Fraternity of the Footlights
by Dennis A. Blackledge
Part 1 appears in this issue.
conclusion
“A successful show depends on everyone pitching in, everyone pulling in the same direction. All for one. Anything less than your best will not be good enough.”
Those were the opening words spoken by Jonathan A. Mondello, Jr. at our first rehearsal for The Diary of Anne Boleyn. He went on to inform cast and crew exactly what he expected from them... from us... from me: the Duke of Norfolk.
Of average height and a touch chubby, Mondello wore a hairstyle similar to the Beatles on the cover of Rubber Soul. His threads leaned mod, knockoffs of London’s Carnaby Street.
Over eight weeks of rehearsal, Mondello morphed into “Jon.” We developed a fledgling relationship, not exactly friends, more teacher and grasshopper. It surprised me how much time he spent giving individuals, including me, the attention we each required.
I found him to be intelligent, temperamental, funny, petulant, super-organized, full of bluster, self-assured, and easily offended. He coached, threatened, cajoled, browbeat, and rallied an army of teens to perform above their given talents. Jon was a jack of all theatre trades, a guru, a force of personality.
I attended every rehearsal and work call, even when not needed. Each facet of putting on a play fascinated me. Theatre history, endless funny stories, superstitions, hands-on fussing by wardrobe girls, and a mysterious jargon spoken only at technical rehearsals; I loved it all. Theatre captured what I admired most about football — planning and teamwork — but without getting your balls rung.
Even rookie-level tasks, such as “swabbing the deck,” came with Easter eggs.
“Paying your dues?” Jon asked, stopping to observe my labor.
“Oh, I don’t mind. I kinda like it.”
“You’re hooked. Hi-diddle-dee-dee — an actor’s life for me.”
I stared at Jon, unsure how to respond.
“The roar of the greasepaint. The smell of the crowd. That 1964 play title was right. It gets in your bones. And once it does, you can’t shake it.”
I sensed he knew something about me I didn’t know about myself.
“We carry on for those who came before us, for those who never left. You feel them most strongly late at night.” Jon walked away, leaving me to ponder what had passed between us.
A few days later, while cleaning up from a late-night session of painting scenery, I watched our student stage manager, Georgie Huffington, struggle to haul something across the stage. A childhood brush with polio, which was common knowledge among the drama kids, exacerbated his efforts.
“Let me give you a hand,” I said.
The object consisted of a heavy disc-like metallic base, with a thick pipe as tall as Georgie extending upward from its center. It wore a single 100-watt lightbulb as its crown. We placed it center stage. Georgie plugged its tail into a heavy-duty extension cord snaking its way into the wings. He flicked it on and proceeded to turn off the auditorium lights, leaving the naked bulb to do the work of many.
“What’s that, Georgie?” I asked.
“The ghost light. It keeps the theatre ghost company at night.”
* * *
The cast and crew of The Diary of Anne Boleyn performed a successful Thursday afternoon preview in front of the Clapping for Credit crowd. When I took my bow, every jock erupted. It was more razzing than it was appreciation of theatre arts, but it felt good anyway.
The next evening, in front of a sizeable and highly partisan opening night audience, we nailed it, at least as far as I could tell. We received a predictably enthusiastic reception.
After curtain down, Mondello told our post-show gathering, “Tomorrow night is SRO!”
“What’s SRO?” I asked.
“Standing Room Only. You should all be very proud of yourselves.”
Saturday night’s curtain rose ten minutes late because of the large crowd. Once we were underway, you could sense the audience pulling for us.
My big scene came immediately before intermission, a meaty exchange between Henry VIII, Cardinal Wolsey, and the Duke of Norfolk (me). Dimitri Papadakis, short in stature but with impeccable diction, portrayed Henry, while tall, slender, carrot-topped Timothy Prentice played sly, untrustworthy Cardinal Thomas Wolsey.
The scene centered on Henry’s frustration with the court, and his Queen’s inability to push out a male baby, better known around the castle as “high treason.”
The script called for Henry to begin the climactic scene of Act One with: “I am tired, Wolsey. I am tired of the court. I’m going hunting in the beautiful Country of Kent.”
