An Affair Remembered

"The last time I checked,you were not the director of this little shindig!" he snapped sharply. I'd had about enough of his arrogance. I came to my feet and faced him squarely.

"And, the last timeI checked,Sir, you allowed creative license for your actors to play the scenes as they see fit during your cold readings.Then you offer your critique and direction," I stubbornly pointed out. My admonishment set him back on his heels and an uncomfortable silence settled over the other cast members as they waited breathlessly for his response.

We glared at one another for a long moment. Marc clearly was not accustomed to having his authority challenged. Neither of our stares wavered. At last, he turned sharply on his heel and said, "Fine! Go ahead then. Let's just see how badly you fuck-up this whole scene." He flopped down on the edge of a straight-backed chair and obstinately folded his arms across his chest.

I had succeeded in making my point and I calmly settled back into my former position on the risers. I glanced at Gwen who was staring wide-eyed at me. I nodded to her and she began reading from her script.

The moment I opened my mouth to begin my first monologue, the audience roared with laughter. My natural southern drawl was exaggerated only slightly and it added to the authenticity of the scene. By the end of my delivery, some of the others were wiping tears from their eyes and holding their bellies. Marc leaned forward on his seat, looking a bit sheepish.

The entire audience stood and clapped at the close of the scene. Marc silenced them instantly with a wave of his hand. He nodded and said, "I'm impressed. You didn't miss a single cue. This, ladies and gentlemen, is how you conduct a cold reading. It's one of the best I've seen lately. Let's take a ten-minute break," he suggested after looking at his watch.

I eyed him discretely as he opened his briefcase and pulled another script from it. I was nodding and smiling as the other cast members gathered around me to congratulate us on the success of our scene. Marc turned and called out to me from across the room, "A word with you, please?"

I approached him cautiously with my gaze lowered to the floor. "Yes, sir?"

"I thought you said you've never acted before," he murmured under his breath as he pretended to be looking over the new script with me. "You seem to enjoy making a fool of me at every possible opportunity, don't you?" he accused.

I shook my head still staring blankly at the pages he held in front of him. "For your edification, I'll repeat, I've never acted before, and I don't enjoy you making a fool of yourself."

"Did you really memorize that script in five minutes?"

I nodded silently.

"Has anyone ever told you that you have an absolutely gorgeous set of legs?" he asked in a whisper as he leaned his head a bit closer to mine.

"You're supposed to be paying attention to my acting, not my legs,or my ass," I scolded.

"I'll be sure to take that under advisement," he murmured before raising his voice again as someone approached. "I think you will find this scene much more challenging," he said loudly.

"Robert, this is Cindy. She's going to be your new partner. Cindy, this is Robert. I'd appreciate it if you could find some time to rehearse this scene with him. We film in six weeks. See what you two can do with this." He thrust the script into my hands and hurried away.

When the break was over, Gwen and I were seated in the audience, observing while Marc directed and critiqued other scenes and actors. The standing rule was, when you were a spectator, there was to be complete silence.

Marc stopped his pacing and stood only an arm's length away with his back turned to us. I couldn't help but notice there were small bits of some white, foreign matter all over the seat of his otherwise indigo designer jeans.

Being terribly nearsighted, I couldn't quite make out what the fragments were. I frowned and squinted at his ass. Gwen leaned towards me and whispered behind the script she was holding, "He does have a nice ass, doesn't he?"

I rolled my eyes and whispered back, "I wasn't checking out his ass, Gwen. Whatis that all over the back of his jeans?"

Gwen also squinted before she shrugged at me as if to say, "I don't know." She began to giggle quietly. "Just reach up and brush it off," she urged in a whisper. "I dare you!"

I scowled and mouthed the word, "No!" at her. After thinking for a moment, I nudged her and whispered with a wicked grin, "You do it! He already hates me. He doesn't need another reason."

Gwen was about to take me up on my challenge when Marc snapped his head around and gave us a withering look to silence our discussion. Gwen jerked her hand back in time not to be caught in the act, but when he turned away again, she burst into a fit of giggles. That was enough to set me off as well. We were both extremely tired and bored. Our laughter seemed to relieve some of the end of the day stress we both felt.

