Where the devil is my Pulitzer? Here I am, slaving away in New York, writing humor columns week after week—where’s the the fame? Where’s the glory? Where’s the money? Where is the Pulitzer prize? I ask you, gentle reader, if a columnist at the Noo-Yawk Times can win a Pulitzer for writing about Monica Lewinsky, then I should get at least three for my coverage of decapitation experiments performed on my sister’s Barbie.
Really.
I’m also waiting for a Tony and an Oscar, but tragically my most recent award was the “Good Citizen” merit badge I got in the eighth grade. Nonetheless, I have an exciting piece of news—I am a shoe-in for the Dotty Howard Center Stage Award.
What is the Dotty Howard Center Stage Award, you ask? Well, here in New York I’m a member of the Blue Hill Troupe, an amature opera company that performs Gilbert & Sullivan operettas every year for a local charities. This year, the operetta is H.M.S. Pinafore and I play a sailor in the chorus. I would explain the plot to you, except that it is long, confusing, doesn’t involve me much, and suffice it to say, has quite a few bald-faced fat ladies that sing rather loudly.
The Dotty Howard Center Stage Award is presented in honor of a certain member of the Troupe named—well, I’m not one to name names. Let’s just say that her initials are Dotty Howard. Dotty is the Norma “”MAX!” Desmond of the Blue Hill Troupe. A divorcé, Dotty is of a “certain age” and given to wearing leopard print on a regular basis. And in every Blue Hill Troupe production she manages to be center stage, regardless of the plot, her role, or hair-pulling by the director, conductor, choreographer, and stage manager.
Center stage is her reason for being, her role in life, and her raison d’etre (that’s French for “raisin cookie”). Dotty’s draw to center stage is that of a moth to the flame, peanut butter to jelly, Bill Clinton to a big-haired redneck. The Dotty Howard award, by association, is given to that chorus member who exhibits a similar pull. Usually, the winner of the award is Dotty Howard herself.
But this year I’m going to win that award because my partner is non other than, bum, bum, BUM, Dotty Howard. And as her partner, I am generally slightly left of center stage. But when we ran our first dress rehearsal in the theatre, lo, a cruel twist of fate occurred: Dotty was blocked by “Little Buttercup,” who isn’t nearly as small as her name might imply.
First Dotty tried to get Buttercup to move with a subtle, “Get out of my light, darling!” But as Buttercup has a speaking part, is important to the plot development, and is not of a size to be pushed around easily, she stood her ground. Foiled and still in the dark, Dotty realized that I had a straight line of sight to the audience, though slightly left of center stage.
Thus on opening night, she stood in my spot. My spot! The spot I’d been working in for eight months. The outrage! The ignominy! And now I, me, your intrepid New York correspondent, was behind the considerable behind of “Little Buttercup.”
The director suggested I stand my ground the next night. So at the opening of Act II, sailor Morgan stood in his rightful spot, to the left of Big Buttercup. This did not a happy Dotty make. “Move to the right!” she said, smiling sweetly.
I smiled at the audience and continued my singing.
“Move right, Morgan,” Dotty said a bit louder, though still under her breath.
I stood my ground.
Suddenly, with a tremendous shove I found myself in the gaping yaw of Buttercup’s shadow, which itself weighs 40 pounds. Still smiling, Dotty-the-shover was in my spot.
Thus began a long fight over The Spot. Night after night, the same infuriating shoves and smiling admonitions from Dotty to “move to the right.” Some nights she’d get my spot. Some nights she’d simply stand in front of me.
It became almost more than a man can stand. Many of my fellow chorus members had been former partners with Dotty and offered advice: “Shove her into the orchestra pit!”; “Yell ‘Diva overboard!’ and throw her into the audience!”; “Kill her backstage and the 400 witnesses will never testify.”; “Have Buttercup sit on her.”
But my mama raised me right and in my family we have very strong rules about not shoving divas into the orchestra pit. So I resisted, but felt mighty low and bruised (on the left side of my body), there in the void behind Little Buttercup.
Then something wonderful happened: the director took pity on me. “Morgan,” he said, “At the end of the show when you take your bow, I want you to drop Dotty’s hand and walk to center stage. We’ll have a spotlight waiting and Buttercup will run interference to make sure you get there.”
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said with an evil gleam in his eyes, “I’m not going to tell Dotty.”
I’ve got few claw marks and my bow was interrupted by a hiss that suspisciously came from my partner’s direction, but as the next receipient of the Dotty Howard award I can tell you: it was worth it.
Postscript: Dotty Howard’s role was played by the lovely and dear Sunny Hayward. Still adore you, even though I wrote this most uncharitable column in South Alabama in 1999.
