marvelous, wasn't it?"

"Fucking marvelous," I agreed.

Jean and I waited while the cast spoke to their fans and friends and applied cold cream to their make-up. Within an hour, the imaginary characters were packed away until the following evening.

The cast drifted back out into the deserted auditorium and onto the stage. A cast member read enthusiastic reviews of last Monday's performance from the Mercury News and the San Francisco Chronicle.

After the high settled down, I sat next to Henry and passed him some of the blank audition forms, giving the folder back to Jean to hold. Henry had secured the services of a pianist, and I picked three songs to use for the auditions, If I Were a Rich Man, Miracle of Miracles and Sunrise Sunset. While the pianist practiced, Henry passed out the forms to the dozen actors who had filtered in for the auditions. They filled in their data.

Jean seemed satisfied to observe the proceedings. I left her with a group of hangers-on who were only interested in watching the tryouts.

It took almost two hours to have everyone read and sing, but the process turned up three truly fine voices and several that would do. I made my standard 'Don't call us, we'll be calling some of you' speech. One of the early auditions was the butler, Philip Butler. He wasn't one of the best, but Jean brought him up to where Henry and I were seated.