One Ambition
INTRODUCTION
On certain choice weekends in this town, reputations are made and taken away, relationships are built and broken, redemption is found and lost, and what would normally stay in silence comes out of the woodwork to make itself known to the rest of the world. So it was, on this weekend in April. It was a cool Friday night with a hint of rain in the air, and it made perfect sense for the residents of central Philadelphia to sit outside and make quiet conversation with their neighbors on their stoops, or walk the proverbial dog through the Schuylkill River Park and Rittenhouse Square, or traipse through the streets of Center City in search of some after-dinner entertainment. On one side street off of Broad St., a little theater offered such a venue for the enigmatically sad, diffusely happy or obstinately moody members of the public who searched for some emotional consolation in the problems of others.
Its awnings were ancient, and the marquee, far from readable. Yet it was painfully obvious � even to the struggling manager of the theater who prayed to almighty God every 5 minutes that this production should be a success and not turn him out into the street where a lot of his other fellow theatre junkies resided � that tonight at the Mercury Theatre, est. 1932, there was to be a production of something of importance. Maybe it was the cheap flashing lights strung up around the building, or the badly made circulars that were posted everywhere, or the grudging and suffering hawker who was paid to shout out the existence of a production on this very night, and for whom the job description did not include any mention of his present duties, for he did not think �an acting capability� included being posted on the sidewalk every night to scream at passerby. To the average man or woman, it would seem to resemble the multiplicity of plays that were performed monthly, weekly and even daily. Unwanted, unwatched and unviewable. On closer look, however, it might also be seen that there was something else about this place and this production that would warrant a second look, and maybe even the price of a ticket�
Beside the dusty and blurry window of the ticket booth, a surprisingly clean glass case contained a few clippings from major newspapers: the Philadelphia Inquirer, �haunting last performance by members of OffStage�; the New York Times, �Philadelphia�s OffStage finally goes� off stage!�; and the Philadelphia Daily News, �why does it have to end? The best thing to hit Philadelphia theater in a decade brings itself to a self-proclaimed close.� It was unfortunate, then, that one would have to be interested already to notice the glass case. One would wonder, in fact, that there was anyone at all who even bothered to show up; in truth, the place looked kind of like a triple X theatre, or even an abandoned one with junkies and bums that one could imagine locking themselves up in this old and faded glory � for even with its generally nasty fa�ade, the building was still an aged beauty, with long lost echoes of its lushness and elegance in ages past. Reminiscent of 30�s architecture, Hollywood style, there was still a reminder of the age of gangsters and molls, Prohibition honky-tonks and illegal stills, rockettes and golden geisha girls, and love to excess among the royal velvet seats and endless red tapestries strung along the cracked plaster walls. Some days, even the large dark water stains on the ceiling seemed impressive; they looked like a memento of the rich brown cigars once smoked in plenty among the elite and powerful that came here for their entertainment. Its one claim to legend, beyond its half-existence as a well-oiled bordello, was that several Philadelphia gangsters had started a gunfight within its walls that was later held as a parallel to the St. Valentines Day Massacre.
By chance, this theater and its ailing manager had struck a fortune in luck, though they didn�t quite realize to what extent it would be. Harold Hanna, an acclaimed playwright and author, had suddenly presetned an offer to the theater, which in all good conscience could not be refused. It provided for a production company, union personnel, a first-presented script and world class backing with only a commitment of space and time on the theater�s part. A blessing, and not even in disguise. Naturally, one would wonder why it was that such an ancient hole in the wall would be selected for this supposed bit of powerful, professional and most importantly, famous work � and a good question indeed. For mainly business reasons, OffStage Productions had conducted their previous productions in more successful theaters, but as a gesture to friendship - the owner of this theatre happened to be Harold Hanna�s best friend, co-owner of OffStage Productions and some time actor � the Mercury theater had received the bid rather than any of the large behemoths lining Theater Row. His name was Charlie Atwood, late of Greenwich Village after a stint at Columbia University, and he happened to be a genius at compartmentalization and separation of duties and priorities; he left the management of the theatre to an old family friend and refused to take any involvement in the artistic and business decisions, for better or worse. This made his commitment to OffStage Productions that much easier. Formerly, Daniel Atwood, Charlie�s father, had owned the theater after it had changed hands many times; the first owners had died in World War II and family squabbles and profiteering had ruined its value and thus made it available to the poorer folk. Thus, it had come into the Atwood family, and by some secretive agreement between the two, ownership had passed from father to son. Much of the agreement had to do with Charlie finally finding a niche from which to start a career; Daniel at first did not think acting would pay. The day after a smiling Charlie was lauded as a young, rising actor in a Columbia-affiliated production, he was accepted back home as a founder and board member of OffStage Productions in Philadelphia. Daniel had provided but one demand, that the old manager be allowed to retain his position on some level. Charlie, as a friend and as a sign of respect, allowed the man his confidence and allowed him to continue with far greater responsibilities than he was previously used to.
