“Mr. Clean,” Bruno commented. “Chris, do you have a little spare time?”
“Well, I was thinking of doing my homework and —”
“Oh, that. Well, this is important,” Bruno interrupted. “We need eight posters advertising the auditions for our talent show.”
Chris reached for pen and paper. “The details,” he said, all business.
* * *
“I think the talent show is a wonderful idea,” said Mrs. Sturgeon that evening as she counted out the Monopoly money for their weekly game.
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Miss Scrimmage from across the table. “My girls are very enthusiastic. They’re making their costumes in sewing class.”
“How delightful,” responded Mr. Sturgeon, who hated Monopoly except that it eliminated the necessity for polite conversation during Miss Scrimmage’s weekly visits. “Shall we begin? You are first, Miss Scrimmage.”
Miss Scrimmage gave the dice an enthusiastic toss, and the number came up seven. She advanced her token seven spaces, reached for a Chance card, and read: “Go to jail, go directly to …” Her voice trailed off.
The sound that escaped Mr. Sturgeon was suspiciously like a snicker. Under the table, his wife kicked him sharply. As he picked up the dice, he decided he did not dislike Monopoly so much after all.
* * *
The next day, little was accomplished during the last class of the afternoon, as the suddenly stage-struck student body watched the clock. Auditions for the talent show were scheduled to begin at four o’clock sharp.
In his Canadian history class, Bruno Walton dropped an ever-so-subtle hint to the teacher. “Three-thirty already?” he mused loudly. “My, how time flies.”
“Very well, that will be all for today,” the teacher decided. “We can’t have the impresario being late for his auditions. Dismissed.”
Bruno met Boots in the hallway, and the two boys dashed off towards the school auditorium. A stampede of undiscovered stars followed along behind them. They were met by a surging crowd of girls from Miss Scrimmage’s.
“Okay!” Bruno bellowed to quiet down the crowd. “Come in and sit down. We’ll start right away. We require complete silence. Everybody has to have a fair chance to compete. Boots, bring on the first act.”
Boots produced the registration lists that had been attached to Chris Talbot’s posters. “The first act is Percy the Great,” he announced.
One of the first-year boys appeared, lugging a large sheet of plywood. Attached to the wood was a department store dummy with a grotesque smile. In his belt the boy carried four sharp knives.
“A knife thrower?” Bruno asked incredulously.
“Yes,” said Percy the Great. “Naturally when I do the show it will be with a live volunteer from the audience instead of a dummy.”
“Naturally,” said Bruno. “Go ahead. Let’s see what you can do.”
Obediently, Percy the Great danced around the stage, flourishing a razor-sharp knife. At last he held it gracefully by the tip, reared back and let fly.
Snap! The knife neatly severed the dummy’s head at the neck. The still smiling head rolled across the stage and came to rest at Bruno’s feet.
When the laughter and cheers died down, Bruno said firmly, “Sorry, Percy, old boy, but your real live volunteer is going to end up real dead. Next act.”
“Elmer Drimsdale,” Boots announced dubiously.
Elmer ascended the stage and looked hopefully at Bruno through his thick glasses.
“What do you do, Elm?” Bruno asked in surprise. Elmer was known as a genius, but no one was aware that he had any talent.
“My act,” he said timidly, “is entitled ‘The Song of the Humpback Whale.’”
Everyone tittered except Bruno Walton, who had once roomed with Elmer and half expected something of the sort.
“Go ahead. Let’s hear it.”
Screwing his face up horribly, Elmer emitted a series of grunts, groans, mournful moans, squeals and moos. Finally, his face and voice back to normal, he explained, “Whales converse in this way. That was symbolic of ‘Greetings’ or perhaps ‘A whale is here.’”
Bruno observed the audience reaction, which ranged from broad smiles to howls of hysteria. He signalled for order and got it.
“Elmer, that was great! But it was too short.”
“I also do bird calls,” Elmer offered hopefully.
Bruno slammed a fist into his palm with delight. “I don’t even have to hear them! You work on it and be ready for rehearsal. You’re in the show. Boots, put down Elmer Drimsdale.”
