Live Free or Die
by Louis Scenti
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
In the summer of 1980, Mary asked me to go on a date. Actually, to be more accurate, it wasn’t Mary who did the asking, it was Kath, my friend Junior’s wife, who asked... for Mary. It was strange, because Mary was twenty-six, and I was almost twenty-three. It wasn’t like she needed somebody to pass a note in study hall. In any case, if I’d known then what I know now, I’d have said no. Well, not really. It wasn’t my style to say no. I just would have found a way to get out of it.
It was the end of my second summer at the Alton Playhouse in New Hampshire. Junior, the production stage manager and my best friend from college, had hired me as his assistant. We’d been in the theater program at Gillespie State College in Rhode Island.
I’d won the oddly named Special Talent Scholarship, awarded to two incoming freshmen every year. I took that to mean somebody thought I had potential as an actor. At the time, I did think I wanted to be an actor — you know, the glare of the klieg lights, the smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd — but, what I really liked was simply being — or at least pretending to be — someone else.
But I went down the path of least resistance, following Junior around, doing gigs as his assistant when I wasn’t getting any acting work, which I rarely did. So, as an unemployed actor sidestepping poverty, not to mention the summer heat of Manhattan, hitching my train to Junior’s was a no-brainer.
One day, well into the season, when routines had shed their novelty and the staff had paired off for the obligatory summer flings and the work had grown stultifying, I spied Kath fast-stepping to head me off on my way to check on the interns.
“Hey, Mike.”
“Hey, Kath, how you doing? Did you close Austin’s last night? I went straight home. I was beat.”
Austin’s bar and restaurant was where we finished most nights with a drink. Or two. I was lying to Kath; I wasn’t beat. The thing was, I hadn’t met anyone that summer. Not even a one-night stand. I didn’t want to be in a bar watching other people having fun.
“Nope, not last night. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”
“Okay?”
“Mary’s grandfather is really sick. He’s got cancer.”
Mary waited tables at Austin’s. The crew from the playhouse knew her and the other servers pretty well. We were summer friends, picking up the thread each May, agreeably losing touch in September.
“That sucks,” I said, and I meant it.
“She found out last night. Told us while she was serving us. Anyway, she hopes you’ll be her date at her cousin’s wedding. Well, the reception.”
I didn’t respond.
“Mary needs a date for the reception.” She said it louder, as if I were impaired.
“Why don’t you ask J.D.? He’ll do it,” I said.
“Mike! Be serious, he’s a snake,” she said, shaking her head. “Besides, Mary likes you. As a friend. She thinks you’re a nice guy. She’s embarrassed about the whole thing.”
The epitaph of my dating life: Nice guy. Friend.
“Kath, I don’t know. I don’t get it. Why does she need a date?”
“She just does. I mean, who goes to a wedding solo, right?”
Me, I thought. “How much of a couple are we supposed to be?”
“You’re an actor. Play the part.”
“C’mon, Kath, what gives?”
“Hold her hand. Dance a dance. Hang on her every word, I don’t know. Just make sure the grandfather sees it.”
“The grandfather?”
“The one with cancer. She wants to make him happy.”
I liked Mary well enough, but I wasn’t interested in her in that way. I’m not sure why, to be honest. Okay. If I am being honest, Mary was a little... rounder... than the women I was usually attracted to. I know that sounds shallow. But that’s how it was. Now her roommate, Jackie, well, I’d harbored a not-so-secret crush on her since last summer. She was sexy. Maybe too sexy for me, but if it had been Jackie asking me indirectly or otherwise to take her to her cousin’s wedding for the sake of her dying grandfather, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
“C’mon, yes or no? You’re not marrying her.” Kath liked to make things happen. Some people called her controlling. Not me.
“Okay. But I have to get the night off from the boss.”
“I already gave him a heads-up. Thanks, Mike. I’ll tell Mary.”
I didn’t think much more about it. How bad could it be? Maybe it would be a break in the routine. Plus, you know, a wedding: free food and drinks.
I walked through the peeling and neglected barn doors of the scene shop on my way backstage. Coming inside from the intense sunlight, red pinwheels twirled in the void. Backstage black. No wonder theater people were so pale.
