Who Are You, Hap?

Pheasantville, Illinois, October 4, 1962

Had anything ever changed in this pile of bricks over the seventy years since it opened? The creaky hardwood floors, the smell of floor wax mixed with chalk dust and a trace of male body odor, the old fashioned overhead light fixtures that made the hallways a perpetual semi-gloom--everything about the administration building of Our Lady of the Holy Scepter College was timeworn, familiar--yet this trip felt vastly different. For the first time, I was here to ask for help.

I reminded myself, I’m here because Perrin sent me. It’s an assignment. But my palms still sweated.

I stopped at a door on the right. A plaque sticking out into the hallway read “GUIDANCE COUNSELOR, Juergen Rausch, O.S.S.M.”

The door was open. A tall window illuminated a slender, stooped figure facing me behind an oak desk as yellow as the flooring. A sixtyish man with long gray hair combed to the side, he was reading from a black book, wire-rim glasses on his nose, lips moving. I tapped on the door jamb, and he looked up.

Turning the book down, he looked me over and said, “Are you Wilkie? Welcome, my son, come in.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit, sit. Life is too long not to relax.”

Rausch turned away toward a water cooler. “May I offer you a cup of water?”

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

Rausch brought his gaze back to me. Before it made me uncomfortable—even more uncomfortable—he said, “I’ll get you one anyway. It’s a rare student who doesn’t come in here feeling a bit dry in the mouth. Talking about one’s problems makes everyone feel uncomfortable.”

He handed me the water and held up a file of papers. “I’ve looked up your transcript. You’ve always been on the dean’s list. What troubles you now?”

“I’m anxious. I keep feeling like a clock running down—or like running away.”

“Mr. Wilkie, every student feels like he’s caught in a long grind by his junior year. But you have completed a good two thirds of the pre-medical requirements. What’s different, what’s ‘acute,’ if I may use a medical term?”

I took a sip of water. “Well, um, I’m having anxiety spells. I went to an internist in town, Dr. Perrin, and he told me to ask for help.”

Rausch got a sage look. “Whenever I see a student who feels this way, I tell him to do more. A busy person is a successful person.”

I blinked. “How does that work?”

“The main thing science students lack is self-confidence. That causes anxiety. To succeed in a demanding profession like medicine, self-confidence—and self-assertion—are vital assets. Our graduates accepted to medical school have had one thing in common: outstanding extracurriculars to show maturity.”

“I’m not much of an athlete.”

He shook his head. “The best way to get over anxiety is to take part in drama.”

“Drama? That’s odd. My roommate, Brandon McKay, gets a part in most of the productions.”

“Brandon? Oh, Riff in West Side Story last spring.”

“Yeah, Bran’s really gung-ho about it. He’s been pushing me to try out for the new musical coming up.”

Father Rausch perked up. “Shrewed?” I love the title. Brother Armon has worked extremely hard on it—is still doing so.”

“Oh, you’re into this stuff?”

A dreamy look came into his eyes. “People come here all the way from the Gold Coast. Last year’s production of West Side Story broke all attendance records. No wonder: our leading man was Nick Astino. Our productions make the difference between being in the red and being significantly in the black at the end of the school year.” He blinked and took on a serious look. “So. Will you try out for Shrewed?” He savored the title. “A charming young man like you belongs on the stage.” He smiled in a familiar way, as if I were a favorite instead of a stranger.

I nodded grudgingly to hide the vanity that he was stroking. “Okay. Auditions are coming. I’ll give it a go.”

- - -

Brandon and I sat and waited in a room prickly with the energy of young people pretending not to be nervous. The place looked like a classroom except for a small, raised stage along one wall, a piano on its left side and a lectern on the right. Around the room, chairs stood in rows.

Bran said in my ear, “Here he comes.” In strode a barrel of a man in a black cassock, followed by a slender brother in a simple monk’s hooded habit. When the priest got to the center of the room, he said in a deep, commanding voice, “I am Father Fred Hurnik. Director of stage productions here.” He looked like the down-at-heel villain in Touch of Evil, Orson Wells. “And this is my brother, Brother Armon Hurnik. He’s our composer.

“We are auditioning today for a new musical Brother Armon has composed. He calls it a rock-eretta, though that’s not very catchy.” He looked down his nose at Armon. “I prefer rock opera, even if that’s a contradiction in terms.Armon’s triumph is setting The Taming of the Shrew to rock music. He calls it Shrewed!

“It takes place in New York City in 1960, in one of the 400 families—the only people rich enough to be worth knowing. Two sisters have been ruled ruthlessly by their czar of a father—Bartholomew Ingleton, or Bart—all their lives. The older sister is bitter, mouthy Kate. The younger sister is Bia, a subdued, beautiful thing who Bart has forbidden to court till her older sister is married off. A dashing young man—Pete—a struggling singer with big ambitions, sees Bia when he and his bandmates visit Central Park, and he falls in love with her at first sight. Pete has three bandmates for support including his best friend, Mac.

