Stage Fright
Part One: Playing With Fire
Hannah Stoker, Emily Stanley and Joanne DeSoto were seated around a wooden table in the DeSoto kitchen, drinking decaffeinated coffee that was saturated with too much Sugar Twin and Rich's Coffee Rich. The tiny TV set on the counter was tuned to Days of Our Lives, but not one woman was paying attention.
"I brought each of you here because Station 51 was assigned to the L. A. County Fire Department's entertainment committee," Joanne began. "Obviously, our husbands - and that John Gage my husband hangs around with - cannot be trusted."
"Yeah, like the time Gage hired strippers dressed as elves to a kids' Christmas party," blurted Hannah. Everyone in Station 51's immediate circle knew too well that John Gage was capable of turning a family-friendly celebration into adult entertainment.
Emily added, "Hank would had shot him for that, but he didn't. I didn't let Angela and Lindsay see that rubbish. Charlie's Angels is more than what they should handle, thank you very much."
"Same here," agreed Joanne.
Hannah inhaled into her menthol Virginia Slims. Without a huff, she asked, "So, how are we going to make sure that those strippers won't make a repeat appearance at the Firefighters' Christmas Show? If Gage wants strippers, he can go to the Cococabana."
The Cococabana was notorious for its displays of naked flesh and open prostitution. Though John Gage would never pick up a hooker, he would go to the Cococabana for its round-the-clock peep shows after another nurse or stewardess told him to find new dating material.
Joanne took her Bic pen from the space between the top of her ear and her cropped dark hair. She wrote something on an opened notepad lying in front of her. Emily sipped into more of the overly saccharined coffee, while Hannah inhaled into her cigarette some more. Neither Joanne nor Emily smoked, but they didn't mind when other people around them did. Then, Joanne spoke up.
"Roy used to be a singer in the high school barber shop choir," she said. "I think he should join a few other firemen on stage, singing old fashioned Christmas songs." Joanne began singing a few lines of Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer when Emily stopped her.
"You weren't cut out to be Tammy Wynette," she cried, distracting Joanne.
"And none of the men were ever cut out to be singers, period," laughed Hannah, putting her cigarette in the ashtray. She remembered too well that all the firefighters - except Roy, who wisely bowed out - entered a barber shop contest a few years earlier. It was taken for granted that the men would turn into competent singers after two weeks of practice. Unfortunately, their rusty, off-key singing voices got worse with practice, and the only recognition they received at the Firemen's Picnic was one for Best Comedy Act - not exactly what the barber shop quintet was looking for.
Joanne continued, "Well, it's not like anyone around here is auditioning for The Tonight Show, or even some cheesy amateur hour on TV."
"But the entire thing has to look good, you know."
Jennifer DeSoto, who had been staying home from school because of a bad cold, pitter-pattered quietly into the kitchen. Dressed in her pink bathrobe, matching flowered pajama pants and Minnie Mouse slippers, she opened the refrigerator door, which was decorated with drawings she brought home from school. She took out a large, heavy pitcher containing orange juice, holding it awkwardly in both her hands. Her mother turned around, frightened.
"Jenny," she cried, "no-no! That pitcher is too heavy for you! Let mommy pour you some juice -"
Too late. Jennifer's hands were too tiny to support the pitcher, which shattered on the floor. Glass of various shapes, sizes and degrees of sharpness were lying atop a sticky pool of pulp, water and orange. And Jennifer was standing behind it, with tears falling from her brown eyes. She was crying: "Mommy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to break the pitcher."
Still seated on the chair, Joanne looked at the mess with dismay. "It costs a lot of money to buy orange juice," she said matter-of-factly, while remaining tactful with her daughter. "But I can make you another one right now." Jennifer nodded, her tears slowly disappearing from her face, and her drooping mouth now shaping itself into a small smile.
Joanne stood up, and after meticulously sweeping the sharp mess into the dustpan, she took another pitcher from the cupboard. Another pitcher of orange juice was made, with Joanne using a canister of Minute Maid she found in the freezer. In the meantime, Emily and Hannah were discussing plans for the show.