Once again, Marc spun around and glared at us. We both instantly went silent and composed ourselves under his demonic stare. Satisfied he had quelled the uprising, he turned to face the stage again while one of the small fragments detached itself and floated to the floor near my feet. I quietly leaned forward and picked it from the carpet. I examined it closely and discovered it was a tiny, white feather.

I held it out to Gwen for her to see. "What is it?" she mouthed silently at me.

"Feathers," I mouthed back and shrugged. At that point, we had attracted the attention of the other spectators around us. Gwen suddenly grabbed her stomach and bent double as tears of mirth streamed down her cheeks.

Someone tapped my shoulder and asked in a whisper, "What the hell is that?"

Before I could respond, Marc whirled around to face us.

"Ladies, you are disrupting the entire class!" he bellowed loudly. "Perhaps you would care to share with the rest of us exactly what is so amusing? Before I dismiss youpermanently from my workshop, that is," he threatened. Gwen sprang to her feet and ran from the studio, howling with laughter. In her wake, a quiet wave of suppressed laughter rippled through the entire crowd.

"Silence!" he bellowed as he rapped an ink pen sharply against the metal frame of one chair. He scanned the room to see exactly who was laughing at our private joke. "I'll eject the next person who interrupts this lecture!" he gravely warned.

I tossed my script on Gwen's empty chair and came to my feet.

"Oh, for God's sake, Marc," I loudly chastised him. "Stop being such an ass! Must you always take everything so seriously?" I asked as I stumbled past my fellow performers and boldly approached him.

Marc looked completely at a loss for words as I twirled my finger in a circular motion in front of him.

"Turn around, Maestro," I mocked him gently.

He did as I directed, still looking dazed by my request. Upon closer investigation, I discovered feathers not only on his jeans, but on his shirt and in his hair, as well.

"What the hell are you doing?" he gasped sharply as I ran my hands over his ass while attempting to brush away the feathers. He craned his neck, peering over his shoulder at me.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Micheli. I wasn't trying to molest you. You have feathers all over you."

"Feathers?!!" he demanded.

"Yes,feathers!" I repeated as I removed one from his hair and held it up to prove my point.

"Now, just be still while I pluck you! This won't hurt a bit, I promise." A roar of laughter rumbled through the spectators. To avoid his anticipated ire, several people rushed to follow Gwen outside where they could freely laugh at his expense.

Even Marc looked somewhat amused when I took him by the shoulders and turned him to face me. I brushed the feathers from his shirt collar and began removing several from his hair as I looked up into his face with my eyes twinkling.

"What have you been doing, Maestro, practicing your dance moves to 'Shake a Tail-feather'? Playing Duck, Duck Goose... Sleeping Single in a Feather Bed..." I razzed him as I burst into laughter.

"Are you quite finished?"

"Do you mean plucking you, or teasing you? Now, you know I couldn't possibly ever let you live this down."

"Deidre bought new throw pillows for the couch. I took a nap before I came in tonight. The pillows must be shedding."

"New pillows don't normally shed like this. In any case, may I say it has been distinctly all my pleasure to ruffle your feathers a little tonight?" I continued teasing in a soft voice. "Hold still and let me get them out of your hair, Maestro."

Someone repeated the title I gave him. "Maestro!" they snorted. It was followed by quiet chuckles from the spectators. He cast them another scathing look meant to silence them.

"Will you please stop calling me that?"

"Well, you have to admit, Maestro, it's a little difficult for anyone to take you too seriously as a director when you look like Howard the Duck. There! I think that's most of them. I'm finished plucking you, now."

"Thank you," he reluctantly puffed at me. He looked around at the others and called loudly, "Break's over!"

As people began to filter back to their seats, he turned to me and said, "Would you do me a big favor? Take your sidekick with you and get the hell out of my class for tonight...and, send me a cup of coffee when you get back to the office."

"I'll do better than that. I'll bring it to you personally, Maestro," I said as tossed my head at Gwen. "Let's go, friend! I think we've been temporarilyejected," I snorted with contempt.

