1
Rushmore
The last place anyone might think to find a person with the last name of Rushmore would be sitting in a lawn chair on a crowded public park lawn. But one does what one must, even if that involves stewing in the humidity on a sweltering July night to attend a mediocre summer community theater performance of My Fair Lady.
Obviously, I’m not here for pleasure. And it’s not exactly business, either.
“Philanthropy is the only thing that could compel me to endure these little bloodsuckers,” I mutter as I slap the tenth mosquito of the night.
Miles, my theater companion for the evening, brought a small battery-operated fan. He offers it to me but I wave him off. The only thing worse than mosquitos is holding that ridiculous plastic thing and looking like a giant baby-man.
“Weston Ford is right over there,” Miles says, gesturing two rows ahead. “Why not tackle him now? Use your magic on him, hand him the paperwork, and then we can get out of here.”
“Take it easy, Miles. That’s not my style. Too eager. Have that contract ready to go at intermission, though,” I reply.
As I study the back of Weston Ford’s head, it appears he is here with his sister. The two of them are cracking each other up over something, and I don’t want to interrupt that. Their interactions remind me that I never had that kind of family dynamic growing up. I am not a fellow anyone would describe as wistful, but I might be close to it right now.
“Got it right here,” Miles says, patting his attaché case stowed under his lawn chair.
I nod as my eyes land on a family lounging on a picnic blanket near us. Each of the dads is holding one of the baby girl’s hands as she takes unsteady steps. They’re laughing and praising the one-year-old’s bouncy movements as she squeals and kicks her wobbly baby legs. The scene reminds me of when my daughter Ridley was a baby, one of those brief moments when her mother and I were not despising each other.
And where is my ex-wife tonight? Probably with her new beau being properly romanced for the first time in her life. My daughter? My gut clenches to think about it. Most likely shit-talking me while using my credit cards to finance an elaborate night out with her friends and hangers-on. The shit-talking and the spending are the least of my worries with her. She’s had everything handed to her and I’m worried we’ve created an unkind, selfish monster.
“Earth to Rushmore…”
“What?” I answer Miles testily without breaking my stare.
Miles chuckles. “I’m offering you bug spray, man.”
I finally look over at him and he’s handing me a green bottle with childlike illustrations of bees and plants on it. “This is for babies,” I say.
He shrugs. “Yeah well, it works. Martha and the baby have turned me into a regular suburban dad—anything you need, I got with me at all times. Tylenol? Check. Tissues? Band-Aids? Sunscreen? Got you covered.”
I wince as I realize I’m surrounded by happy families.
This realization makes me wish I could start over. Can I do that at the age of 39? I wonder if I have time to turn around my relationship with Ridley. Or have another baby with someone. Or maybe I should just adopt, seeing as I hardly have the time or inclination to be a decent husband. Perhaps I’m not even capable of maintaining a steady relationship.
I take the bug spray and spritz myself. “Now I smell like an organic toddler,” I grunt, handing him his bug spray back.
This is why I stick to boardrooms, where I’m less likely to be reminded of what I’m missing in life. Mixing with the common folk is turning me into a complete sap, I think.
“Don’t look so sour. It was your idea to come here,” Miles remarks. “You couldn’t schedule a lunch meeting at Enzo’s?”
I answer him, but my eye
s remain on the playbill, making sure all the advertising for Rushmore Hospitality I signed off on has been put in place on the glossy pages. “I didn’t get where I am by expecting new clients to come to me. When I want something, I get off my ass and get it.” The inside of the cover features a four-color ad showing off the Ridley Hotel, named after my daughter in honor of her sixteenth birthday. The back page shows a black and white ad for the Bianca Inn. I grit my teeth every time I read or hear that name, but unfortunately I’m not legally allowed to change it, per the divorce decree.
“I hope this first act doesn’t take too long. I can dash over to have an impromptu meeting with Ford, get him to sign his name on the dotted line, and then I can get out of this crowd of people before anybody else notices me and asks for yet more favors,” I say. And Miles can go home and share the news about Ford with his wife, who is headmistress of the local private school, and their brand new baby, and I can go home to my peacefully quiet lake house for a scotch on the rocks on the bug-free, screened-in deck.
The stage lights go on. The semi-rowdy crowd quiets down, and the amateur orchestra begins the overture. The music is hokey and overly romantic, reminding me of why I never see musicals when I occasionally office in New York.
When the action begins, everything proceeds about how I would expect until something strange happens only a few minutes into the first act.
Eliza Doolittle happens. Or rather, the actress portraying Eliza Doolittle happens. My breath hitches. Something heavy drops onto my chest like a boulder falling from a cliff into the sea. It’s a certain kind of ache that isn’t totally unpleasant. And, why the hell are my palms sweating?
Is this … is this what sentimental people mean when it’s love at first sight? I don’t know, but like those people, whose stories I always suspected were phony, I have this strange, overwhelming urge to nudge Miles and say, “I’m going to marry that girl.”
2
Rushmore
I don’t like this.
Not because she’s bad, but because she’s that good—professional-level good. She’s so much better at acting and singing than anyone else in the company that she’s simply in another stratosphere.
When she sings, I feel as though she’s singing only to me. When rational thought takes hold again, I feel oddly jealous knowing that, in fact, she’s singing for everyone’s benefit.
I can’t believe I’m feeling things for a performance taking place in front of people mostly enjoying wine from aluminum cans. It’s ridiculous. I am utterly mesmerized.
And not just by her looks. Her cockney accent is perfection. Her comic timing is murdering the crowd, and this script isn’t all that funny. The crowd loves her. The spotlight loves her. She makes the other actors look better.
Everything about her radiates a passion for what she’s doing. She sells every single word.
I want to check the program to find out who she is, but I can’t take my eyes off her. Not for a second.