OK, here’s the latest.

Until tomorrow.

A SUNDAY LIKE NO OTHER (continued)

“Hi, dear,” chimes Mom from the laundry room. “How was school?”

“Fine.” I manage to hide my disappointment. I thought today was the day she went shopping with her friend, Mrs. Pritchard. I was looking forward to being alone in the house.

“Your grandmother will be coming tonight to your play.”

“Oh, okay, ” I put my Friday-night-lightweight book bag on the floor. I notice my right hand hurts from clutching it.

Stupid dog.

I walk through the dining room into the kitchen and open the food cabinet. I pull out a box of little pretzels.

Her voice floats out of the adjoining laundry room, “Don’t eat too much. We’ll have dinner early on account of the play tonight.”

“Oh, okay. Is Gramp coming?”

“No, he has his Men’s Club. Probably Saturday.”

“Good.” I pass into the den and plop down on the couch. I place the pretzel box next to me and the couch back cushion. I pick up my Lone Ranger comic book and eat and read. This one is my favorite. The Lone Ranger beats up the villain, Jesse James.

“Oh, Mick called. He wants you to call him back. Something about the band.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I put the comic book down and pop another pretzel in my mouth on the way to the phone.

One ring, two rings.

“Hello?” asks an old rough-as-asphalt voice.

“Mr. Clarke, it’s Francis”

“Well, well. Howareyakid?” There is a pause. “Mick?”

Another pause. “Mick! Pick up the extension! It’s Francis! Just a sec, Francis.

The phone clunks in my ear as Mr. Clarke drops the receiver. Off in the distance, Mr. Clarke calls again.

“Hey, Professor, what’s up?” says Mick.

“I should be asking you that. You called first,” I say.

“Yeahyeah, listen, we can rehearse in the church hall for a little while on Saturday afternoon.”

“Oh, great! I’ll ask Dad if I can borrow his acoustic guitar.”

“That thing’s got a pick-up, right?”

“Yeah, it’s already in the case with the guitar.”

“Good, say, 2 o’clock?”

“Okay.”

“Isn’t your play tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“You must be looking forward to that. You get to swing Anne around. Man, you were lucky to get to play the villain.”

“I know. I even beat out Chuck Cameron, that footballer. He couldn’t act to save his behind. It proves that being popular doesn’t mean you get what you want all the time.”

“Tell me about it. And you have to dye your hair black. Is that right?”

“Yeah…”

“Black. You’re gonna have black hair?”

“Yeah…”

“Boy, you’re gonna look funny. I thought the girls liked you as a blonde. Blondes have more fun!” Mick cackles.

“Are you done?” I grumble, good-naturedly.

“And you can’t wear your glasses?”

“No, since when did you see Snidely Whiplash with glasses.”

He cackles again. “Black hair and no glasses. Man, oh, man, oh, man, I gotta see this. I’m going on Saturday.”

“If I see you, I’ll give you my best sneer.”

“Okay, Snidely, see ya.”

We have dinner quickly.

Dad drives all of us to the auditorium in his old blue and white Buick which is the size of Gramp’s fishing boat. It fits all of us comfortably.

Dad pulls the car up to the entrance and lets me out.

“We’ll see you after the play,” Dad calls out.

I wave.

Once I’m in the lobby, I can feel my nerves buzz. My hands are wet. I clear my throat. No spit. I catch a drink from a water bubbler on my way into the auditorium. As I pull open the door, a wave of heat, light, and noise blows by me. I step down the gray-carpeted stairs to the stage. Once there, I climb the steps up to the stage.

Someone breaks through the front felt curtain.

“Ahhh, hello, Francis.”

“Hi, Miss O’Donnell,”

“Mrs. Reinstein is ready for your dye job and make-up.”

I smile.

“What?” says Miss O’Donnell, quizzically.

“I’ve never had my hair dyed before. Especially a completely different color.”

“I do it all the time. Nothing to it.”

We walk the length of the stage. Miss O’Donnell parts the curtain and, with a jangly wave, she ushers me into the make-up area. Nearly everyone is there. I see Mrs. Reinstein applying make-up to Anne. Anne sees me in the mirror and waves. I manage to stick my hand up and wiggle my fingers. I stare at her. She looks so different, better. Her eyes pop out of her face and look greener than I remember. Speaking of things popping, her breasts look ready to jump out of her dress. She has color in her cheeks and her hair is done in a way that surrounds her face. Mrs. Reinstein uses a large fluffy brush to add a bit more color to Anne’s forehead and looks into the mirror at me.