“Bart doesn’t mind using Bia as bait, but only if it brings solid citizens a-courting for Kate. He certainly doesn’t want a two-bit musician for his daughters. He’s got old money and wants it to go to someone who has proven himself in the business world. Bart has dangled a huge dowry as bait and has two suitors on the string, Greg, a real estate tycoon, and Hal, an oil magnate. They’re both ambitious and greedy. Who will win Kate? Will she bite her tongue and take any man her father approves so she can get out from under the old man’s thumb? If she does, who will win Bia? Will she fall for the rocker? And will he stay true to her—or does he find he’s more of a fighter than a lover when he meets Kate? Ah, the pining, the conflict, the glory of young love. The dancers celebrating it. The show-stopping music. That’s what sells the tickets, ladies and gentlemen! And you, you lucky few, may be chosen this very evening to star in this world premiere. And win the hearts of Chicagoland. And take a step toward stardom.”

No one look impressed, knowing that they would be the ones carrying the ten parts Fred had named. A dozen private conversations buzzed. About thirty people were in the room, so the odds of getting a named part looked to be 1 in 3. I leaned to McKay. “You be Mac, and I’ll be Pete.” He looked stunned at my audacity, but his answer was interrupted by a loud chord on the piano, followed by some boogie-woogie.

Brother Armon was playing. He stopped and said, in a clear, reedy voice, “Yes, my friends, a whole lot of shaking is going on today.” He grinned with an ironic lift of a brow. “We are going to shake out the wheat from the chaff. The singing is more crucial than the acting, so you will have to sing in these tryouts. Now, who wants to audition for the role of Kate?”

Nine girls walked toward the stage. Armon summoned them one at a time to stand beside him at the piano and sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” He would play a few bars and ask the girl to join him from the top. After he sang the first line, he gestured for the girl to sing the rest of the song by herself. About half stood stiffly and sang on key but as colorlessly as choir girls. A couple of others tried to belt out the tune and use arm motions to sell it, but they looked and sounded amateurish.

One girl, a tall, slender, straight-haired blonde in a loose pastel sweater and skirt who said her name was Arla Balon sang in a churchy soprano, but she could project it. She stood gracefully throughout, as if the spotlight was sure to find her. Armon thanked her, told her to stay close, and she left the stage to sit in the front row.

Another notable was Tina Martinez, an earthy-looking brunette in a tan knit dress. She sang loudly in a lower, alto kind of voice. McKay leaned to me and muttered, “Maria in West Side Story last year.” Her ease made her a formidable presence. She too got the word from Armon to stay in the front row.

Finally, a surly-looking waif of a girl wearing a black sweater, short black leather skirt, and black tights with a ton of black eye makeup turned to the audience and announced, “Bluebell Jacoby. B.J. for short.” She swung her way up the steps. Giving Armon a high sign, she stopped chewing her gum and lounged on the piano. She breathed her way through “Twinkle,” her tone suggestive enough to make up for its flatness, and finished with a knowing sneer. Armon asked her too to stay close.

What the hell? A girl impersonating a dark Julie London instead of trying to look quarrelsome and virginal? How could that work for Kate? Or Bia? Was the key confidence? Arla, Tina, and now Bluebell were the only ones who were memorable. Maybe making an impression—any kind of impression—counted more in this world than trying to fit a preconception.

Armon walked over to the podium and conferred with Fred. Fred announced, “That’s it for today, girls.”

I looked puzzlingly at McKay, who shrugged and whispered, “I’ll bet Armon only wrote three solo female singing parts, and he’s found them already. There was too big a gap between them and the rest to even have a sing-off.”

Before I could reply, Armon called out, “Now it’s the boys’ turn.”

I stood up with Brandon and a half dozen other guys of college age, plus a couple of middle-aged men.

“Students first,” Armon said.

One, a flashy, Italian-looking guy in a slicked black pompadour, more mature-looking than me and a helluva lot more self-confident, shouldered his way through us and climbed the steps without a word of encouragement.

When he reached the piano, Armon snickered and said, “Okay, Nick, you’ve made your entrance. Are you ready for this?” He began playing “Jingle Bells.”

Bran, still at my side as we waited near the stage, whispered, “Nick Astino—Tony in West Side.”

“Hmh!” I replied. “No wonder he acts like the stage is his.”

He nodded. “Show big balls, get big parts.”

Astino’s version of “Jingle Bells” had too much smiling and finger-popping for my taste, but of course Nick was asked by the piano man to stay up front.

The pair of men in their forties sang as a duet and were clearly veterans. A few students marched up the steps and did their best, which was none too great. McKay kept restraining me from stepping forward. “Not yet,” he whispered each time. Finally, when no one but Brandon and I remained untested, he gave me a push. “Now. Go.”

I had taken the time to come up with a persona. Thank God for my older brother Mark, for memories of watching Elvis on black-and-white TV, and for the countless hours after school we spent listening to his records in our bedroom with friends. Mark had even enjoyed my imitations of the King’s delivery when I tried lip-synching.