Over the next few days, I received impromptu visits from some of the talent who had been present that night. John was one of my visitors. John was a scholarship student who attended classes and workshops for free. In exchange, he acted as an assistant to Marc and James, performing tedious jobs like cameraman, stagehand, or all-around gopher.

John stuck his head in my office door the following day and said, "Hey, boss-lady! How's it going?"

"Good, John. How about you?" I asked as I gave him a smile.

"I just had to stop by and tell you how much everybody likes having you in the workshop. That thing with Marc last night was priceless! And just so you know, that whole 'Maestro' thing has really stuck!Everybody is calling him 'Maestro' now," he laughed.

My mouth curled with amusement. "You guys be careful. You know how he is with all that male ego he totes around," I warned.

"That's what makes it so funny; a little thing like you 'plucking' Marc while he just stood there and let you do it!" John doubled over cackling with glee. "Howard the Duck! Now,that was funny! I've never seen anyone put Marc in his place like you do." He tapped the door casing with his fingers and said, "Hey, I gotta run. See you next Monday, boss!"

*****

It turned out that Robert, my newly appointed acting partner, was a commercial actor by prior experience. He was an older man, soft spoken to the point that his lack of projection was a problem in his attempt at pursuing a career in acting. After performing several cold readings with him in private, I discovered his heavy Spanish accent caused him to stumble over some of the English phrases in the script. I promised to devote as much time as I could to reading with him before his scheduled film date.

For the next few weeks, Robert and I met to rehearse his script. He came to my office during my lunch hour each day, and we both attended Marc's workshops every Monday evening. I even met him on my nights off to coach him while we sipped coffee at a local diner. Somehow, I simply couldn't make Robert understand the tone and basis of the script.

The storyline was based on the life of Italian crime-syndicate boss, Charlie 'Lucky' Luciano. The scene depicted a heated dispute between Luciano and his girlfriend who was a known prostitute. It was a vivid portrayal of passionate lust and anger. Robert's mild nature didn't seem to allow him to deliver the level of emotional display required for the scene.

After several weeks of unsuccessful endeavors to coach Robert, I took my concerns to Marc. I delivered a cup of hot, black coffee as I usually did on Monday nights, and I broached the subject of my concern. The participants were already arriving early for the workshop.

Marc and I had very little contact since the night of the feather incident. Sometimes, our eyes would meet across the room, or I would catch him looking at me when I walked down the halls, but other than that, we had exchanged little conversation since then.

"Marc, the scene with Robert just isn't working," I complained as I handed over his coffee.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked sounding mildly interested.

"Everything! It would be easier to tell you whatisn't a problem," I sniffed indignantly. "He doesn't understand the script. He stumbles over the dialogue and his delivery is flat...completely monotone. He has no projection, and he follows me around like a stray puppy looking for a foster-home!" I gushed in exasperation. "I'vetried to tell him how the scene should be played, but he doesn't listen. I can't play off someone who reads like a statue, Marc. This scene needs passion, and Robert is about as passionate as a mealworm," I huffed.

"You've been giving Robertdirection?" he asked. I nodded silently. "I thought we had an understanding. I'm the director. You are the Center Director. You've admitted you don't know how to act. What right do you have to direct one of my cast members?" he countered with an angry tone.

"I came to you about this two weeks ago, Marc. You wouldn't even bother to listen to him read. It might surprise you to know, he hasn't seriously attempted to memorize the script yet. But, you would know all thatif you had listened to him read.

"I've tried to help you and Robert both, but he isn't getting it, andyou don't seem to give a shit! I can tell you this; I'mnot, I repeatnot, filming this scene with him, Marc. I mean it! You either do something about him, or I'm out of the acting program," I threatened. "I'll tell you like you told me...justdo your fucking job, Maestro!" I hissed at him before I stomped away.

I sullenly took a seat and pouted while the remaining cast members slowly drifted in. Marc didn't look in my direction again until he called the workshop to order. Only then did he pay any attention to me whatsoever.

"Robert!" he snapped loudly. Robert came to his feet and sprang to attention. "You and Cindy will begin reading tonight. Stage center! Now!" he demanded as he looked my way.