“As what?” Boots asked.
“As a — an impressionist of nature,” Bruno declared. “Next act.”
Next was a pair of seniors from Macdonald Hall who had brought along their own record, straw hats and canes, and shuffled around the stage, bumping into each other, roughly in time to the music. They promised faithfully to polish up the act with practice, and Boots put them down as a possibility.
“Next.”
“Eleanor Noseworthy,” Boots called out.
A short plump girl appeared on the stage. “I do a gourmet act,” she informed them proudly.
“Great,” said Bruno. “Uh — what exactly is that?”
“I prepare a dish that I call ‘Boeuf Noseworthy avec Oignons.’”
“Uh —” Bruno stammered, “we have no facilities for cooking on stage. Sorry. Next act.”
“The Amazing Frederick,” Boots announced.
The curtains parted to reveal the Amazing Frederick himself, carrying a large fishtank filled with water. “Well, what’s your act?” asked Bruno, somewhat wearily.
“I hold my head under water for three minutes,” replied the Amazing Frederick.
“All right,” Bruno said. “Go to it.”
Everyone watched with awe as the Amazing Frederick drew an enormous breath and plunged his head into the fishtank, his face towards the audience.
Two minutes passed in total silence. Then the crowd began to get edgy as the Amazing Frederick’s contorted face went from red to purple to blue and the bubbles started rising.
“Bruno, pull him out! He’s drowning!”
“He’ll die!”
“He’s my brother! Leave him there!”
“Help!”
Around the three minute mark, the Amazing Frederick heaved himself out of the tank, drew another mighty breath, wrapped his head in a large beach towel and collapsed, amid thunderous applause from all present.
“Boots,” called Bruno, “sign him up. He’ll be a smash!”
Shaking his head in a what-will-they-think-of-next manner, Boots put the Amazing Frederick down on his list.
Bruno then proceeded to turn down a singer who must have attracted every dog within hearing range of Macdonald Hall, a tap dancer who was fair until she slipped and twisted her ankle, a barbershop quartet which accomplished about as much harmony as a diesel horn and two comedy skits that weren’t funny at all.
“Next,” Bruno said. He was becoming bored.
“The — Scrimmettes?”
Cathy Burton climbed onto the stage and whispered to Bruno at great length.
“Put the Scrimmettes down for the show, Boots,” called Bruno as Cathy left the stage. “Next.”
“Super Hackenschleimer,” announced Boots, who was no longer surprised by anything.
This was, of course, Wilbur Hackenschleimer, who pledged that he would lift a piano for the show. Bruno was thrilled with the idea, though the crowd had other reactions.
“Don’t let him do it, Bruno!”
“He’ll wind up in traction!”
“He’ll kill himself!”
“A hernia!”
“A slipped disc!”
“Why would anybody want to lift a piano?”
But Bruno’s decision was final, and Super Hackenschleimer was in show business.
“Next.”
Next was a magician who wasn’t too bad at demonstrating that the hand was
quicker than the eye — if not his hand. He promised to polish his routine, though, and Bruno had Boots sign him up because the show needed a magic act.
The auditions went on until five-thirty when the dinner bell rang. While en route to the dining hall, Bruno and Boots discussed the acts they had seen, and which of the “possibles” deserved to be put into the show. It was in the cafeteria line that they found themselves standing next to George Wexford-Smyth III.
“What outrageous sort of contest were you organizing in the auditorium today?” George asked Bruno in disgust. “It caused a stampede in the hall and I was almost trampled!”
“It’s not for you,” Boots cut in. “It’s vulgar.”
“I would expect it to be,” said George as Bruno and Boots abandoned him and took their trays off to their table.
* * *
Tickets for the big show, scheduled for a week from Saturday, went on sale immediately. Invitations were mailed out to the parents, and quite a few agreed to attend. Rehearsals began in earnest.
Bruno had appointed himself Master of Ceremonies, and in addition to running the rehearsals, he and Boots were hard at work putting together short comedy routines to spot in between the various acts. Late one night, after lights-out, Bruno hauled Boots out of bed with an idea for yet another hilarious skit.
