Twice, Thrice on a Mayrobin's Song

There was a clinical air about the waiting room, a stark sterility
to the pale walls, the glass vases, the magazines and the monotone
photographs of Hamlets and Macbeths grasping at fistfuls of spotlight.
Bertie redeployed his hands and feet several times, over the arms of
the chair and the carpet and his lap, even ran a hand over his waves of
volcanic hair, but found it quite impossible to render the scene even
faintly dramatic. He sized up the other thespians, noted well their
choice of reading material, their hairstyles, their make-up, even tried
to catch a sniff of their fragrance. They each looked to him (if not to
all the world,) nothing more than patients. He might as well be calling
in for anti-depressants. Sooner or later, he might even have need to
call in for anti-depressants.

The door was opened, gave an eek, and in walked another one. Sat next
to him. She was small and punky looking, of short hair, wore a leather
jacket, a pair of rectangular glasses with thick frames, lit a
deathstick. God, the silence was impenetrable! He held out his hand,
thought he'd have some fun.

"Ferdinand," Bertie introduced himself in his best Queen's
English.

"Militia," she replied, briefly shaking his hand.

"So," murmured he, "you must be here for the part of Paraphernalia. Am
I right?"

"No. Guess again."

"Alright then."

He feigned deep thought.

"Carpetbomb?"

"No."

"Could it be&;#8230;Dirty A. Rab the fricatrice?"

"I should think not!"

"Well then. I give in. Who are you auditioning for?"

"Cutsome Rug. How about you?"

"Cutsome Rug? What a coincidence! I happen to be auditioning for
Cutsome Rug too. Well now&;#8230;" (here he made to sound amused,)
"What are you planning to do? Shave your head and grow a beard?"

She puffed on the deathstick, arrogant.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?"

"Oh, please. Suspension of disbelief! How can you expect to go out
there and convince the audience that you're a man with no beard and
your gazongas bounding about like nobody's business?"

Much to his disappointment, she refused to become offended.

"Why do I need to convince them that I'm a man, pray tell?"

He brought forth a knowing smile and snorted the reply:

"Because it's a male part!"

"What is?" she persisted.

"Good Lord! The character! Cutsome Rug is a male part. The actor
requires male parts!"

"Don't be ridiculous. Cutsome Rug is female."

"My dear woman," (he allowed condescension to creep in,) "if Henstoat
intended Cutsome Rug to be a female character, he would not have her
display the traditional male attributes. He's a greedy, sly, conniving
parasite, thirsting for power."

The other actors that decorated the clinic were finding it increasingly
difficult not to be drawn into the conversation. Their eyes were going
gaga trying not to glance.

"Are you suggesting that women cannot be sly, or thirst for
power?"

"Look. Don't point your feminist bitchcannon at me. It is simply the
case that all Henstoat's female characters are mere details, or devices
to draw out different aspects to the male characters."

"I'd be happy if you'd keep your presumptuous misogyny to yourself,
sir. Instead of continuing to espouse your nonsensical view of men and
women, I suggest you use what little brainpower you possess to analyse
the part properly. You will learn that Cutsome Rug is a woman, not a
man."

Finally, offence caused!

"Well! Temper, temper," Bertie scorned. "Lady, I know his part by
heart, and there is absolutely nothing - not a single disjointed line
or a fart in the stage directions - that suggests in any way that
Cutsome Rug is a woman, while there is a plethora of evidence to
support the idea that he is a man. Now, take my advice and save your
testosterone for the audition. You may stand a chance."

"Typical man. Deaf ears and a cranial draft. We'll soon see."

He had her on the run!

"Just so long as you don't flee from the stage blubbing, I'll be
satisfied."

"I think it more likely that you will be doing the blubbing."

"Aha! So not only do women behave like men in your world, but men
behave like little girls!"

"If they did, it would be an improvement."

"Fool."

"Bastard."

"Witterer."

"Arsehole."

"Tart."

"Knobhead."

"Whore."

"Well!"

"Really!"

And they said no more to each other for several, frost-smothered
minutes, after which they were called in to audition for the part in
question. In the studio they simultaneously met J. N. Henstoat, the
writer and director of Twice, Thrice on a Mayrobin's Song. He was
mangy-bearded and knotty-haired, bony and batty, wore enthusiasm like a
hat and long coat like a trademark. A weal across the fingers of the
hand at his chin, smelt of witchhazel. His first words?