Robert gallantly placed a chair in the center of the stage where I was to sit during the beginning of our scene. I was stiffly composed as I sat waiting for Robert to read his opening lines. Marc watched intently as Robert began to read in a monotone voice directly from the script. He was only three sentences into his part when Marc leaped from his chair and began shouting and waving his arms in the air.

"Wait! Stop! This hasgot to be theworst reading I've ever witnessed! This scene ishot, Robert. Do you know what that means?" he demanded. Robert shook his head and stared silently at the stage floor.

"It means it haspassion! It has anger and lust and emotional turmoil! You've hadfive weeks to memorize these lines, and here you are still reading from the script! There's no excuse for that. Give me your script!" he commanded as he snatched the pages from Robert's hand.

"All of you take a seat and be quiet for five minutes while I study these lines," he ordered. I watched as he quickly read through the scene. You could hear a pin drop in the studio while he studied. He stuffed the script into his back pocket, took a deep breath and began reciting the lines as he turned towards me.

His tone was emotionally charged with energy. Without any prompting, I responded with the appropriate lines and he suddenly stalked across the stage towards me. Before I knew his intentions, he grabbed me by my upper arms and yanked me to my feet. The chair beneath me fell backwards making a loud crash against the wooden stage floor.

His face was flushed and he looked livid as he gave me a firm shake. His fingers digging into the flesh on my arms actually hurt. I gasped with total surprise as the air rushed from me and he spewed angry words in my face. I was panting when he unexpectedly pressed a kiss upon my lips. I parted my own lips slightly and his tongue harshly invaded my mouth.

His grip on my arms slackened as I responded. He encircled my waist with one arm, and cradled my neck with the other. I melted in his arms while I pressed myself against his chest for support. It left no doubt that I enjoyed him kissing me.

I heard a gasp from the audience and someone whispered, "Holy shit, that's hot!"

I was completely breathless when, at last, he released me and held me at arm's length for a moment while our eyes met. He abruptly turned on his heel and tossed the script at Robert's feet as he stalked away.

"That's how you play this scene!" he declared loudly as he stormed away to the restroom. The room erupted into a soft applause as he slammed the door shut.

I stumbled awkwardly from the stage and whispered to Gwen, "Tell Marc I had to go close the office."

She nodded and placed one hand on my arm. "Are you alright?" she asked sounding worried.

"I'm fine. I've got to go. I have some work to catch up on," I said dully.

I walked briskly to the other end of the business complex where my office was located. I was still breathless when I swept through the reception area and barked at Penelope, my secretary, "Hold my calls. I don't want to be disturbed."

*****

My head ached and I was on the verge of tears when I closed my office door behind me. I was disturbed by the public scene which had played out between Marc and myself. As much as I argued the point, technically Iwas Marc's boss; that made any personal relationship between us unwise, if not impossible. What I allowed Marc to do was unethical in more ways than one.

I partially blamed the emotional turmoil I felt on the sixteen-hour days I kept. I was exhausted. There was no doubt about that. Months of living on four hours or less of sleep per night, and gallons of coffee by day, was taking its toll. There was no doubt I loved my job, but it was highly stressful. I needed to unwind, to relax, I told myself.

It was well past my normal 'quitting time' anyway; or as the working class referred to it, it was long past 'Bud-thirty', meaning the cocktail hour. I shed the blazer I was wearing and tossed it over the back of my executive chair. Then, I removed the pins from my hair and gave it a shake.

I opened the small refrigerator between mine and Richard's desks and removed one of the bottles of champagne I kept there. According to Richard, any hour past 6 p.m. was officially 'the cocktail hour' and I was free to indulge myself without fear of jeopardizing my job. His only rule in that regard was that we were not to allow the students and talent to imbibe with us.

I quietly popped the cork on the champagne and poured it into a plastic cup.

My curiosity was aroused when I heard a buzz of conversation and activity in the outer office. I stepped to the small window between my office and the reception area. Classes were ending, and a cluster of people was gathered there. They were talking in animated, but hushed tones. I left the blinds closed and listened to the muffled voices. They were discussing the incident between Marc and myself.

"You should have seen it!" one girl said. Others began to join in.