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The Westlake Vanities
by
Harry Buschman
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! Because of a broken ankle! How can you sweep a thirty
year old tradition under the rug for one broken ankle?
... but before Frances Poultice broke her ankle she broke her knee while
bobsledding in Great Gorge last February. We were tolerably sympathetic, no more
than we should be. To put it bluntly, we have our own problems. A lot of people
break something or other, 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! If you're a senior citizen you've got no business
being on a bobsled in the first place, you should be old enough to know
better. So take your lumps, Frances. 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.
To begin with, the "Vanities" are a Westlake tradition, like planting
tomatoes on Memorial Day. The first weekend of spring the old folks of Westlake
Village take wing, kick up their heels, dust off the talent they once had in
abundance -- when love was young, when ears could hear the slightest sound, and
eyes
could see the subtlest of colors. When the sound, the scent and the sight of
a woman in spring would make a man dance and sing like a puppet on a string.
Well, that's what we do at the Westlake Vanities -- dance and sing. 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 look at it dispassionately, we are our best
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
with her knee in a cast. Normally, Frances would have been up on the stage
with the rest of us; she, Amber Waverly and Tom Hurley's wife Emily, do an
impersonation of the the Andrews sisters singing "The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy
From
Company "B". It sounds foolish when you put it in words, but really; if you
were there you'd never believe they were lip-synching. It was just like being
back in the USO with Patti, LaVerne and Maxine in 1943. You weren't there, I
know, and I can't tell you what those days meant to us. Well, anyway Frances
couldn't be with the threesome that year, so Florida Oregon took over for her.
Yes, as God is my judge, Florida Oregon!
It is customary, when putting your friends in a story, to protect their
anonymity. If you don't, they can turn around and bite you with a law suit if
you
say something tactless. For this reason it's safer to employ fictitious names
to avoid law-suits, or at the very least, harsh words and threats in the
supermarket parking lot. But in this case I'm 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 her blond
wig and her drop dead silver lame` gown she looked for all the world like a hood
ornament on a Jaguar. Emily Hurley and Amber Waverly had a hard time keeping
up with her. It was this act that brought the first half of the program to a
close. The applause was deafening .... it seemed as though it would never stop,
and although all three girls were winded, they consented to do an encore.
Frances in her wheel chair with one foot stuck out in front of her like a
battering ram, was not pleased. The audience had never called for 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, elbows flying, through the lobby with George
after
her. As they approached the exit door, George put on a burst of speed and
rushed around in front of her to open it. Frances, in her rage, ignored the
handicap ramp entirely, 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 in the street outside.
The police -- an emergency ambulance, and there in the middle of it all lay
Frances Poultice under a blanket staring up at the night sky with George
kneeling by her side. Before we could make a move in their direction, the two of
them were loaded in the ambulance and driven away.
My friend Seymour, who has seen tragedies in his day and will gladly share
every one of them in detail with you if you're willing to listen, suggested,
"Perhaps it is suicide .... she is, after all, 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.
In due time Frances and George found someone to sue, and in the competent
hands 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.
Time passes, and now Frances' ankle is completely healed and the brace has
been removed from her kneecap surgery as well. She walks without a limp when no
one is near, but in the presence of friends and neighbors it magically
reappears. It is a cross she must bear while she remains in our neighborhood. I
am
sure George and Frances will move to greener fields after 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.
But the upshot is that 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.
The Return of the Vanities
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 huge crowd so we have to run the show Thursday, Friday
and Saturday nights. 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 same way the Bayreuth newspapers cover
Richard 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
buck or two to make it a success." He smiled that wolf-like 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 vice-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, okay! 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 Village Vanities and then taking her home again seems 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, and the survivor 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 biweekly) so normally our review of
the Vanities would appear after the show was forgotten and the thrill was gone,
so Lucas has arranged for the printer to stand by and go to press on the
Monday after the last performance. Before we credit Lucas with his public spirit
and generosity, let us remember that our paper is still 85 percent, (down from
90) advertising. The devious bugger could turn dog turds into pate de fois gras.
It is now Wednesday night and already I'm a nervous wreck. Nothing seems to
be ready. 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 been canceled. They're still painting sets! "The show's tomorrow, AND
THEY'RE STILL PAINTING SETS!!" I'm too old for this kind of thing! To make
matters
worse I succeeded in convincing Emil to sit next to me and watch Florida.
"I gotta wear somethin'?" He asked me.
"'Course not Emil, just a shirt, okay.?"
"I ain't gonna be 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 in a similar
situation. 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 his ticket away.
But Gus Juliano is smiling! "I think they got it! By God Almighty, I think
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
is tomorrow night and if things don't look any better than they do at the
moment, how can I face "A to Z Belly & Hawaiian?"
Wish us luck!
God Save the King
It seems like so long ago, but when I was a kid I longed for a bicycle. I
wanted that bicycle so bad I could taste it. For two years I dreamed of that red
Columbia bicycle and me speeding through the streets of Brooklyn on missions
of adventure. I finally saved up enough money to buy it and then I discovered I
didn't want it. The real thing was not nearly as exciting as the wanting 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
bicycle 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.
"In the old country we had a saying, may I tell it to you?"
"You're not going to be philosophical with me are you, Seymour?"
"You have to write a review, no? So .... it couldn't hurt to remember."
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."
He was right. Friday was the high point, the best performance of the three.
Thursday's was tentative, Saturday's was anticlimactic, so I kept Friday's
performance in mind and wrote a rave review. It was full of what everyone wanted
to hear, one that I hoped might pull 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. Stacy
Pomerance and Minx Kaplan, the not-so-young contortionists. Stacy pulled
something
the first night and the act had to be 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," (with one eye shut on the high notes) and
Rudy
Gimback played "My Heart is Back in Napoli" on a cross-cut saw. It was almost
impossible to be enthusiastic about Lucas Crosby's wife Muriel and her bird
impressions. They 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, Stacy's contorted
prisoner-of-war grin -- Rudy's stainless steel cross-cut saw, gaudy and
tasteless in
sight and amplified almost beyond endurance. My love for these people must be
powerful to encourage me to sit here in the empty "Guardian" on a Sunday
afternoon
and think of something nice to say about them. Something that will give all
of us a reason to have another Westlake Village Vanities next year.
As I sit at this old typewriter with its crooked capital "L," (Lucas is
currently bargaining with Office Work Station for a word processor) the
performances run together in my mind. I can no longer separate one night of the
Vanities
from the other. They run together -- 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, my imaginary muse sits with me in the corner and urges me on. I beg
you -- sweet Grecian Goddess of letters, have pity on a man old enough to be
your father. But she is a relentless mistress -- she's found a sucker with a
typewriter and she won't let him off the hook until he pecks out what she wants
him to say.
"Join hands!" She tells me. "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 Rudy play. Play! All of you! Sing and dance together. And you! There at
the typewriter! Get up off your wrinkled old ass, join hands with them while you
can and sing, sing! SING!!"
I think I know what she means. It's the dancer, not the dance -- the singer,
not the song.
*A Yiddish expression, generously donated to me, (perhaps "stolen by me"
would be more accurate) by Henry Roth.
©Harry Buschman 1997
(2880)
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