The Pretender’s “Brass in Pocket” was blasting. No doubt from Nicky the intern’s boom box. My eyes adjusted and I saw him and another intern, Alyssa — his summer love — jump up from where they were sitting.
“Hey, Nick, working hard or hardly working?”
“We were taking a break. It’s hot.”
“How ’bout if I tell you when to take a break? C’mon, the deck won’t sweep itself.”
Walking away, I heard him mutter, “Go back to the bar, asshole,” and Alyssa’s insipid giggle assured me I’d been insulted, not that I needed the assurance. The kid was a spoiled blowhard with a rich father.
Junior was at the back of the house in the production booth with the road manager for the current show: The Owl and the Pussycat.
Back in the day, the Alton Playhouse had hosted A-list stars who, like their sunburned patrons, sought escape from the heat of city summer. But much had changed. The headliners were now mostly fading Broadway musical stars of an era rendered quaint by the new wave of Broadway ushered in by A Chorus Line. In the case of non-musicals, the headliners were mostly B-list, sitcom actors riding out their remaining years on the other side of modest fame. The featured star of Pussycat was a character actor coming off almost a decade of fame in the TV series M*A*S*H. He must have lost a bet with his agent.
I signaled to Junior and picked up the headset at my deck station in the wings. “How’s it going?”
“Good. We’re wrapping up. Easy week. Two characters, one set.”
“Thank goodness.” Repertory summer stock meant hosting a new show every week. Twelve weeks, twelve shows. The crew consisted of unpaid interns augmented by professional department heads. We worked upwards of fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, prepping the upcoming show during the day, running the current show each night. You had to love it because if you didn’t you’d go insane or shoot yourself or something. One thing was certain; you didn’t do it for money.
“Hey, I need Saturday off. Kath already mentioned this, right? I think I can get Donny to cover the deck.”
Donny was our technical director and summer housemate. He’d gone to Gillespie with us. Junior and Kath had rented a sweet A-frame chalet in the woods, and we took the other two bedrooms. Donny owed me for jumping in on an all-nighter for the previous show, when his interns were too exhausted to finish putting up the flats they’d spent far too long constructing and painting.
“Yeah, my wife has already informed me,” he said. “Sounds like fun, if you’re into arranged dates.” Junior and I liked to banter, but for some reason I wasn’t in the mood. I just walked backstage and made sure the interns were pre-set for the show.
Around five o’clock, I decided to check with Mary about the whole date thing. Outside, the sun was still strong, but the scorch had subsided. I cut through the parking lot despite aggressive weeds pushing up through the cracked asphalt and walked into Austin’s bar entrance.
The place was dim and cool. They kept it like a meat locker to encourage patrons to fortify themselves, I assumed. I caught Mary’s eye and she mouthed “one minute.” I sat at the bar and looked around. I was disappointed Jackie wasn’t on shift.
The bar was one of those standard affairs. Dark wood, the glass shelves were appropriately populated with the top-shelf brands, and a large mirror stood in the center. The mahogany was old and sleek, the smooth surface, familiar. For a brief moment, I lingered on my reflection. I usually liked the way I looked but, lately, I’d been wondering why I was embarrassed by what I saw staring back at me.
I came back to reality when Dewayne, one of the other bartenders, slid a coaster in front of me. “Michael, the usual?”
“What else? What’s up with you?”
“Another day in the beautiful Lakes Region. Live Free or Die, my man.” He poured my drink: Jack Daniels, rocks, with a splash and a twist.
“Beats working for a living,” I said, sliding more than enough bills across the bar. In New York, I made it a point to take care of service people and bartended in between gigs. The back of my head warmed after a long pull on the drink. Things were looking up.
“You should know. Isn’t that why they call it a playhouse?”
“Ha! You sound like my old man.”
Mary had come around behind me. “Hi,” she said.
“Hey, hi. How you doing?” I said, turning my body on the high stool.
“Good. You?”
“Yup, good. I’m good.”
I’d known Mary for two summers, but this exchange was awkward, as if something had changed. She took the stool next to me, her knee brushing mine. I felt a curious tingle. That’s the only way I can describe it: curious.
“So, I talked to Kath earlier.”