“Next.”

Anne gets up and heads to the costume area.

I sit down.

“Glasses, please,” says Mrs. Reinstein, as she takes them off my face and places them on the table. She applies make-up, pencils in big eyebrows, and adds lipstick in quick succession.

“Now, for the transformation,” she says. “Ready?” She stands there as tall as my Dad holding out this red and white striped barber’s apron.

I nod.

She drapes it over me and buttons it twice. She grabs a tall spray can off the table and shakes it vigorously. The mixing ball inside makes a cracking and smacking sound just like the times Dad has spray painted the patio furniture.

“This stuff is temporary, right?’ I squeak.

Mrs. Reinstein chuckles, “Mom giving you a hard time about this hair dye still?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Don’t worry, it washes out. Now close your eyes.”

With that, she sprays the dye all over my hair. When I peek I see my hair go from blond to black-blond to black. Then she parts my hair in the middle and varnishes it with hair spray. Next she applies spirit gum under my nose and gently but firmly pastes a black, hairy, curled mustache onto me.

“Voila, Desmond De’Orsay DeCalcomania.”

I stare at Desmond De’Orsay DeCalcomania in the mirror. I’ve taken a backseat to Desmond. My old eyes are over sitting on the table. My new face is strange and out of focus. I squint trying to see who I am.

“Here, your glasses,” says Mrs Bernstein, breaking the moment by placing my glasses on my face. The effect is startling. I have lines across my forehead and splaying out from either side of my nose. My rose-colored cheeks look silly next to the black arc of a mustache. What is even more startling is how my face looks next to my ordinary clothes. It looks like someone replaced my head with Desmond’s.

“Okay, hello there, time to get into your costume,” says Mrs Bernstein. “Up, up.”

I get up, up from the chair.

When I get to the costume area I go over to the boy’s changing area.

“Hey, Dezzy,” says Peter. He could pass for Jim Morrison’s son. He has the longish curly hair. He’s always talking to the girls. He’s also the one who gave me the nickname of Dezzy.

“Hi, Peter.”

I take my costume off the rack and walk behind a curtain to change. Peter ducks behind a second curtain with his costume in hand. I carefully fold and place my glasses in my front shirt pocket and button it. I go from my ordinary clothes of a plaid shirt, jeans, and Beatle boots to a black suit, a white stiff shirt, a thin black tie, dress shoes, and a top hat. I’m dressed like Desmond but I’m still me.

“Hey, Francis, are you going to the party on Saturday night after the play?”

“You mean the one here in the auditorium?”

“No, the one at Anne’s.”

“Oh, there is?”

“Yeah.”

“Uhm, I don’t know, I’ll have to go home and wash the dye out of my hair. My mom doesn’t like it.”

“Wait a minute, you’re thinking you won’t be going to the party because you have to get your hair washed?”

“No…”

“Whaddareya, a first grader? Your mother won’t let you go because you have to wash your hair? Is your mother going to do it for you?”

“No, I can wash my own hair!”

“Oh, that’s good.”

He’s the hero of the play. He gets to kill me with a gun at the end of the play. It feels like he’s already done that now. Maybe he should be playing the villain.

“See ya out front,” he says.

I push the curtain aside. I walk over to my place behind stage left curtain. I can feel the heat of the audience through the curtains. That low-level hum of indistinct voices. I think of how John Lennon might feel just before a concert. Would his hands be as sweaty as mine are now? I bet he doesn’t get sweaty hands. I’m just standing there when I hear the stage manager say, “Places.”

I hear Miss O’Donnell: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, parents and grandparents. What we are about to present to you is an old-fashioned melodrama. It’s reminiscent of the silent movie melodramas of the 1920s. The students have worked very hard to make this play as professional as they know how. So, without any further adieu, the Drama Club presents ‘Ma and Pa’s Farm’.”

A volley of clapping passes through the curtain, and the play begins. From that point on until the play ends, everything is about the play. I’m not out on stage until half the play is over but the transformation happens just as the applause dies away. The audience is now a presence, a hot and almost overwhelming presence. I sink into Desmond. I stand stock still and listen for my cue. My other four senses recede behind my intense and focused listening. I can’t see the action going on in front but I can hear it; the footfalls and the jostling of the girls’ dresses.

Then it comes.