Free The Potty Mouth at the Table by Laurie Notaro Page B

window, I looked at the decidedly ten-year-old boy who was working the cash register and taking orders behind the glass, put five bucks in the tip jar that was taped to the window ledge, and said absolutely nothing. Even when he said “ Gracias. ”

TINY DANCER
    T he first thing I need to say in my defense is that I never asked to see Anne Frank’s panties. When I bought the tickets there was no mention of the possibility of seeing the tiny diarist’s crotch, no indication that the sight of her undies was “without a doubt” or “unless you fall asleep.” There wasn’t even a disclaimer inside the playbill or an announcement before the show that the content might not be suitable for all audience members. Namely, those who might really prefer to remember Anne Frank in a certain way, like right side up.
    My husband wasn’t on board with the idea of spending three hours at the Anne Frank ballet to begin with, but after I told him he could go to the home-brew festival without me the following weekend, we had a deal. I wasn’treally sure what to expect, because this production could have gone any number of ways. After watching pirouettes and arabesques for the first act, I was somewhat relieved that it was a regular ballet. Regular, until the usually discreet Anne Frank flashes the entire audience. I mean, the least the director could have done was put Anne in a pretty blue pair of bike shorts to make it more sporty and less . . . Anne Frank’s panties.
    Everyone knows the story of Anne Frank, and there is no changing the ending. But I’m sorry, perhaps I need a revisit, but I don’t remember the Franks tumbling, rolling around on the floor, or having nightmares that, onstage, translate into something that looked like bugs getting crop dusted and involved an excessive amount of cramping and various stages of rigor mortis. Now, Margot I can see having a tumbling tantrum and Mrs. Van Daan, of course, but Mrs. Frank? And Otto? I hardly think so. They were in an attic, not a loft. And I think it’s safe to assume that Mrs. Frank was not an acrobat by nature.
    Whatever my level of disbelief with the gymnastic portion of the evening, my eyes opened further when the curtain rose on the second act and a huge gate appeared on the stage with a slew of people huddled behind it, wearing more black eye makeup than models on a Prada runway.
    “ Ballet concentration camp! ” I whispered, unable to tearmy eyes away, and in a reflex move, I automatically slapped my husband’s knee with the back of my hand.
    “This is not worth one night of drinking beer alone,” he whispered back, equally unable to turn away from the people onstage, who were now, one by one, collapsing, writhing, and apparently dying right before us. “I think I may need you to leave for the whole weekend.”
    For the next hour, I stifled an anxiety attack as Nazis hit people, kicked them, shot them, and were, generally speaking, acting like Nazis, but Nazis who sometimes pirouetted when the situation called for it, to their own nefarious tune. And I’m sorry, apparently I had some difficulty separating the performance part of the evening from the Nazi part. This was clear when the devils in knee-high black boots and overcoats skipped onto the stage for curtain call after the Franks died. I have to be honest and say I felt somewhat forced to clap (albeit weakly) for storm troopers who took their turns bowing.
    I scanned the audience, watching everyone applaud pleasantly as the Nazis nodded and smiled. Why are we clapping for fascists? I just came to see some toe-shoe dancing, and now I’m cheering for an Axis power?
    Certainly I am someone who appreciates people who work hard, especially if they’re breaking a sweat, but honestly, I was having just a bit of trouble joining in on theround of good cheer for some Nazis who just killed an entire ballet troupe. The feeling did not subside after we left the theater and I saw one of the meanest Nazis, still in