“I finally get to sleep after writing one of those ridiculous letters to my parents about how happy I am at the Hall — the fourth one in two days!” Boots moaned, “and you have to wake me up! Why can’t you get your ideas in the daytime?”
“Because in the daytime my head is all balled up with math and geography and junk like that. Now, listen. You’ll come out and say: ‘Good evening, ladies and germs.’”
“Are you crazy?” Boots exploded. “People stopped laughing at that fifty years ago!”
“Comedy doesn’t change,” Bruno lectured him. “If it was funny fifty years ago, it’ll be funny in our show.”
“We’ll be lynched,” Boots predicted mournfully. “That’s even worse than your ‘ugliest man in the world’ routine.”
“Oh, go back to bed!” Bruno grumbled. “You have the sense of humour of a loaf of bread! You’ll be happier at York Academy where nobody laughs because they’re too stupid!”
“And what about some of the acts?” Boots continued. “What about Wilbur? He doesn’t come to rehearsal. How do we know he can lift a piano?”
“Don’t worry. Wilbur could lift the auditorium and everybody in it.”
“What about the Scrimmettes?” Boots persisted. “We haven’t even seen their act!”
“They’re rehearsing privately,” said Bruno.
“That’s Cathy, Bruno! Cathy! There’s no telling what they’ll do!”
“They dance,” Bruno replied calmly. “They have all kinds of ballet lessons at Scrimmage’s. I’m sure they’ll be good.”
They were interrupted by a tapping at the door and the voice of the Housemaster, Mr. Fudge. “Hey, knock it off in there. It’s past midnight.”
Bruno and Boots went back to bed.
Chapter 6
On Stage, Please
“Boots, we’re playing to a full house!” exclaimed Bruno as he peeked through the curtains.
“I saw,” replied Boots, trying to ignore the nervous quivering of his stomach. “Bruno, do we really have to do all that stupid stuff, especially ‘the ugliest man in the world’?”
“We do the show as is,” Bruno insisted. “We’ll be great.” He turned as Diane Grant rushed up, all a-twitter. “What’s the matter?”
“Bruno,” she said breathlessly, “Cathy says we have to have a pair of large scissors or our act is ruined!”
“Boots, get a pair of scissors for the Scrimmettes.” Bruno walked away to check on his other acts, reflecting that the life of a stage manager wasn’t too hard after all.
A last-minute addition to the cast was Perry Elbert, a gymnast. He shrank back at Bruno’s approach. “No offense, Bruno, but please go away. In the past our relationship has been a hazardous one — for me, that is.”
“Really?” Bruno said in surprise. “What have I done?”
“Nothing actually,” sighed Perry. “You give me a chocolate bar and I lose a filling in it. You help me with my suitcase and the lock disintegrates so I have to pick up clothes for half an hour — that kind of thing. Things just happen to me when you’re around. I’ll probably break my neck out there!”
“You’re going to be great,” Bruno soothed him. “Five minutes, everybody. Five minutes.”
Bruno made a last-minute check of the lighting crew and the boy who was operating the record player. Everything was ready. The time had arrived. The house lights dimmed, the music started and Bruno Walton, clad in his best suit and a large bow tie, stepped out into the spotlight. The applause was deafening. Bruno was delighted — he hadn’t even done anything yet, and he was already a success!
Click! A camera flash momentarily blinded him. When the green spots faded from his eyes, he recognized Mrs. Sturgeon, waving her camera and smiling encouragement at him from the front row.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the first annual Macdonald Hall/Miss Scrimmage’s Talent Show. Proceeds will go towards our swimming pool fund. We have a great variety show planned, starring students from both schools and featuring as our pièce de résistance, the world premiere performance of the Scrimmettes.”
In his front row seat, Mr. Sturgeon winced. Beside him, Miss Scrimmage beamed.
“So let’s swing into our first act,” Bruno went on enthusiastically, “a dance team with four left feet. Ha, ha, little joke there. Our soft-shoe dancers, Hughie and Louie!”
