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11-02-02, to Frank McCoy
Ping McCoy fans
Instead of the stage being open and lit with the single, elegant (and inexpensive) spotlight, the heavy, red-velvet curtain is closed across the polished, wooden platform.
Above the normal din of voices and arguments-er-discussions, a hammering sound can be heard from behind the curtain.
Pound, bang, crash, “Ouch! Drat 3;” Clatter. Crash. “Ouch! Drat 3;” Shuffle. Bang. Crash. “Ouch! Drat 3; Drat 3;” Boom! “There. Better. Now, where’s that nest?”
The curtain slides open to reveal La Taverna’s Birthday Nymph, her wings covered with a light blanket of sawdust. She hastily removes a yellow and white striped crafter’s apron and tosses it behind her.
And speaking of ‘behind her 3;’ No longer is our stage the elegant, simple, bare-wooden platform that’s served La Taverna well for lo these many weeks. Behind the Nymph is a series of steps and platforms… obviously what was the Nymph was working so diligently on behind the curtain.
The light cloud of smoke hovering above her head reveals that perhaps she wasn’t quite as ‘hands-on’ with the construction as might be required. From behind her back she brings out a handful of twigs and grass, a crude nest, and in the nest we can see a puff of gray and white down. With gentle fingers, the Nymph takes the little bird and places it on the bottom step of the wooden structure.
“Ahem.” There’s a continual rumbling from the patrons.
“Ahem.” Mutter, mumble, sip, slurp, grope.
She raises her wand above her head. BOOM!
“Ahem. Thank you.”
“First of all, people, thank you for your attention. Before I begin I have a small, administrative announcement to make. Apparently, January and February are very popular months for 3; shall we say 3; ‘carnal’ activities? So, I’d like to inform you all that it IS possible to enjoy outdoor activities during the winter months.
“Yes. It’s a birthday today. The first of quite a few November birthdays. I asked around and did some research to determine the absolutely most perfect gift for today’s Birthday Boy, and I must say, it’s an odd gift, but everyone assures me that it’s just what he wants. So, here goes.”
She does a little skipping dance back to the waiting bird. With one hand she pushes the bird up to the second step. Then another push up to the third step, then to the fourth.
One of the patrons sets his drink down and comes to the edge of the stage. “Um, Birthday Nymph?”
“Yes?”
“Whose birthday is it, and what the heck are you doing?”
“It’s Frank McCoy's birthday, and from what I understand this is exactly what he wants.”
“Um, Birthday Nymph? Are you nuts?”
“No. Of course not.”
“So, what are you doing?”
“Just what he wants. I’m knocking up an underage gull.”
“Um, Birthday Nymph? C’mere.”
She sets the bird gently back into its nest and kneels at the edge of the stage to place her ear to his lips. She listens for a moment, then blushes furiously to the tips of her gossamer wings.
“Oh! Well. Um. Oops. Sorry Frank. Happy birthday.”
