Gone five years but never to be forgotten…
The slap of the newspaper hitting the door woke Jerry, who was sleeping on the sofa... again. He had not felt the comfort of his pillow topped mattress in a month. As the sun peaked through the slats of the venetian blinds, he opened his eyes and took note of his life.
The most obvious thing was that he stunk. He had been wearing the same clothes for over a week. Unshowered and unshaved, he resembled the sheep dog that made its home beside the dumpster behind the condo. Both the dog and Jerry badly needed a bath and mouthwash.
Stepping over the remains of long forgotten meals, he stumbled to the bathroom to pee. A quick glimpse of himself in the mirror, and Jerry realized he would make a good character for his next novel, if he ever wrote again. He was a writer who had lost his muse.
"I have been sitting around this house long enough. Today, I am going out and have some fun."
Jerry had repeated this pep talk every morning since Mona, his girlfriend of three years, walked out on him. He would stare at his reflection in the framed photograph which hung over the toilet -- a photograph of Jerry peeing against a tree – and profess that “Today is the day.” Unfortunately, the photograph usually had the effect of sending him back to the coach in a fit of depression.
Mona had taken the shot while she and Jerry were on a hiking trip of the Appalachian Trail. Over the toilet always seemed like the perfect spot to hang it. Now, it was just a reminder that sometimes you do the peeing. Other times you get peed upon.
When his depression was especially heavy, Jerry was inclined to spend the day eating cold pork and beans from the can. He would wash the beans down with beer that he had delivered every afternoon from the local liquor store. To say the condo no longer smelled spring time fresh was an understatement.
Resembling a cross between Frank Zappa and the Mad Monk Rasputin, Jerry quickly grabbed the newspaper off the upside down welcome mat and turned to the weekend entertainment section.
"Let's see what is happening in town. Where do we want to go?"
The "we" thing was force of habit. Jerry refused to accept that he was now alone. He had taken to talking to himself aloud, as though he was a guest in his own home. It was the waiting expectantly for an answer that sometimes caused him to worry about his sanity. The fact that he still slept with a pair of Mona's unwashed underwear, found hanging on the back of the bedroom door, never gave him a moment's concern.
"Hey! Look at this. That celebrity museum under the bridge is open today. Barry Richards was a big star in his day. I always liked his movies. Let's go."
The thought of Barry Richards’ self-deprecating smile got Jerry off the couch. The need to pee again got him into the bathroom. Taking a shower needed no explanation.
With the smell of stale beer no longer clinging to his hair, Jerry searched his closet for clean jeans and a tee shirt. Hanging over a folded up ironing board that never got used was last year’s Christmas present from his mom – a shirt with the inspirational message, "Focus on what is - not what isn't." Jerry grabbed the shirt and slipped it over his head. Looking at himself in the mirror, he spoke to the invisible we, “It is an omen.”
The museum was only a ten minute ride away, but the entrance was blocked by road construction that forced drivers to travel through a maze of Bob’s Barricades. The detour added another five minutes to the trip. After making a series of lefts, rights and u-turns, Jerry finally arrived at his destination only to find an empty parking lot.
"Well, we are here. Might as well get out and check the door."
“We” was so deeply ingrained in Jerry’s psyche that he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for the non-existent Mona. Arm in arm they approached the entrance.
A sign on the front door of the museum announced that the building was to be razed as part of the town’s new business and entertainment center. Although the date for demolition was still a year away, from the look of the exterior and grounds, dismantling had already begun. A drawing of a thermometer on a wooden sign proclaimed a fundraising campaign was underway. The temperature gauge made it obvious that efforts so far had been less than successful.
Jerry pushed open the badly scarred front door and entered a small lobby. To the left was a glass enclosed display of marble pavers engraved with the names of people who had contributed to the museum in its heyday. Many famous, and mostly deceased, celebrities were among the top donors. One more door blocked Jerry's way, and as he yanked at the handle, he could not help but think of a tomb. The place was mausoleum quiet.
At a small table immediately inside the entrance sat an older woman with a warm smile. She stood and extended her hand in greeting.
