Have You No Shame? And Other Regrettable Stories

On The Question Of My Obscurity: Part 1

Integrity. Innovation.  Beauty.  Strength.  Sensuality. Vulnerability.  Artistry.  Masterful.  Virtuoso.  Empress.  God.

These were just some of the words our readers submitted when asked to describe the subject of this interview.  To them, I would like to add a few more.

Honesty. 

Courage. 

Dignity. 

Inspiration. 

This past decade has been the most imaginative, fulfilling, artistically ambitious period the stages of this city have ever seen; a Golden Age, if you will, of Omaha Theater.  Incidentally, this period is almost completely congruent with the spectacular career of the artist with whom I am about to speak. 

Coincidence?  I think not. 

Heads swivel as she enters the room; alll eyes drawn to this magical creature like iron filings to a glorious, long-legged magnet.  On stage she appears, regal, queenly even, an imperious goddess issuing pronouncements from on high, but in person, all rosy cheeks, impish smile, the luxurious tumble of dark curls gathered in a careless bunch at the back of her head, sleek and undulating as the mahogany haunches of an Arabian stallion, she is surprisingly delicate, childlike even, if not for those extraordinary eyes.  Far greater men than I have written of those eyes, been felled by those eyes, driven made by those eyes like a pair of Persian almonds sculpted from the clearest jade, eyes that seem to hold the knowledge of a thousand lifetimes, eyes that refract the viewer’s own essence back to him like an emerald arrow through the heart.  Rachel Shukert’s eyes are that of the greatest kind of artist: an artist of the--

“Fuck!” Rising slightly in my chair, I plunge two fingers into my ass crack to dislodge the bit of sweaty tulle that had again worked itself all the way inside.  Again.

My boyfriend smirks.  It was his idea for me to go without underwear to the ceremony.  He thought it would be hot. Afflicted with the clueless wantonness of those who have just had sex for the first time, I agreed, and now was faced with the horrible eventuality of having to face my mother’s dry cleaner with a skid mark on the crinoline of my prom dress.  “Is it your category yet?” he asks. 

“I hate you,” I say.

            On stage, a blowsy middle-aged woman in a sparkling teal pantsuit was about to announce the winner of “Best Musical Direction in a Musical,” and laughing hysterically at some uncomfortably flirtatious quip of her co-presenter’s.

            “I swear!” she cackles.  “Stop right now, or I’ll leave my husband for you. Oh wait,” she deadpanned, mugging wildly to the audience.  “You are my husband!” 

            It amuses me when women who had spent their lives singing in the First Lutheran Memorial Church Choir acted all Borscht Belt and caustic, as if appearing in a dinner theater production of Mame had transformed them into Bea Arthur.  Right.  Like a Jewish woman over the age of 30 would appear drunk in public.  Shouting, yes, with lipstick on her teeth and hardened cream cheese encrusting her diamonds, but drunk?  Never.

            “What do you say, boys?” the husband asked, scanning the crowd.  “Anyone want to take her off my hands?”

            Every marriage needs its little shtick, I guess, especially an emphatically childless one to a man wearing Gucci loafers (mail-order, since you couldn’t buy those here) and a crystal-studded AIDS ribbon lapel pin; the kind of AIDS ribbon you invest in.  My own AIDS ribbon, collected from the public basket, I had thrust rakishly through the jet beadwork of my mother’s evening bag. Oh, how she glared when she saw that when we had left the house!