Bruno scrambled off stage, and the curtains parted on Hughie and Louie. For the first sixty seconds or so, Hughie and Louie were doing quite well. But then Mrs. Sturgeon leaped up and again her camera flashed, blinding Hughie, who turned the wrong way and rammed face-first into Louie. They never quite got back on track after that, but nevertheless they received deafening applause when they finally stumbled to a finish.
Bruno reappeared, applauding wildly. “Weren’t they great, folks? And this is only the beginning. There’s plenty of talent to come, so please don’t walk out on us. Ha, ha, another little joke.”
He beamed and continued. “You know, because this is a school project, we wanted to use something in our show that would demonstrate how concerned we are about our environment. And here to show us all what our environment sounds like is our impressionist of nature, Elmer Drimsdale!”
Stricken by stage-fright, Elmer walked out onto the platform like a wind-up toy. Once there, spurred on by the applause, he took a deep breath and launched into his imitation of a humpback whale, forgetting the introduction he had planned. The spectacle of a skinny, crew-cut boy making faces and mooing at them without explanation shocked the audience into awed silence. When Elmer finished, there wasn’t a sound.
“The words, Elmer! The words!” Bruno whispered frantically. Everyone in the house heard him except Elmer who, now really into his act, had begun to chirp lustily. The audience was more at home with these sounds, recognizing the bird calls for what they were. Backstage, Bruno Walton was tearing his hair and laughing. But out in the spotlight, Elmer was in his glory, chirping, twittering and tweeting. Finally he fell silent and surveyed the stunned audience.
“Are there any questions?”
One of the parents stood up. “I recognized all your bird calls except the first one,” he said. “What was that first call you did?”
Elmer looked thoroughly bewildered. “That wasn’t a bird call,” he said. “That was the song of the humpback whale, of course.”
The audience erupted into laughter, cheers and applause.
Elmer was ecstatic. “Are there any requests?”
“Can you do the mating call of the great horned owl?” asked the science teacher from Miss Scrimmage’s.
“Certainly,” Elmer replied. He folded his hands, closed his eyes,
rounded his mouth and began to hoot madly.
A large bundle of brown feathers shot in through the open window of the skylight, headed for the stage and began circling over Elmer, flying slower and slower until it became apparent to everyone that Elmer’s life-like imitation had attracted a great horned owl in search of a mate. It was unfortunate that Miss Scrimmage wore a hat lavishly trimmed with brown feathers. The bird, spying the love of its life, hooted happily and began its romantic approach.
“Hit the deck!” bellowed Bruno from the edge of the curtain.
Miss Scrimmage screamed as the bird swooped down, snatching the hat from her head. With one great flap of its powerful wings, it soared to the top of the building and out through the window, hat and all. Immediately two stage hands scrambled up onto the ledge and heaved at the pulley to shut the window.
The audience went wild. Some of the students were standing on their chairs screaming. Mr. Sturgeon was down on the floor trying to revive Miss Scrimmage by fanning her with his handkerchief. Elmer, who had noticed nothing out of the ordinary, was bowing, waving and smiling in triumphant response to his standing ovation.
Bruno was also out on stage, trying to calm everybody down. “Elmer Drimsdale, ladies and gentlemen. Wasn’t that some act? Not quite what you expected, was it?”
It was some time before people were back in their seats and the show could go on.
Next on the agenda was the first of the comedy routines created by Bruno and so dreaded by Boots. While Bruno was indulging in easy patter with the audience about the superb quality of the acts to come, Boots crept onto the stage on all fours, studying the floor intently. Bruno pretended not to notice him until Boots bumped into his leg.
Bruno: (looking down in disgust) What are you doing out here? Can’t you see I’m trying to do a show?
Boots: (still studying floor) I’m looking for my contact lens. I lost it backstage.
Bruno: Well, if you lost it backstage, why are you looking for it out here?
Boots: Because the light is better out here.
Boots crept off stage amid polite applause from the adults and cheers and jeers from the students.