"Do you have an old Christmas tree at home," Emily asked. "We'll definitely need it."
"Yeah, but it's one of those aluminum trees Mike bought us the year we married," replied Hannah. "He plans to throw it out - he says they catch fire. Besides, Susan nearly poked her eyes out with one of its branches."
"I want a pink tree," blurted out Jennifer, who now held her cup of orange juice. She put it on the counter briefly, so she could blow her nose into a paper towel she tore from the holder.
"You will get a pink tree, honey," said Joanne. "Now, get some sleep. Santa's going to give you something really nice this year if you stay a good girl."
"A Ballerina Barbie doll?! Alright!!!" And the once-lethargic Jennifer darted away, her orange juice dripping out of the plastic cup and onto the floor.
Joanne shook her head. "Kids," she said. "It makes you wonder whether they really are sick or they're trying to play hooky. Roy and I did when we were in the Fourth Grade, and Miss Duxbury caught us kissing behind the basement door." The other firefighters' wives laughed.
*****
Joanne, Emily and Hannah continued their meeting into the night, since they did not expect their husbands to come home from work until eight the next morning. At about a quarter to six, Christopher DeSoto raced out of the cool darkness and into the warmth of his home.
"Chris, you should had been home an hour ago," his mother said. "It's dangerous to be out in the dark by yourself."
"I went over to Brice's to help him with his times tables. He's been having problems with math at school."
Christopher threw his schoolbooks onto the couch on which Jennifer had been sleeping - fitfully because of her stuffy nose and sore throat. Jennifer suddenly awoke, somehow feeling the books fall on her legs. She was upset.
"Don't throw your stupid books on me, you blockhead," she cried. "How would you like it if I threw my books on your head?"
"Your Dr. Seuss books wouldn't hurt a fly, sucky baby!" Chris DeSoto's pale, lightly freckled face became twisted with a clownish smile and saucer-like eyes. "Mommy's gonna give Jenny-Poo a bottle. Mommy's gonna change Jenny-Poo's stinky diapers. Mommy's gonna wipe boogers off Jenny-Poo's red nose. If it gets any redder, you'll look like Rudolph -"
"THAT'S ENOUGH, CHRISTOPHER!" Joanne DeSoto was angry. "Apologize to your sister."
"No way. She gets to stay home from school and I can't." Christopher coughed and sneezed with much effort.
His mother was able to tell the difference between an Oscar performance and the excuses for acting she'd see in Chet Kelly's favorite movies. "I don't think you're really that sick," she cried. "Now, apologize to Jennifer."
"Oh, alright," sighed Christopher, before he told his sister that he was sorry. His apology sounded labored, like he said something that everyone else in the DeSoto house wanted to hear.
But, of course, Jennifer wasn't stupid enough to accept his fake excuses. "Go away," she sniffled, before burying her head fitfully into Mr. Peeples' arms. Joanne walked into the living room, sitting beside Jennifer as she sniffled quietly to sleep. Then, in the din of The Gong Show showing on TV in full blast, Joanne heard the telephone on the end table ring. She picked up the receiver: "Hello?"
"Hi, Joanne. It's Roy." That was Roy DeSoto, who was avoiding John Gage's dinner of overcooked spaghetti covered with meat sauce that was probably manufactured during the Kennedy Administration. "The Cap told me that you girls are in the show's entertainment committee. How's it going?"
"Oh, it's going alright," his wife replied. "The Stokers are planning to use that aluminum tree they have in storage."
Roy's calm, self-assured voice rose slightly. "Joanne, you know that aluminum trees are dangerous," he cried. "We don't want to look like hypocrites by using those things when we ban them from school plays and Scout talent shows."
"Well, back to the old drawing board on this one," Joanne sighed. "Have you men decided what you'll do at the show? The kids are already committed to their version of A Charlie Brown Christmas."
"Not yet," said Roy. "But Chet's been bugging Johnny and me a lot lately. He wants to - get this - eat fire on stage, like those guys on TV."
Joanne's eyes turned saucer-like with surprise. "Fire-eating?! Is Chet finally out of his mind," she cried.