I pulled my wallet out and held it in my left hand as if it were a microphone. As Armon played the chord to start “Jingle Bells,” I shook my hips once, bent forward, and stared up at the audience. Coming in before the downbeat, hips swaying, I started with “Huh-huh-huh Jingle. Jangle. A-jingle all the way-heh.” A girl snickered, but another one gave a little mock scream, and pretty soon the audience was clapping their hands along with the beat. Armon smiled, added a bit of boogie in the bass, and let me cavort.

I did no more than a chorus like everyone else, but I knew when the end was coming, blasted “open sleigh” in a higher register, raising my right hand in a big sweep, and bowed, saying soulfully to my wallet, “Thank ya, thank y’all vera much.”

There was actual applause, a first for the tryout session, though its slow pace may have been a bit mocking and was mixed with a giggle or two.

As I rejoined Bran offstage, he said, “Who are you, and what did you do with my roommate?”

Armon rose from the piano and said drily, “Oh, my. Thank you, Mr.”—he looked at his notes again—"Hap Wilkie.” But he smiled as he said it. Mr. Wilkie, please return to the stage. And Mr. Astino, will you join him?”

Armon played the first line of “Happy Birthday to You.” “First,” he said, “let’s hear Mr. Wilkie.”

With no time to prepare, I dimly realized that my natural voice wouldn’t impress anyone when Astino’s would be heard afterward. I asked myself, What would Elvis do? A gyration or two and I got in the mood. “Happy BIRTHday t’YOO-hoo. Uh, happy BIRTHday, to hoo hoo HOO. Happy BIRTHday, pretty baby, happy BIRTHday, t’yoo-hoo-HOO,” ending it on the low note. Pointing to girls in the audience, I added, still deadpan, “and ya, and ya, and ya.”

Astino gave me a scowl and took center stage as I drifted off toward the podium. Right on the downbeat, he did the four lines totally straight. Loud, on-key, smiling, oozing charm. Every note the showman. The total opposite of my delivery.

Fred shooed me away from the podium and called Armon over to confer. The more they talked, the more unhappy they looked. Finally, Fred growled. “Enough.”

Armon walked back to the piano. “I see Brandon McKay is still to be heard from.”

Bran stood.

Armon waved him to sit. “From his good work in West Side, we know Brandon can carry a tune, so he’s excused for now. Thank you, everyone. Father Fred and I will confer before our next—and last—tryouts tomorrow at 7 pm. They will primarily be for dancers, but be sure to return so you can learn your place in the production. Parts in the chorus are still available, too, so bring a friend. And we need stage crew!”

- - -

At the next evening’s tryouts, Father Fred held forth again with his plot summary since the turnout had swelled. His intro complete, Fred summoned Armon to his side. Setting their notes on the lectern, Fred said, “Before I announce the players, let’s get one thing straight. We give professional results here, but there’s one big difference between our productions and the pro companies. You are peons, not pros, and we have the right to fire you on the spot. It is a privilege to be trained by yours truly and Brother Armon, and any backtalk, shirking, tardiness, or absence will not be tolerated. Is that clear?”

A few people nodded.

“I said: is that clear?”

We responded in unison, “Yes, Father.”

“All right, peons,” Fred said, and picked up his papers. “The following will read the main parts. “Arla Balon will play the role of Bia. Arla, are you here?”

The willowy blond rose and waved to Fred.

“Tina Martinez is our Kate.”

Tina was in the front row next to Arla and stood without being asked.

“Bluebell Jacoby will be Pearl, the back-up singer in Pete’s band.”

The waif in black rose, twirled with a swoop of one arm, and sat again.

“The role of Pete will be played by…” He hesitated. “Well, we’ll try Hap Wilkie, and see how that works. Wilkie, where are you?”

Dumbfounded, I managed to stand.

“We don’t know whether to be captivated or amused by your act, but you get first shot at the lead. Nick, who is already standing, will play the role of Bart.”

Nick gave me a dirty look but kept silent.

Fred rattled on, saying something about Brandon, but I was too stunned to hear it.

As soon as Bran and I were on the walkway back to the dorm, I started caterwauling and pretending to play guitar riffs. Juvenile? Sure, but I was pumped.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re excited. Spare my ears, okay?” Brandon said after I sang a song that might have sounded a bit whiny.

“Bran? I want to spin like Bobby Darin. Watch me.” Hands splayed out, grinning, I spun twice on my left foot.

“The audience will eat out of your hand,” he said with a smirk.

“Oh, baby, that’s a-what I like!”

He faced me. “That’s the spirit. Stick with it, man.”

“I will. If the willies don’t get me. Father Rausch told me performing would help me get over them. But how am I gonna keep my cool in front of an audience of hundreds of people?”

“Nuts to that, Bran said. “Haven’t you heard? The whole world’s a stage.”