Comedy is tragedy that happens to other people.
—Angela Carter
In the distance they could hear the sound of an orchestra tuning up. It was getting close to show time. Chorus girls in feathers and thongs strode by in their half-naked splendor. Alex stopped to stare, but Lewis shoved him on through the backstage maze towards the exit.
“We gotta get outta here.”
“Hey, I was just looking.”
As they passed the Wardrobe Department, they heard a familiar voice.
“Moan, moan, moan. Night and day. That’s all they ever did. Until I was sick to death of ’em. So I told them. That’s enough for me. I’m out of here. I hear the call of the audience. The lure of the footlights. The smell of the greasepaint. I’m going back to the theater!”
It was their Washing Machine. Mrs. Greenaway sat in splendor among the dressbots, happily kvetching while they listened spellbound, reveling in her.
“‘You’re not cooping me up any longer,’ I said. The caged bird must fly. It is a life of show business for me.’”
“You said that to your humans?”
“I told ’em straight. I’m sick of all this comedy malarkey. They think they’re so funny with their sex dolls and their trollops.”
“How dare she say that?” said Alex, outraged.
“Oh, let’s just leave her. She’ll be happy here,” said Lewis.
“That’s right,” said Alex. “We don’t need her now Carlton likes dressing up as a bedbot.”
Carlton put his nose in the air and bore their taunts nobly. They would soon see what he was made of.
“Hey, you.”
“Me?” said Alex.
“Yes, you.”
A large stage doorman was looking at them suspiciously.
“Come here.”
“Who, me?” said Alex with great confidence.
“Yes, you. Who are you?”
“Muscroft and Ashby,” said Lewis. “We’re on the bill.”
“You were removed,” said the doorman.
“Well, we’ve been put back again,” said Alex.
“But you have no dressing room.”
“That’s okay, we’re dressed. See.” He indicated Carlton.
“That robot’s in drag,” said the doorman.
“Comedy,” said Alex. “That’s what we do.”
“No, no, no,” said the doorman. “You’ve got to have a proper dressing room. You can’t be on a show and have no dressing room, that won’t do at all.”
Fortunately the doorman was distracted by the arrival of a large party of men at the stage door behind him. He turned to face the new problem.
“And who may I ask are you lot?”
“Visitors. We have backstage passes.”
“These are to see Brenda Woolley.”
“Yes.”
“She’s not here.”
“Nevertheless these are passes.”
“These are passes to see her, and I’ve told you she’s not here.”
“Quickly, in here,” said Lewis, shoving Alex and Carlton through a doorway. He slammed the door shut and flipped on the light. They looked in amazement. A plush pink and gold room of utter magnificence greeted their eyes. It was the Number 1 dressing room.
“Wow,” said Alex. “Gay heaven.”
Lewis turned and looked back through the tiny spyhole.
“We can’t be in here,” said Carlton in a shocked voice. “This is Brenda Woolley’s dressing room.”
“Shut up, I’m trying to hear,” said Lewis, his eye pressed to the hole. He couldn’t quite make out what was going on. There seemed to be some kind of altercation by the stage door. Who were all these men? Surely they were hardly Brenda Woolley fans? A short dark-haired man was arguing forcefully with the doorman.
“I’m sorry, sir, you’ll just have to come back later.”
“Well, that won’t be possible, I’m afraid.”
“I can’t admit you. Security has been tightened since the shooting, and it’s more than my job’s worth to let you in.”
“You’re quite right,” said the short man. “It is more than your job’s worth.”
Lewis turned back to watch Alex preening in front of Brenda Woolley’s elaborate gilded makeup mirror. It looked like an altarpiece.
“Uhm, sweetheart, lay it on with a trowel,” said Alex, lifting his hair off his face.
“Shh,” said Lewis. “They’ll hear us.”
“Soundproofed,” said Carlton. “But I really don’t think we should be in here.”
When Lewis turned back, there was no sign of the doorman, but fifteen large men were clattering down the corridor. He thought for a second they were coming straight for Brenda Woolley’s dressing room, but they paused outside while the dark-haired man pointed half of them towards an elevator that said PRIVATE CONTROL ROOM ONLY.
“Who on earth are they?” said Lewis. “A male choir?” They seemed too beefy even for a Welsh choir. The rest of the party ran down the stairs. There was a new man on the door now, in a Security jacket that seemed too short for him.
“I don’t like this,” said Lewis. “There’s something weird going on.”
“Ooh, look,” said Alex, “Brenda’s wardrobe.” He had opened a large mirrored sliding closet to reveal row upon row of dresses hanging neatly in plastic wrappers.