"Big time." The klaxon could be heard from the apparatus bay, where the squad truck and the engine rested. Nervously, Roy concluded, "I have to get going, Joanne. Talk to you later. Bye."
"Bye, honey." And Joanne hung up, shaking her head. Chet Kelly, like Johnny Gage, was capable of doing crazy things during a Christmas show. Once, he appeared on stage as Chester the Magician, who billed himself as the "Greatest Disappearing Act on Earth." All he was capable of doing was anything as close to true bodily harm as he could get, even trying to saw Dixie McCall in two. Good thing Dixie cried out for help before Chester the Magician made another appearance - in Death Row.
Joanne turned to Hannah, who walked into the living room with a glass of Diet Pepsi. "I just spoke to Roy," she began. "Chet Kelly wants to eat fire on stage."
Hannah looked into Emily's, then Joanne's, face. That Chet had finally lost it.
After two more hours Joanne, Emily and Hannah finally adjourned their meeting. They decided that Chet would eat fire on stage, as long as he didn't do it after A Charlie Brown Christmas. After all, Jennifer was afraid of fire - and she would play Lucy in the Station 51 version of the popular TV special.
*****
Joanne laid in her bed that night with the TV set in front of her tuned to Johnny Carson. During Carson's monologue, Joanne's mind became cluttered with thoughts about the Christmas show. The kids, of course, would be singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. Nothing wrong with that - five of the six A-shift firefighters at Station 51 were raised as Catholics. But what about those Los Angeles County firefighters who weren't even raised as Christians? Joanne knew that five men from other Station 51 shifts were Jewish, two were Muslims, and a few didn't believe in God. Roy, who was an altar boy at his church until the seventh grade, was not particularly religious as an adult and regarded Christmas as a secular time of Santa Claus-like giving rather than a religious celebration of Jesus' birth.
Joanne closed her dark brown eyes. She considered religion a non-issue, despite the possibility of offending non-Christian audiences. Nothing on this planet was truly non-offensive, she thought, reflecting on the wall-to-wall violence she saw on Saturday morning cartoons. Christopher and Jennifer were de-sensitized to The Three Stooges' nose-tweaking and bonking-on-the-head, the Coyote's abortive attempts to make the Road Runner his next supper (succeeding only in keeping Acme in business), and Yosemite Sam's gun-happy ways.
That didn't make things easier for Joanne, who did her best to inform her children and the girls at the 36th Carson Brownie Scout Troop about television violence. But her best wasn't always good enough in a society that glorified the violence portrayed on Warner Brothers cartoons and grown-up shows such as Charlie's Angels and Starsky and Hutch. Not that they were bad shows, just shows that gave Christopher and Jennifer the wrong ideas of what the world was all about.
Then, Joanne's mind became refocused - on Chet's stunt. Joanne pulled the bedsheets off her mannish, wiry frame. She walked to the TV set and turned it off during Carson's commercial break, then stepped quietly into the dark hall. She opened Christopher's bedroom door, and smiled at him as he slumbered through the night - he was usually up at this hour, either reading a comic book under the flashlight or watching Johnny Carson or Merv Griffin well after his 10 p.m. TV curfew. I hope you won't turn fire into the fifth food group, Joanne thought, before closing the door. She knew that Christopher and his friends Scott Brice, Jeremy Kelly and Ricky Lopez would sing Kiss-type versions of Christmas songs during the show.
Two of Captain Stanley's four children were in high school, and his eldest son was an aspiring musician who spent his entire bi-weekly paycheck to buy an expensive electric guitar. But every rock group needed a gimmick, and Chris suggested buying firecrackers for his act - much to Roy DeSoto's chagrin.
"Yeah, and burn the place down," he had exclaimed over dinner a few nights earlier. "This is Christmas, not the Fourth of July. And I'll never let you play with firecrackers - they're not toys."
"How about sewing a cow's tongue in my mouth," suggested Christopher.
"Ugh, gross," cried Jennifer.
"Sorry, Chris, but that wasn't part of my paramedic training," Roy commented. "And, why do rock stars wear makeup and stick out their tongues? Whatever happened to nice, clean rock stars like Bobby Darin? Even Elvis looked like a human being."
