• Written by: Anthony Marvullo

Did you start reading Anthony Marvullo’s awesome fiction story in the Spring 2008 issue of em magazine and realize there was something missing? Like an ending? Yeah, here’s the whole story, as promised.

Julius native on last day of bad luck
JULIUS – Richard Jeffson, who six years and 364 days ago smashed a full-length mirror in his home’s foyer, is set to celebrate his first day of good luck in the Village Green gazebo on Friday.

“I’ve thought about this for so long,” said Jeffson, a community activist and radiologist at the Julius Sacre Couer Infirmary. “In two days I will be out of this misery and I am going to party!”

The misery he speaks of is the 7 years of bad luck that comes with breaking any mirror, purposefully or otherwise. Coupled with other superstitious foibles, the term of unluckiness could last much longer.

Said Jeffson, “For the last six years I have stayed away from salt, ladders, cats of any color, and women in wedding gowns. I haven’t moved up in my job, been in a fulfilling relationship, or anything. On Friday that changes.”

Celebrations are to start Friday at 4:00 PM in the Village Green Gazebo. Refreshments will be provided.

* * * *

The mayor of the town of Julius had a staunch open-door policy and at that moment, three men in brown duster jackets were utilizing it with marvelous aplomb. The men had introduced themselves as representatives of the dozens-strong Ribaldry Troupe, a traveling coterie of melodramatists and wholehearted thespians, who had that morning paraded down Julius’ main street with bass drums thumping and trumpets blazing, past the Julius Daily Gazette Offices, past the Sacre Coeur Infirmary and Madam Mademoiselle’s Psychic Boutique, in order to announce that they had come to town to perform Shakespeare’s late tragic and Scottish masterpiece in a public space.
They had said to the Mayor that they were men of honor and that they sought from him the permission to perform in town, just as traveling acting troupes of old had done to show respect for authority and order.

But even with such composure as the three men had exhibited, the Mayor could not be fooled when the man who was probably the leader, the one with the salt-and-pepper mustache and by far the cleanest jacket, stepped forward and introduced a catch—and the Mayor thought that it was perhaps the Catch, the catch of all catches that overshadowed all of history’s clauses and loopholes—that the Ribaldry Troupe were theatrical minimalists in the most literal sense.

“We are nudists, your honor, sir,” said the Troupe leader. “Brechtian nudists! We perform acts dazzling and inventive and we perform them in the suits that our mothers gave us.”

“God!” said the Mayor. “You travel around and perform famous plays naked?”

“We do,” replied the leader.

“As the man whose duty it is to uphold the highest standards of morals and public decency,” said the Mayor, “I’m afraid it will be a tough sell to the public if you are to perform Mac—”

The three Troupe representatives twitched and covered their ears.

“I swear on the beating celestial heart of God Himself,” interrupted the leader, “that if you say the name of the play aloud, one of the actors you see in front of you will be dead before nightfall. Notice that I do not blink.”

The Mayor realized what he had almost done. Uttering the name of that play was bad luck for everyone involved. “OK, I’m sorry. But again, as the mayor of this town, I cannot allow you to perform Shakespeare’s late masterpiece of unchecked ambition and rampant emasculation in the buff.”

One of the men behind the leader stepped forward. “Fie on that!” he said. “We are actors! Of all trades and facets and faces. Mr. Mayor, sir, could we ere a million years gain your sacred trust, your honor, sir, must we sacrifice our art for the sake of comfort?”

The Mayor was rendered speechless. It was because the man had muttered a sacred phrase and struck a nerve. It was that civic, idealistic nerve inherent in all those who seek public offices in any shape or form, the nerve that acts as a blistering political smelter, out of which pours the heated desire for change and the eradication of mediocrity.

A liberal statesman, whose constituents had re-elected him seven times him based on a platform of familiarity and charisma, the Mayor had admittedly grown jaded, and when the garrulous actor asked the rhetorical question, “Must we sacrifice art for the sake of comfort?” there occurred a small revelation of nostalgia and fire.

When the Mayor first ran for office and he was just in his late-20s, he did a public speaking tour of Julius and each night, whether it was in the VFW or the Public Market or the Julius High cafeteria, his aides erected behind him a poster that read, “Must we sacrifice change for the sake of comfort?” His speeches were so arousing that men shed tears at each comma and women gradually lost layers of clothing in full-fledged support. He won that race in an historical landslide and had been mayor ever since.

“All we seek,” said the Troupe leader, bringing the Mayor back to the present in his office and to the racy matter-at-hand, “is your permission to perform the play on the Village Green. We are the Ribaldry Troupe; we will be spectacular.”

“Yes,” said the Mayor. “A resounding yes! You have awakened in me a long-slumbering, youthful and exuberant servant of the populace. May your nude rendition of that great Scottish tragedy bring pleasure to this fair town.”

Upon hearing this, the leader with the salt-and-pepper mustache bowed so low and with such reverence that his nose hit the Mayor’s desk. The representatives of the Ribaldry Troupe then left the office.