“She told me. Do you think it’s strange?”
“Strange? No, I’m happy to be your faux date.”
“Thank you. It’s a long story. My grandpa will be happy if he thinks I’m seeing someone.”
“I’m happy to be seen.”
Mary’s laugh was polite, but a little forced. She looked away. I did too. I let my eyes land on the wall of photographs separating the bar and lounge area from the dining room. It was an homage to those who made things happen in the Granite State, yellowing black and white shots, both posed and candid.
The most recent photo featured the magnanimous visage of the current governor, Hugh Gallen. Vince, the owner and son of the previous owner, prided himself on his connections. I turned back to Mary. She looked antsy.
“Okay. Well... I have to get back to my section. I’ll meet you in the parking lot at five-thirty, Saturday. I’ll buy you a drink,” she said, grinning.
“A free drink? I’m in. See you then.”
* * *
I didn’t have wedding clothes. Or wedding reception clothes, for that matter. I put on a pair of good jeans and a western-style red-and-white plaid cotton shirt with fake pearl buttons, pointy collars and pocket flaps. A worn pair of suede cowboy boots was as close to dress shoes as I had in those days. The Urban Cowboy thing was all the rage, so I wasn’t too self-conscious. I borrowed a tan corduroy sport coat from Donny’s closet, downed a couple of shots of Jack for luck and drove to Austin’s.
When I got there, Mary was standing in front of her car, talking to Junior.
“Looking good, pardner,” said Junior. “How’s things out on the North Forty?”
“Funny, really hilarious. Maybe you should be on the stage.”
“You look fine, Mike,” said Mary. “Don’t listen to him.”
Mary was wearing a white blouse with puffy shoulders and short sleeves. Her skin was tanned, the wispy hairs on her forearms were bleached out, almost white. I’d never seen her in a dress. She had nice calves. Her light, wavy hair was down, not gathered at the back as it often was during her shifts.
The drive was soothing, the air cooling as the day lengthened, the sky coloring violet and pink, soft filaments unravelling at the horizon. After the monotonous grind of the repertory routine, the outing had the feeling of a work release: free for the night.
We drove in silence. My daydreaming and the blandness of interstate driving reminded me I didn’t know if we were on I-93 or 95. As we crossed the claustrophobic Piscataqua bridge in Portsmouth — a reminder that New Hampshire actually did possess a coastline — I realized that Mary had chosen to come down I-95, hugging the Maine border. Not what I would have done, but I wasn’t driving.
Pregnant silence persisted. Then she said, “Are you okay with this? I’m a little nervous.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“I thought you were an actor. This should be easy, right?”
“I’m not an actor. Well, not a paid one.”
“Have you been in any shows?”
“No. I mean, I was in college. People said I was good. They gave me a scholarship. Since I moved to New York, I’ve auditioned a lot. I don’t get called back. I take acting classes, or I took them. But, I don’t know. It’s not happening. I can’t figure it out.”
Truth was, I had figured it out. I wasn’t very good. It wasn’t just the rejection; that’s part of the life. It was an instinct, a feeling. In my first New York City acting class, there was a guy who’d worked a lot Off-Broadway. He was doing a scene where he was supposed to be a cowboy trucker or some such thing. He did this piece of business where he kind of slid his cap to the back of his head and scratched his scalp. It was so... real. I’ll never forget it. I couldn’t have imagined making such a move. Unless it was in the stage directions. Or the director told me to do it.
“It must be a hard way to make a living. I hope you figure it out.” It was a kind sentiment, but I could sense her preoccupation.
“You okay?”
“I’m still stuck on what to say to my grandpa. And how to deal with my mother. She can be a pain in the ass.”
“Tell him you’ve missed him. How glad you are to see him. He’ll just be happy to see you, right? You want to make him happy, right?”
“I got married when I was nineteen. To make him happy.”
“Whoa. I didn’t know you were married.”
“It was a big mistake. We can leave it at that.”
“And your mother?”
Her brows knit together. She pursed her lips in contempt. Just as quickly her expression snapped back into neutral. She put both hands on the steering wheel at ten and two.
“Let’s not go there.”
* * *
Copyright © 2026 by Louis Scenti