"They're dead," blurted Chris.
"The King of Rock and Roll ate too many peanut butter sandwiches," added his sister. "I'll never eat them again. I don't want to die at 42."
Chris gave Jennifer a devilish grin, saying, "Well, I can make them right now and make you eat them. Little sisters are useless, anyway."
Before she caught her cold, Jennifer DeSoto proved to be anything but - at least, to Joanne and the rest of the entertainment committee. Though she was a Brownie Scout, she was working on her Junior Scout drama and hostess badges, and cooked fudge brownies and coconut squares for the audience to eat during intermission. All Chris had done was eat most of the brownies she stored in the refrigerator, sharing the rest with Scott and Jeremy during practice. Fortunately, Susan and Lisa Stoker made a new batch of brownies for the DeSotos - and kept them safely out of Chris' reach in their mother's fridge.
Well, it could be worse, Joanne thought, as she sat next to Jennifer on the couch. It could have been that future con artist named Sally Gage who ate the brownies. Joanne hadn't exactly forgiven Sally since she lured her kids into the Los Angeles Dump, which had caught fire and burned Jennifer's feet last spring. Joanne stroked Jennifer's idle long dark hair, thankful that she was still alive. Suffering a cold, yes, but alive.
A knock on the door interrupted her reverie. Who would be up at this hour? She looked at the clock that sat on the end table near the window. It was 15 minutes after midnight. Joanne shook her head in disbelief and started towards the front door. Turning on the lights in the front foyer, she then slid the door open - and, sure enough, it was John Gage's niece at the doorway.
"Speaking of the devil," said Joanne, looking at her bespectacled young visitor with dismay. "Don't you know that you kids aren't supposed to be out of the house after 11 o'clock?"
Sally stepped into the house, trying to keep herself warm. Her fleece windbreaker proved useless for the 50-degree temperature that befell Los Angeles County. Joanne closed the door behind Sally, although her delicately chiseled face displayed a translucent caveat against her being in the house.
"Curfew, schmurfew," smirked Sally, closing her thin arms in front of her chest. Then, she mimicked a television announcer's pre-11 o'clock news question: "It's 11 o'clock, do you know where your children are?" Her words inflected sarcasm against the adult world's seemingly harsh restrictions against the freedoms she thought that young people should have. Like staying up late to watch the late show, or not having to go to school at all. Sally was smart, very smart, but balked at the thought of going to school at eight in the morning and going to bed at nine each night. After all, Uncle Johnny didn't have to go to school, and he could certainly stay out until the wee hours of the morning. He didn't need some invisible TV guy to remind him that he's supposed to be home after a certain time. Why should a nine-year-old girl be any different?
"Did that uncle of yours teach you how to break curfew," asked Joanne DeSoto. "What's next? He'll let you drive his Land Rover before you're old enough to get your drivers' license?"
Sally Gage remained silent. Uncle Johnny was known to let his niece get away with watching R-rated rubbish such as Soilent Green on a school night, despite the 9 p.m. curfew. It was a wonder that she brought home straight A's on her report card.
"Okay, wise guy. What brings you here at this hour?"
"It's Chet," announced her little visitor. "He's about to rehearse for that show that you're having."
Joanne rolled her eyes back in disbelief. She only hoped that Chet Kelly would do anything short of burning Station 51 down - and a fire at a firehouse always ended up near the end of a newscast. Like a story involving a little old lady from Pasadena who won a surfing contest, or a Boy Scout who, instead of helping an old man walk across the street, mugged him for nickels to support his pinball habit. Not exactly Scout’s Honor by any stretch of the imagination.
And Chet Kelly was probably not a normal person by any stretch of the imagination, either. Otherwise, he would be in bed, or watching Johnny Carson during their midnight snacks.
*****
A crowd of people – men wearing bathrobes and pajama pants, women wearing overcoats and nightgowns, children wearing Superman or Wonder Woman nightwear with matching slippers – huddled against the back door of Station 51. The parking lot across from it was well lit, and the barbecue was fired up for the free hamburgers and hot dogs that John Gage and Roy DeSoto were cooking for the crowd.