“Exciting!” said the Mayor to himself. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen a performance of Macbeth—Oh shit.”

* * * *

Breaking news! Local man’s good luck party usurped by Mayor-backed nudist acting troupe’s production of late Shakespeare masterpiece. Details to follow.

* * * *

Alarice sat in the waiting room of Madam Mademoiselle’s Psychic Boutique, reading the pamphlet the receptionist had given her after she checked in. The pamphlet’s title was “Picturing Your Soul: A Guide to Aura Photography.”

“So you want to have your aura photographed,” it read. “Here at Mme. Mademoiselle’s Psychic Boutique we take our work very seriously. Our state of the art camera equipment and trained seers will show you the intricacies of the luminous and many-colored vibrations of your soul. The color and strength of your aura will reflect your mood and, more importantly, your health.”

The waiting room held a handful of other people, all of whom were reading the same pamphlet. These people, Alarice thought, would probably be categorized as upper-level hypochondriacs, those who had exhausted all cry-wolf physical symptoms and have turned to the parapsychological and holistic for attention. They were the people with the sweaty palms and the vocal nostrils resulting from a neglected post-nasal drip. They were nerds

It was Alarice who, up until the waiting room, had been on a three-month Aristotelian bender resulting from her husband’s absence. Her spouse was Staff Sgt. Nicolas Yang, who was on his premier tour of duty in the Middle East. It marked the first time they had been apart since the marriage five years prior. In that marital vacancy, Alarice tried kinds of activities—intramural volleyball, swimming at the Y, expressionist painting—but nothing fulfilled her and so she fell into despair. Was she missing a soul? Was it in Basra with her husband?

Normally Alarice would have never thought to pay for a photograph of her aura but she was desperate. To see the soul! To have a portrait taken and developed as a cloud of cranial dust and color, reflecting that which endures as the only thing of value in this heavy, heavy world. An $85 aura photograph is a steal for such an opportunity.
The receptionist entered the waiting room. “Is there an Alarice?”
“Yes?” said Alarice.

“The psychic photographer will see you now.”
Alarice walked out of the waiting room, her heart open and ready for scrutiny.

* * * *

“Now, a developing community story. The Ribaldry Troupe, a traveling group of nudist actors, will perform in the Village Green tomorrow evening. The performance conflicts with community activist and radiologist Richard Jeffson’s much-publicized ‘First Day of Good Luck’ Party. Our own Megan Donnelly is at the Village Green for this report. Megan.”

“Thanks, Chet. I’m standing in front of the Village Green gazebo where, in twenty-four hours’ time, the eccentric Ribaldry Troupe will perform Shakespeare’s great Scottish play in the nude. I am also with Richard Jeffson, the disgruntled radiologist on his last day of bad luck after breaking a mirror six years and 365 days ago. Richard, are you going through with this party?”

“Of course not, lady! I got a call from the Mayor’s office yesterday, informing me that they switched my party permits for the day after tomorrow. But the day after tomorrow is not my first day of good luck. Tomorrow is. And I am pissed.”
“Do you think that it’s a terrible coincidence that the upcoming nude performance got you bumped from using the Village Green? Or is it perhaps the last hurrah of seven years of bad luck? The last straw, if you will.”

“I will! It is the last straw. I have done nothing but good for this town. I’ve donated to the arts, to the schools, to the shelters, and before you cut me off, I want to say a few words to the Troupe who usurped my good luck party: Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth!”

“Scathing words for a man wronged by a shattered mirror. This is Megan Donnelly reporting for Channel 7 Eyewitness News. Back to you, Chet.”

* * * *

It was perhaps that mellifluous latter-day historian and philosopher Ted Dusseldorph who said, “If only mirrors were more accurate!”

And it was Alarice’s psychic photographer who said, “Sometimes our mood is such that our aura refuses to be photographed.” He said it in a low, slow voice that all holistic healers and great men of bullshit possess. He then gave her a pocket mirror, stating that it provided “a reflection of the soul, and even though your aura was not photogenic today, a simple gaze into the mirror will calm you.”

But the simple truth of it was that Alarice exited Mme. Mademoiselle’s Psychic Boutique with a portrait and a pocket mirror, and with no change to the despair that was slowly crippling her. In the photograph she carried there was no aura, no luminous and multi-colored vibrations of her soul. All cynical and frightening thoughts that had hitherto lurked in her mental corners suddenly jumped downstage and into the spotlight.

She spent the afternoon wandering the streets of Julius and eventually made her way to the Village Green.

* * * *

RADIOACTIVE EMISSION ALERT:

From the Mayor’s Office: Citizens residing within a 4-mile radius to the Sacre Coeur Infirmary may experience minor nausea and lightheadedness this afternoon. The X-ray machines in the radiology department were recently pushed beyond their thresholds, thereby emitting waves of nonfatal radioactivity. Do not worry. The radiation is nonfatal. There will be no evacuation.

