Six: Barrymore, Bogart, Monroe & the Stooges

In short, this next bit is about the Hermits’ Dramatic Contigent. And, oh, what a contigent it is.

The D.C. is comprised of about twenty hermits from all over the world who are simply too eccentric to exist in the normal world. While hermits like Camellia Buttersfirth are working on global preservation, these hermits are working on stage preparation and oral recitation so that once a year they can put on a theatrical extravaganza at the Convention.

Pipton had gained admission to one of their rehearsals, so, with my ever-increasing entourage (we had Willoughby and Peter in tow) we strolled over to their cave. As was to be expected, the entrance was well obscured and passage precarious, but once we gained the main vestibule, all quartzitic qualities had been obscured by the lavish fittings of a very formal theatre. And the room that held the main stage was really stunning.

With enough seats for probably a hundred or so people, a huge stage smiled towards tiered stadium seats and red-carpeted aisles, and the high ceiling domed into skylights.

On stage, a gaggle of actors were going over their lines--but it didn’t seem as if they were doing so together. A gangly man with a cowboy hat drawled to no one in particular “Well, you see ma’am, these men are bad news, bad news. It seems to me this town could use a cleaning out.”

While a buxom woman in a Marilyn Monroe dress purred “Oh, for me! You shouldn’t have. Johnny, baby, mix me a martini? Make it dirty.” She winked, but also to nobody in particular.

There was a Humphrey Bogart type who sat in the corner pouring himself glasses of whiskey, and smoking a cigar, and a James Dean type who just lent against a wall, looking cool and saying nothing at all. There were scads more: a Sarah Bernhardt whose eyes kept going wide, a Charlie Chaplin who kept tripping over chairs and breaking his fall with a hat, an Audrey Hepburn, looking fragile and petite, in a chair, and John Barrymore being very dramatic with a Sir Laurence Olivier.

Watching them was like watching the all of the greatest films ever made, unravelled, and set to play simultaneously on the stage. Which, at least to some extent, is what I have since understood that they are trying to accomplish.

Peter looked on, amazed, with his two huge, blue eyes, as he does; Willoughby grinned widely, as he does; Pipton grinned demurely, as he does, and I surveyed each of them happily in turn, as I do. And then a sudden noise from behind us made us all jump.

“Oh! Sorry to have surprised you!” a short man said. He was wearing pants that were three sizes too big for him, suspenders, and a hat from beneath which tufts of messy hair protruded, “Geez...err...huminahuminahumina...”

“I’m the three stooges,” he finally managed, “you can call me Bill”

“All three?” I ventured, smiling.

He wheezed and pumped his mouth open and closed a few times. It seemed as though conversation was no simple endeavor for him, “Yes, yes, yes. And, huminahum...wheeew. It’s no easy task!” This last phrase was said on an exhale and seemed to exhaust his energy to the last degree.

“You had better not ask him any more questions, Lima, or he’s going to pass out.” Peter whispered.

I nodded.

“Here” he expostulated, tripping (rather intentionally, I thought) over one of the seats and tumbling clumsily a few rows, “follow me and I’ll hum...humm...I’ll introduce you hh-around”
I’m on the Welcoming Commitee, you know!” (he slipped on a banana peel, slid a bit, wheezed, righted himself, but didn’t look back at us)

We looked at each other, giggling, and followed him towards the stage, first Pipton, then Willoughby, then Peter, then me.

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