Distinctly Montana Magazine

W W W. D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A . C O M 47 LITERARY LODE LITERARY LODE DEPARTMENT LITERARY LODE By RICHARD S. WHEELER ANYTHING GOES And now, opening night, the place was half filled and those who had braved the chill mountain winds were sitting on their hands. Who were they, out there? Did they understand English? Were they born without a funny bone? Why had a sour silence descended, a miasma of boredom or ill humor, or maybe disdain, settled like fog over the crowd, what there was of it? August Beausoleil grabbed a cane and silk top hat, and strutted into the limelight, Big City man in gray tuxedo, in the middle of cold wilderness. "Ladies and Gents," he said. "at was the Wildroot Sisters, the Sweethearts of Hoboken, New Jersey. Let's give them a big hand." No one did. "Citizens of this fair city– where am I?– Keokuk? Grand Rapids? Ah, Helena, the must beautiful and famous metropolis in North Ameri- ca– yes, there you are, welcoming the Beausoleil Brothers Follies." Well, anyway, waiting for what- ever came next. No one laughed. "And now, the famed Marbury Trio, from Poughkeepsie, in the great state of New York, doing a rare and exotic dance, a lost art, for your edification." It was, actually, a tap dance, and they did it brightly; the dolled- up threesome syncopating feet and legs and canes, as rhythmic clatter that usually set a crowd to nodding and smiling. But the applause was scattered, at best. Was something wrong? A mine disaster? An election loss? A bribery indictment? Nothing of the sort had shown up in the two-cent press before the show. e trouble was, the week hung in balance. A bad review, three bad reviews in the three daily rags, and the Beausoleil Brothers Follies would be in trouble. He eyed the shadowy audience sourly, and came to a decision. He talked quietly to two stage hands, who told him there were few tomatoes this time of year in Helena, but plenty of rotten apples, which would do almost as well. "Do it," he said. "I knew it," said Mrs. McGivers. "I saw it coming. You should pay me extra. It grieves my soul." "I didn't know you had one," he said. Mrs. McGivers and her Monkey Band would follow. Like most vaudeville shows, this one had an animal act, and the Monkey Band was it. Mrs. McGivers, a stout con- tralto, would soon take the stage with her two obnoxious capuchin monkeys, Cain and Abel, and an accordionist name Joseph. Cain would pick up the cymbals, one for each paw, while Abel would com- mand two drum sticks and perch with a bass drum in front of him. e master of ceremonies an- nounced the one, the only, the sensational Mrs. McGivers and her Monkey Band, and quick enough she hustled out into the limelight, the little criminals on her shoulders, while Joseph set up the act, the beasts on their chairs, the miniature cymbals, the drum, and finally, his accordion. e audience stared, lost in silence. Would nothing crack this dreary opening night? Mrs. McGivers had come from the tropics somewhere, and the rumor was that she had killed a couple of husbands, but no one could prove it. Her repertoire ran to calypso from Trinidad and Tobago, mostly stuff never heard by northern ears, which usually annoyed the audience, which would have preferred bible songs and spirituals as a way of countering the dangerous idea that man had descended from apes. ere, indeed, were two small primates, wiry little rascals dressed in red and gold uniforms, making dangerous movements with drumsticks and cymbals in hand. Excerpt courtesy of Tor/Forge Books. Copyright (c) 2015 by Richard S. Wheeler. This was Ming's Opera House, in Helena, in the young state of Montana, a fancy theater just up the flank of Last Chance Gulch, where millions in gold had been washed out of the earth just a few feverish years earlier. CONTINUED

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