* * * *

The naked actor portraying King Duncan in the play entered stage left. “What bloody man is that?” he recited.
As promised by the Mayor’s Arts Council, The Ribaldry Troupe’s nude production of Shakespeare’s late Scottish masterpiece started promptly at 4:00. The entire town of Julius filled the lawn of the Village Green around the gazebo.

The salt-and-pepper mustachioed leader of the actors sat in the green room beneath a trap door in the gazebo. As the unspeakable titular character, he did not have to be on stage until the third scene. When fifteen minutes had passed without his cue, which was supposed to be the cackle of the three witches who were hexing pretty much every character in the play, the leader grew worried.

A naked woman slid down the ladder to the green room and landed with a thud, her prosthetic witch-nose falling off in the process.

“Sir!” she said, flushed and out of breath.

“What’s going on out there?” asked the leader.

“A few things. For one, we can see that the audience is kinda having trouble figuring out who is supposed to be whom, us being naked and all.”

“I figured that would happen.”

“And for two, there is a man in the crowd—a more meaner-looking man I have never seen—and he is screaming the title of the play at the top of his lungs.”

“He blasphemes!” said the leader. He started toward the ladder.
Up on the gazebo two naked women with witch-noses stood silent, at a loss for how to control the madman in the crowd.

“Macbeth!” screamed the man. “Hey! Hey! Macbeth!”

The leader of the actors broke the fourth wall.

“Excuse me, buddy, but we’re trying to put on a play.”

“Oh you mean Macbeth?”

“Stop saying that! You’re cursing us.”

“Seven years ago I broke a mirror and now my punishment is over. You have no right to waltz into town and bump my good luck party, you nudist dirtbags. You fat-witted scandalizers. You deflowerers of all that is holy and pristine about theater. Go suck an egg. Suck a dozen eggs, you jerks of minimalism. I’ll curse you all I want and I’ll do it in terms you understand: A plague upon your houses. There.”

* * * *

The Village Green was so crowded that Alarice had to stay on the sidewalk. She saw that the nudist production of the play had come to a halt because a man in the audience was swearing up and down that he’d not allow this play to continue as long as he relied on his good luck. Apparently the people of Julius were entertained enough by this raving man and it was considered just as scandalous as a nude performance.
Slowly a heavy haze set in and Alarice found it hard to see the skirmish by the gazebo. She made out a mustachioed man onstage, gesticulating wildly and rebutting the raving man’s words.

She looked away, not caring enough to figure out the problem. Her head felt lighter than usual but she chalked it up to the fact that she didn’t have a soul, and thought it would be best, perhaps, to sit on the sidewalk and wait for Death himself, who very probably had an inventory of soulless individuals needing the cold finger of darkness.

She instead passed out.

* * * *

“We’re going to act out this tragedy” added the Troupe leader. “Whether you like it or not, buddy.”

The madman in the audience faltered and nearly lost his balance. In fact the Troupe leader noticed that most of the audience looked winded and flushed. On an otherwise balmy sixty-five degree afternoon, men and women fanned themselves with the Arts Council playbills and removed layers of unneeded clothing.

Someone in the audience screamed out, “Come on, dude! Let these nudists act out the play. You can have your party some other time.”

“Yeah!” said somebody else. “You’re not gonna walk under any ladders, are you? Celebrate your good luck tomorrow.”

“The people have spoken,” said the leader.
“The people are sheep!” said the interrupter. “You are a bunch of—” He faltered again.

“I—I think—oh forget it.” And he left in a huff.

* * * *

Alarice awoke to the sound of the cheering crowd in the Village Green. She was supine on the sidewalk and was slow to her feet.

The cheering stopped abruptly and she heard someone scream, “What’s going on? Are we melting?”

Opening her eyes, Alarice saw that the whole of the town of Julius was glowing. Was it the haze? At that moment, deep within her, she felt a life force, a kicking of her consciousness. She swelled with the power to expel despair and she felt the presence of her husband stationed in Iraq. Breathe, he said. Now look at everything. Look at the luminous and multi-colored vibrations of the world. So she did.

And around everyone there was a colorful mélange of haze and dust! There were greens and yellows and reds! Alarice remembered this from the Psychic Boutique’s pamphlet. Green represented life and social vitality. Yellow, the awakening of the Sun and the birth of creativity!

She looked into the pocket mirror given to her by the psychic photographer. She saw glowing. There were slight hues of blue! The color of the spirit, the symbol of peace! A hint of red, the life force. But most of all, she saw white, the color from which all colors emanate. At that moment she was everything and everything was in her aura. White was balance. White was angelic.

Alarice could not take her eyes off the aura in her reflection. Because of this, she did not see the man in a huff who was rushing to get out of the Village Green. He shoved her aside and kept walking. The mirror fell out of Alarice’s hands and shattered on the sidewalk.

The man stopped. It was an eons-long pause. He looked at mirror’s remains and wept.