Dimitri delivered those lines word for word throughout countless rehearsals, during Clapping for Credit, and on opening night. But on this night, with twelve hundred eyeballs glued to the stage, and an equal number of ears tuned to our channel, Dimitri’s lips lost contact with his brain.
“I am tired Wolsey. I am tired of the court. I’m going hunting in the beautiful Kentry of Cunt.”
The earth stopped rotating. The audience inhaled as one before adopting a vow of silence. We froze. My eyes looked to my scene partners for a sign, any sign that I didn’t hear what I damn well knew I just heard.
Henry and Wolsey stood stiffly, silently, eyes locked on each other. I glanced offstage, where a tableau of cast and crew stared back with mouths agape, looking like a demented Hummel choir.
A voice from the great beyond whispered, “Breathe. Say your next line.” In reality, that voice belonged to Georgie. He had crept along the curtain line doing his best not to join us on stage.
I locked my tongue firmly between my teeth and clenched my butt cheeks, unsure where the inevitable eruption might begin. Wolsey’s head bowed as if in prayer. Dimitri looked at me, his mustachioed upper lip twitching, beads of sweat cutting ravines through his pancake makeup. The corners of his mouth curled upward. He forced them down in an exaggerated pout. They rose again and Mount Vesuvius blew its top, spewing laughter in all directions. Wolsey turned away, shoulders rising and falling in rapid succession, fancy-ass robes dancing the Watusi.
Released from their state of suspended animation, our audience sent a tsunami of laughter crashing over the footlights. False starts were followed by more false starts. After what seemed an eternity, gears engaged, dialogue and spit flew. We dashed for the end of the scene. Curtain. Intermission.
A pall befell backstage. We were embarrassed, felt we let our families down, let Jon down. We convinced ourselves that heads would roll, and not just Anne Boleyn’s.
“Has anyone seen Jon?’ Joan asked.
“No sign,” Georgie said. “Places for the second act. Let’s try to keep it together out there.”
An hour later, the curtain finally descended, rising again for the traditional company bow. Our audience sent forth a roar worthy of the Beatles at Shea Stadium. I figured they were thankful for their release from captivity. As applause finally began to ebb, Georgie cued the curtain down. It landed with a soft thump.
“Everyone to the green room,” Georgie said. “Jon wants to see us immediately.”
“We’re so screwed,” Timothy said and kissed the cross he carried as Cardinal Wolsey.
We slowly filed into the classroom serving as our green room. Low murmuring fell silent as Mondello walked in. He paused to take an extra measure of the Unholy Trinity before addressing the room.
“I spent the intermission and most of Act Two in Principal Diagnault’s office.”
“Did he see the show?” Joan asked.
“Saw Act One,” Jon said. “Heard it too.”
“I am so sorry,” Dimitri said.
Jon held up a hand like a cop stopping traffic. “Don’t be sorry. Be right. Your little onstage faux pas wasn’t what he wanted to talk about. Oh, make no mistake, he was disappointed in what he witnessed but understands slip-ups happen. He called it a ‘doozy.’ Said he’d handle any fallout. What he really wanted to discuss was his plan for getting the Lyttleton school board to approve additional arts funding, and how I might help him. He’s thrilled by what our club and the other newly instituted arts programs have achieved in two short years. Congratulations to us all.”
“So, we’re not in trouble?” Joan asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I promised Diagnault I would have Moe, Larry, and Curly report two hours ahead of our Sunday matinee to drill the end of Act One until there was no doubt about Henry’s preferred destination. Other than that, good show everyone.”
Relieved, the cast and crew devolved into giddy chatter. Later, we headed to Georgie’s house where the Don’t Lose Your Head Cast Party raged into the night.
* * *
My transformation from high school jock to fledgling thespian took eight short weeks. My speedy metamorphosis surprised my family, friends and, more than anyone, me. Playing sports had always been a big part of my life, but I realized I lacked the size and agility to succeed beyond high school. I shelved senior football — a sin in some quarters of Lyttleton — but continued playing my first love, baseball. This provided welcomed common ground between me and my closest jock friends.