"And so I thought that most of your ideas were absolutely nuts," began Roy, who politely slipped a well-done wiener onto a toasted hot dog roll. "I mean, I haven’t been slogging hamburgers and hot dogs in public since I was in high school."
John, who was checking the meat on the grill, gave his partner his usual crooked grin. "Maybe you should apply for a job at McDonald’s," he chided. "They’re always hiring guys like you."
"Ha, ha. Very funny, Junior." Roy thought that his days as a burger flipper were numbered back in 1962, the year he graduated from high school and joined the Army. "Now, this idea is nuts! I'm saving up for Chris and Jenny's college education. I wish I went to college, but my folks couldn't afford it."
"I can see Sally becoming the first person from my family to go to college," smiled John Gage. "I only wish that she doesn't get caught selling swampland before then."
Both John and Roy knew that Sally was capable of playing confidence games on people who weren't as intelligent and worldly as she was. The fall Sally moved from rural South Dakota to Los Angeles County, John was called to her school after she was caught selling cigarettes to students at a nearby junior high school. She had stolen cartons of Salems, Virginia Slims and Marlboros from Captain Stanley's, the Stokers' and her Aunt Linda's homes, then discarded the containers and sold the cigarettes for two cents each. Sally made a tidy 15 dollar profit from the sales of these cheap smokes, but had to give the money to her principal before she was suspended for three days.
Chet Kelly joined the paramedics at the barbecue. "Mmmm-mmm, look at those weenies," he said. "I bet that nobody around here knows what they put into these things, Gage."
"Everybody knows what they put in these things," cried John Gage, who suddenly gave the annoying Chet a dirty look. "Pork tongues and intestines in sodium nitrate and smoke! Now, get lost!"
"Sorry." And Chet turned away, taking a wooden baton from the barbecue cart.
Roy DeSoto could hardly believe his eyes when, in the parking lot of Station 51, a Ford Pinto station wagon stopped between his Chevy pick-up and Johnny's prized Land Rover. In the car were Joanne, the kids - and Sally Gage!!! They were dressed in nightclothes, and stepping wearily out of the tiny car.
"You wait right over here, kids," cried Joanne, who raced towards her husband and Johnny. "What is the big idea letting that Chet make a fool of himself in public?"
"You know what happened last time," argued her husband, who slipped a hamburger patty on another toasted bun. "At least, he won't try to saw Dixie in two."
"But he's trying to commit suicide in front of a hundred people! I can't even believe that a lot of parents would let their kids see it!"
Roy looked into his wife's face assuredly. He said, "Chet's done this before, remember?"
"Maybe." Joanne remembered that he pulled that crazy stunt off once before, the first year that Johnny and Roy were partners at Station 51. "But it still doesn't make it right."
"Well, it could be worse," blurted Johnny Gage. "It could be Roy and I wearing red and white suits, matching hats and canes."
"Oh, shut your trap, Gage!"
Roy gave John, then Joanne, his sly smile. He suggested, "Maybe Johnny and I could be emcees for the Christmas show. We were practicing our song and dance numbers before all this."
Standing beside each other, Johnny and Roy broke into a song and proceeded to dance to the barbershop versions of Here Comes Santa Claus and Mambo Santa Mambo, distracting Chet’s following. They turned towards the singing paramedics, while Chet found himself swallowing fire without an audience.
"Mmmm, good fire," he proclaimed, before adding, "needs tabasco sauce." Then, Chet quickly reached for a glass of water that stood on a folding table next to him: "This makes Marco's five-alarm chili taste bland in comparison."
Roy shook his head. Ignoring the audience's claps and cheers, he said, "That man's finally lost his marbles."
"And so, we tell kids not to play with matches," added his partner and friend. "Now, Joanne, can we invite showgirls dressed as Santa's helpers?"
Joanne stood in front of the barbecue, her mouth agape, her brain trying to focus on her next move. Proceed with caution… Captain Stanley stood quietly next to her. He shook his head and buried it in his hands, dreading what was to come. "What is McConnike going to think," he mumbled.
to be continued in Part Two: Dress Rehearsal
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