“The mother lode,” he said. “Frock city. C’mon, Carlton, slip into one of these, I beg you. Away with the dowdy, and on with the glam.”
Carlton was outraged. “Do please stop it. It’s sacrilege,” he said.
“Oh, loosen up, Carlton,” said Alex, “this is a drag queen’s dream.”
He was filled with manic energy as he opened another closet packed with different wigs of all colors and styles mounted on lifelike wig blocks.
“And this is where Brenda keeps her heads,” said Alex. “Ooh, honey, you give great heads.”
“Quit messing around,” said Lewis, “we’re in deep doo-doo here.”
“You’re right,” said Carlton. “There is something weird going on. Where is Brenda? The show starts in less than forty minutes—you’d think she’d be here.”
“And even if she was late,” said Lewis, “where’s her dresser? Where’s her makeup artiste, her manager, her publicist…why is there nobody here?”
Alex was holding up one of her dresses. “I’d cross the Universe for you, my darling,” he said to Carlton.
“I think you should know what’s going on,” said Carlton.
They both turned to look at him.
“It’s all my fault,” he said.
They stared at him perplexed.
“They’re after my Theory of Comedy,” he said seriously.
“You have a Theory of Comedy,” said Lewis, trying desperately to keep from smiling, “and you think someone’s after it?”
“I’m convinced of it,” said Carlton. “That’s why I sent Rogers a copy for safekeeping.”
“You sent a copy of your Theory of Comedy to Rogers,” said Lewis, “for safekeeping?”
“Exactly.”
Alex was staring hard at the floor, fighting desperately for control of the corners of his mouth.
“Carlton, would you go into the bathroom for just a minute, please.”
“May I say how very sorry I am that I got you all into this.”
Lewis was biting his lip, trying hard to avoid Alex’s eyes. They managed somehow to contain themselves until Carlton stepped inside the pink heaven of the Brenda Woolley bathroom suite, and then they lost it. They couldn’t speak. They howled. Alex laughed until he couldn’t breathe, his face turning red. Lewis lay on the floor, put his head back, and bellowed.
“Oh my God,” said Alex, “I think I’m going to die.”
“He sent his Theory of Comedy to Rogers,” said Lewis panting, “for safekeeping!”
This sent them both off into fresh paroxysms. They were still laughing helplessly when the dressing room door flew open and two men stepped inside. It was touch and go who was the more surprised.
“Is this some kind of orgy?” asked McTurk in his familiar Scottish brogue.
“Peter McTurk,” said Alex, “what the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for someone,” said McTurk vaguely.
“In Brenda Woolley’s dressing room?” asked Lewis suspiciously.
McTurk ignored him. “I want you to stay here,” he said to the old man in very clear tones, as if to a child. “You’ll be safe with these clowns.”
“Who’s this?” said Lewis.
“This is Comus,” said McTurk, “he’s a little distracted.” He made little gestures around his head with his fingers. “You know, a bit doo-lally. Not entirely right in the head.” He turned to the old man and helped him into a chair.
“Stay here with these people, Granddad, you’ll feel right at home—they’re bonkers too.”
“The one minute is up,” said Carlton, emerging from the bathroom. They had forgotten how literal he was.
“Freeze,” said McTurk. They all stared at the weapon.
“Now that is a mighty big weapon, Peter,” said Alex, “and we’re all very impressed by its size, but please don’t fry our robot, it’s so hard to get help.”
“Who the fuck is this?” said McTurk. He saw a robot in a wig dressed as a bedbot.
“That’s Carlton,” said Alex. “He’s going through a phase.”
“Your tin man is still a fucking weirdo, I see,” he said, lowering the gun.
“Where’s Brenda?” said Lewis.
“Some dickhead shot her.”
“Brenda?”
“Why?”
“Mebbe they didn’t like her voice. How should I know?”
“Who would shoot Brenda Woolley?” asked Lewis.
“What about the show?” said Alex.
“Oh, the show must go on,” said McTurk, “isn’t that what you guys say? Break a leg and all that.”
“She gonna live?”
“No idea, old son. The place is rife with rumors. She’s dead, she’s alive, she’ll never sing again, she’ll make it. This is a theater, for heaven sake.” He raised his eyes, contemplating the strangeness of their world. “They shot her up pretty good though.”
“Oh, poor dear Brenda,” said Carlton, “and it’s all my fault.”
“He’s convinced somebody is trying to steal his Theory of Comedy,” said Alex. “So he dresses like a bedbot so they’ll think he’s nuts.”
“My costume is to evade recycling in order to protect my theory for posterity.”
McTurk looked at Carlton for the longest time. “And I thought you were crazy,” he said to Alex after a moment.