"Welcome to the Barry Richards Museum. We are so happy you chose to spend a part of your day with us."
The lady's hand was cold in Jerry's palm, but her eyes shined with sincerity.
"Thanks. Wasn't sure you were open."
"You are our only guest so far today. Walk around. Take your time. We are here until 4 pm."
"Thanks," Jerry smiled back at her. "Is there a charge?"
"No. No charge, but we would appreciate a donation."
"What's customary?"
"Most people give $5.00, but that is entirely up to you."
"Seems fair. Here you go. Is there a brochure or something?"
"No. Just me. But I know I lot. Ask me if you have questions."
Jerry nodded politely as he walked into the main room. Everywhere he looked there were display cases, posters and signed photographs. The center of the room was taken up by a stage, which at the moment was dark. A life sized cutout of Barry Richards at the age of 30 or 35 held court with the empty chairs at floor level.
To one side, Jerry saw a surrey he recognized from a popular Richards' show. It was a musical, and Jerry began softly humming one of the tunes to himself. Laughing on the last sour note, he turned to find a beautifully kept 1977 Pontiac Trans Am dominating the far corner. This car was a part of Hollywood history. Every boy dreamed of owning one. Every guy wanted to be as cool as Richards appeared driving it on screen.
The high gloss black finish on the muscle car gleamed in the overhead lights. Not a mark or speck of dust marred its exterior. More than anything else, this vehicle symbolized every boy’s dream of freedom and adventure. Jerry lifted his face to an imaginary wind and smiled. "Man! That was a great movie," he said out loud.
"Yeah, it was," answered a voice from behind. "They don't make 'em like that anymore… movies or cars."
Jerry turned to see a grey haired man, leaning on a cane, walking toward him.
"Hey. Sorry. I thought I was alone here."
"For the most part, you are. I am doing some work on the stage. Don't let me interrupt your visit."
"No problem," Jerry said as the man turned away.
Jerry continued discovering the treasures that the museum held. He was amazed at the display of guns and badges. Two director’s chairs, one made from hockey sticks and one from an old saddle, impressed him. Each of the chairs held a little sign that read, “Do not sit.” Jerry sat in the saddle chair. For a brief minute, he imagined himself directing a blockbuster western.
Walking along the wall of awards, Jerry was surprised to see the large number of accolades Richards had received. As he was reading the inscriptions, he heard the man speaking again. Following his voice, Jerry made his way around to the front of the stage.
The guy stood under a single spotlight, but he wasn't talking to himself as Jerry first thought; he was rehearsing a scene for a play.
"Shit. That's Barry Richards. He's... changed."
Jerry kept his thoughts to himself.
Careful not to make any noise, he sat down and watched. Under the wrinkles and stooped shoulders, he saw glimpses of the man who had once stolen the heart of every female past puberty. After a while, the actor noticed Jerry.
"You caught me. I was hoping to remain incognito."
"I am so sorry, Mr. Richards. I didn't recognize you."
"That’s okay, son. People don't always anymore."
"Do you mind if I stay and watch."
"I would be honored."
Richards went back to rehearsing, and Jerry stayed glued in his seat for forty minutes. When Richards took a break and came down from the stage, Jerry stood to leave.
"I hope you will come back and see the performance when the show opens."
"I'll be here," Jerry said and put out his hand. "I have always been a big fan. Still am. Thank you."
"My pleasure, son. The past is gone. We all have to live in the present... wherever it takes us."
Richards left and Jerry spent another 20 minutes in the museum. As he walked through the vestibule on his way out, he looked once again at the paver bricks on display. In the glass, he clearly saw a reflection of himself and the tee shirt he was wearing. "Focus on what is... not what isn't."
That seemed to be what Barry Richards was doing. Now, it was time for Jerry to do the same. Exiting the vestibule, he let the door slam shut. Good thing Mona wasn’t behind him.
Donna Carbone is the Executive Director/Playwright in Residence at the Palm Beach Institute for the Entertainment Arts. Please visit PBIEA at: pbinstituteforentertainmentarts.com