"Ah! Variety! Opposite ends of the spectrum. Just what I like to see.
An effeminate man and a butch female. I can see already that this is
going to be one hell of a choice. Now, let me see if I have this right.
Beth Settle and Bertie Russell?"

The thesps competed for a look of the greatest bafflement and
intrigue.

"You mean you were&;#8230;"

"Acting. Yes, I was," said Bertie, in his natural voice. "Warming up.
Playing the arse. Jeez, you had no idea."

"Crikey," the former Militia said. "But then, neither did you. About
me, I mean."

Where the faintly blue ceiling of the waiting room was so low that its
many tiny lights had seemed to pry into their crowns, the wiry
metropolis of the studio skyscrapered over them, the yellow of its high
spotlights plunging through a thick dance of dust. The pieces of
scenery were opened up, an imagination under surgery, the guts of the
set exposed and throbbing with function upon function as workmen and
artists laboured to mend the wound.

"You two have already met then?" asked Henstoat, his back to the
monstrous operation.

Bertie explained, "We had a brief introduction in the waiting room. But
only now have we even begun to get to know each other."

"Good, good. Now&;#8230;"

Beth pounced on his hesitation, "Just to solve a small dilemma," she
said, "is Cutsome Rug a male or female part?"

"Oh, both. That is to say, he or she possesses both."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Bertie asked.

"Cutsome Rug is an&;#8230;an&;#8230;" Henstoat fought for
possession of the word, "a hermaphrodite. I wanted to have all three of
the classical 'fool' characters in the play, you see, but it turns out
dwarves and eunuchs really exist, so I'm down to one."

"Don't hermaphrodites exist then?" queried Beth.

Henstoat appeared to meet an internal dilemma.

"Do they? Damn, I hope not."

"But come on," said Bertie. "Wouldn't you like to be a
hermaphrodite?"

"What? No. Why?"

"So you could go fuck yourself. Why else?"

Henstoat waved a hand.

"Hang on, Henstoat," Beth had suddenly recalled an earlier part of the
conversation. "Did you say I was a butch female? You did, didn't you?
How dare you!"

Henstoat, concealing distress, searched wildly for a solution to his
now very immediate dilemma. Fortunately, a friendly stagehand appeared
to be bumbling around nearby, wielding a paintbrush as if it were a
machete.

"Ah! Ah, Manley. Get over here, would you?"

Manley obeyed, striking a pose of incredulity as he was confronted with
the punky female, the flame-haired male and the flailing
Henstoat.

"This is Mr. Manley, co-writer of Twice, Thrice on a Mayrobin's Song,
set designer, assistant director and stagehand. Manley, this is Bertie
and Beth; here for the part of Cutsome Rug."

"Why are you showing me this?" queried Manley, exasperated.

Henstoat looked at his watch for no apparent reason.

"Well, I was thinking. Erm. Even if one of them got the part, we could
probably fit the other one in&;#8230;somewhere. I mean. Beth could
be one of the five harpies?"

"I think she'd make a good Besse Rawitsch."

"The ninja witch?" asked Beth. "Now what are you trying to suggest?
I've never been insulted twice in such quick succession after meeting
someone!"

Henstoat tried to parry with a look of stupefaction. "She's a
wonderful, wonderful gal! And Bertie could
be&;#8230;err&;#8230;me?"

"He certainly has the head for it," Manley agreed. "But I thought you
were doing the casting?"

"I am! Yes, I am. I just thought I'd get a second opinion."

"Man, you are one retarded director," declared Bertie. "No
offense."

"None taken." Henstoat bared his teeth. "You're in, both of you,
whatever happens. K?"

"Great!" said Beth. "Thank you! I forgive you for the insults."

"Cheers, man," Bertie nodded smooth in admiration.

"Feminist bitchcannon?" she asked with a fair measure of smile.

"Figure of speech. Had you fooled, didn't I, Militia?"

"Yes, you did, Ferdinand."

"Wh! Fyagniweer?" Manley hopped about in maddened confusion. "You can
deal with this yourself, Henstoat - it makes no sense to me!
Goodbye!"

He fled the scene, shaking his paintbrush in rage at the distant
spotlights, who seemed to have conspired to produce this absurd act in
order to confound him.