Image - Stage Left

         Image - Stage Left

    Noel Laflin

      Nov. 16, 2014

The 1963 Lincoln Elementary School annual Christmas program is but minutes away and I have a very bad feeling about it.

The pageant, “Merry Christmas Thoughts,” co-written and directed by our fifth grade teacher, Dorothy Philipian, involves multiple grade choirs, sixteen poorly trained dancers, tone-deaf bell ringers, a nerdy narrated nod to Hanukkah by a nice Gentile boy aptly named Noel, two finger-cymbal novices and a covey of badly balanced tambourine players tripping about the poorly trained dancers. None of this is bothersome to me in the least. What does concern me, however, is the opening performance kicking off the festivities.  It's basically a morality play - of which I am a part; an old fashion, down to earth tale of a bad boy becoming good.

Mrs. Philipian has chosen me to play bad boy, Bobby - again, not a stretch for this ten-year-old drama queen.  However, what does scare the holy bejesus out of me is that in her philanthropic view of irony, she has chosen the school’s real bad boy, Robin, to play the good boy, Jim.

And I am not alone in my fear.

You see, Robin is as mad as hell over this demotion in character. He swears on a stack of Playboy Magazines that he has been miscast, slandered, and damn near humiliated for even being considered for this role. He laments, to no avail, that he will never be able to show his face again should he be forced into the role of the good boy.

"Image is everything," he wails.

But Mrs. Phlipian is not deterred. She is not moved. She proclaims that there is good in all of her students. And as it's nearly Christmas - not to mention that this is HER script- Robin acquiesces.  But I have this nagging feeling that he will ultimately be getting in the last word.

Despite our premonitions, Happy, the Elf and I take our roles seriously and learn our lines.  Robin does not.  In fact, the boy never takes too much of anything seriously, unless it involves sneaking a smoke behind the bushes, beating the tar out of someone, or telling a dirty joke.  But he can accomplish any three of these activities with the greatest of charm.  I know this first hand as he has become my friend over the years.  It's an unlikely friendship, as we are so very opposite and he is a year older than me - maybe two, as I am not certain whether he's ever been held back a grade.  But for some reason he takes me under his wing, imparts another dirty joke that I pretend to understand and laugh over, gives me a friendly knuckle knock to the head and never once beats me up.  For all of this I am filled with a bit of hero worship as well as gratitude for being liked by the baddest boy at Lincoln School.

But suddenly here it is, the second Thursday in December - our own little D-Day. The production is to begin at seven in the evening and I am sweating more and more profusely as the long hand on the old clock behind the stage ticks away my life.

By six-thirty, the back stage is rapidly filling with teachers and children of all ages.  Happy, the Elf and I are nervously pacing and muttering lines.  Robin is nowhere in sight.

With a full house of parents and siblings on the other side of the cheap red curtains eagerly awaiting the production - and with but mere minutes to go - Robin finally shows; the acrid-sweet scent of a recently pilfered Pall Mall still strong upon his breath. Happy, the Elf and I exchange sorrowful glances.  We are hoping for a forfeit, thus avoiding having to take the field altogether.  The elf and I share a strange telepathic moment; a single word coming through loud and clear – ‘FIASCO’.

The principal, a very tall man, strides dutifully to the center of the stage, bends slightly to first tap and then speak into the standing microphone. He greets one and all.  Without missing so much as a single beat he then dovetails into premature praise for the authors of the play and the outstanding cast of students who have worked so diligently to make this a most memorable evening for young and old alike.

Mrs. Philpian beams as she waltzes forth to take the microphone in order to set the opening scene. As that is our cue, Happy, the Elf and I step forward and begin our dialogue. My character is full of negativity of course.  Happy, on the other hand, is ... just that.  But it's clear that it's going to take a good boy in order to turn Bobby-The-Bad around - an elf, no matter how happy, isn't  up to the job. Mrs. Philipian's script sees to that.

And then it is nearly time for Robin to make his appearance.  Miss Happy  leaves the stage at this point, so there I am, all alone with nothing more than a thousand eyes cast my way - all awaiting conflict, turmoil and ultimately a good old fashioned ending.

I say my line that is to be Robin’s cue and wait for him to join me center stage.

No Robin.

I repeat my line and wait some more, all the while glancing hopelessly stage left and then stage right and then to Mrs. Philipian, standing off to the side steps ready to prompt a line at a moment's notice. She simply looks at me and shrugs.

And then,  miracle of miracles, here comes Robin entering from stage right!

Sauntering ever so causally across the platform Robin flashes a confident, brilliant smile to the audience. Some of his six grade cronies, scattered throughout the crowd, howl with delight.

He approaches me, hand extended, and draws me in close. 

“This isn’t in the script,” I whisper.

Robin whispers back, "I'll never be a good boy."

And with that he continues his brief walk of fame, soon exiting stage left and out the back door of the auditorium - image fully intact.