Jon evolved into my mentor. His encouragement, tutelage, and influence played a central role in my evolution. I began attending plays and socializing with him and his circle of favorites. I appeared in or worked on every production during my remaining year and a half at Lyttleton High, took every theatre class and workshop, and participated in his summer community theatre projects. A glowing recommendation from Jon helped me gain admittance to the theatre program at Rhode Island State College, a much-needed scholarship included.
* * *
Initially, Joan, Georgie, and I came home frequently from our respective schools to visit Jon and lend a hand with Lyttleton High productions. But as the demands of college and early professional theatre work increased, return visits became more difficult to schedule, less frequent, and often saddled with time constraints.
Jon’s annoyance with us first manifested as They-Don’t-Need-Me-Anymore Syndrome. He displayed symptoms of standoffishness and made overly critical comments about our work outside of his orbit. As far as I was concerned, Jon’s displeasure seemed to stem from our doing exactly what he had prepared us to do. Over time, I grew to resent Jon’s resentment.
During the winter of my junior year at State, I promised Jon I’d attend Lyttleton High’s opening night of Guys and Dolls. He arranged a ticket. I arrived ridiculously late, pulling into a nearly empty school parking lot as the first flakes of a brewing coastal storm began to fall. I spotted Jon walking alone to his car. I stepped out. He stopped and stared in my direction. The wind off of Narragansett Bay made thirty-two degrees feel like sixteen.
“So nice of you to stop by,” he said, unlocking his door. “You wasted a ticket we could have sold.”
“Sorry, Jon.”
“Don’t be sorry—”
“Yeah, I know. Be right. I got here as soon as I could. Technical rehearsal was a mess. They called us back this evening to run scene changes. I’m here now.”
“I told my kids Mr. Big Deal was coming to see their work and give them a few pointers. You broke your word, and not only to me.”
Jon got in, closed his door, and cranked down the driver’s window. Giant flakes fluttered into his vehicle while accumulating on my navy-blue peacoat.
“They did a great job,” he said.
“I’m sure they did.”
“Thanks for coming.”
I took a deep breath. Snow coming down heavier rendered our world silently plush.
“Will you also resent them after they move on?” I asked.
Our eyes locked in a long silence before Jon started his car, rolled up the window, turned on the wipers, and drove away. I walked back to my vehicle, snow crunching beneath my feet. The world turned white in an instant.
I have thought about that night a million times over the years, always intending to make things right. But my maturation lagged, time passed, and distance grew. Today, I can see how the final chapter of our relationship might have turned out differently. But today is not yesterday, and Jonathan A. Mondello, Jr. passed away suddenly without our ever exchanging another word. Remorse found a home deep in my soul.
* * *
We finished the final technical rehearsal for a play I no longer recall, in a giant theatre long past its prime, in a city a long way from Lyttleton. “One a.m. Late for a Thursday night,” I said.
“Friday morning,” Bobby corrected. “Everything’s closed.”
I noted a tone of frustration. The shuttle had taken our cast back to the hotel two hours earlier. The crew fled an hour later, desperate to make last call. Bobby, my assistant stage manager, and I remained to do paperwork, review notes, and plan tomorrow’s schedule.
“Okay. Let’s pack up and get out of here,” I said. “Kill the lights and secure the space.”
Bobby set to work. Soon only the ghost light remained, standing sentinel, throwing long shadows in all directions, illuminating a century’s worth of dust particles as they danced their never-ending ballet. From the wings, I heard Bobby give the padlock on our tool cage a final rattle, footfalls growing faint as he walked deeper offstage. I absorbed the stillness and inhaled the musty smell all theatres have.
“Do you ever get that feeling?” I called after Bobby.
“Whaaat?” His voice was muffled by yards of thick velour drapery hanging between us.
“That feeling you’re not alone, especially late at night. That those who came before us never left. Figuratively, you know.”
“The roar of the greasepaint...”
“What did you say?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anything!” Bobby said.
His penlight flashed back and forth from the deepest recesses of backstage. A figment without definition hovered beyond the ghost light, fading as rapidly as it appeared.
“Once it gets in your bones...”
“You can’t shake it,” I said.
“Shake what?” Bobby asked as he emerged from the wings, the ghost light casting his giant shadow on the two-story set wall behind him.
“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s get out of here. Get some sleep. Opening night tomorrow.”
Copyright © 2025 by Dennis A. Blackledge