The manager had always lived on the edge of a precipice. In the acting business during the film-crazy Golden Age, and then through the tumultuous war years, and then through 5 different owners during the �decrepit ruin� years, he knew that his position was always precarious and liable to being gone the next day he showed up for work. Thus, he learned a remarkable ability to adapt not only to the styles of new owners, but to the polarizing changes in artistic content for Philadelphia drama as well as national currents. Beyond that, he had to contend with new innovations for financial management, union organization, maintenance, equipment facilitation and enticements for production companies to anchor their plays at his theatre. His name was once a sign of distinction for him: from being called Boy, he graduated to Oliver, and then when he became an assistant manager at the theatre, Mr. Oliver Oldham. Eventually, the novelty of being called Mister wore off as he dealt with Sirs and Mr. Esquires and Lords and Ladies. He made his peace with Mr. O as a name, and then when Daniel Atwood bought the theatre, it was finally shortened to O. There was no loss of respect; everyone knew that O had kept the place afloat even when times were dismal and assured of bankruptcy. Though he had less creative foresight than was expected for the new generation of dramatists and producers, he certainly had some skill, as it was always expected that the next artistic season would find the Mercury Theater closed and shuttered. When Harold came to him with this new proposal, O never for once assumed there was blood in the water. He smelled a prize � and even though he retained doubts, as that was his nature � he quickly signed the contract and paved the way for the night�s gala performance of �UNTITLED�.
CHAPTER 1: ALLA BREVE
The dusty doors cracked open an inch, and O�s eyes peered through into the pale moonlight. Narrow eyes gave way to large, rounded eyes and from there, into a wide grin as he flung open the doors and announced the opening of a new show.
�Welcome to the Mercury Theater!,� he shouted.
Set aside for the hoi polloi of Philadelphia were the balcony seats; the first floor seats were reserved for the elite, the rich and the critics who had come to praise or pan. This was only an opening night setup � for on subsequent nights, tickets were first come, first serve at the box office. It would seem to be a fairly magnanimous gesture on the part of the theater. For the most part, there actually existed no need for niceties as customers needing reserved seats were a scarce commodity during the year.
The very walls of the theatre seemed to expand in a newly regaind glory as crisp Italian power suits mingled with old money tuxedos, bustled dresses competed with elegant chiffon, leather caps with top hats, and in a salute to tourism, the ugly yellow t-shirt blue pants ensemble complete with fanny pack and large Nikon camera. For this night, miniature ticket boys, abnormally bright coat room attendants, pretty bartender/waitresses and solemn guides had been hired to provide a professional atmosphere to the theatre, where otherwise a cashier and a sullen pimply girl serving as bartender and guide would have doen on another night. OffStage Productions was generous; they had paid for a refurbishment of most of the theatre because the struggling finances of the Mercury left no room for improvements. However, they had kept the outside as it was. To most of the night�s attendees, the abandoned motif of the front of the theatre came off as quaint and charming rather than a reflection of the theatre�s true standing � for what was to tell them otherwise? Inside, the velvet red curtains were unscuffed and bright; the seats were meticulously cleaned and fluffed; the paint was continuous and well-colored; the stage floors didn�t appear as if they would collapse at any minute; and the carpets had been soaped and vacuumed.
As chilled champagne was being served and the audience members were getting comfortable in their social greetings, the theatre radio crackled and released its gleeful message:
�Welcome to the Mercury Theater, ladies and gentlemen! Harold Hanna of TITLE1 and TITLE2 fame and OffStage Productions presents UNTITLED, for its only engagement right here in Philadelphia. Founded several years ago, OffStage Productions has decided to present this timeless story as its swan song before its curtains close for the last time. We now ask you to turn off your cell phones, beepers and pagers in respect for the actors. Now sit back and enjoy UNTITLED!�
The massive oak doors with the Grecian curlicues from the days of yore groaned shut as the disgruntled hirelings with the plasticky business-appropriate smiles slowly closed the door, impatient for the chance to get outside on their smoke breaks. They weren�t really interested in the play at all; they were only waiting for the check at the end of the night and the chance to score some e and ass at Shampoo. It was Dracula�s Ball night, and that meant the creatures of the underworld would come out in force � as opposed to the audience tonight at the Mercury Theater. The shadowy bisexual population residing in the grubbier sides of Center City and off the college campuses dotting the Philadelphia fringe gathered at these costumed raves, and more often than not, drug informants for the police were just as numerous as the dealers, runners and the innocent partygoers themselves.
A staggered hush fell over the audience as they rustled in their seats, also impatient. Very soon, the house lights dimmed
To be completed...I still have to condense a 100-page screenplay into this novel.