Free Final Curtain by R. T. Jordan

the Windy City, few people even knew that Polly was on the road desperate to get to Broadway.
    Remembering Chicago, Polly said, “God, that banner brings back memories of my recurring nightmare during the show’s short run. The one where I morph into Anita Bryant while singing ‘Oklahomo!’” Although Polly complained, she loved the attention. She hadn’t known this sensation since before the cancellation of her legendary musical variety television series in the 1980s. Although that show, The Polly Pepper Playhouse , had run for more than a decade, and earned her a dozen Emmy Awards as well as a worldwide legion of fans, none of Polly’s subsequent projects ever lived up to the freak success of that classic sketch comedy and music program.
    When anxiety descended on Polly Pepper, there was only one thing to lift her spirits—besides a Xanax and champagne chaser. “Let’s have a party!” she said to Tim, as he parked the car in the theater lot. Throwing a big social soiree was Polly’s antidote for everything from low quarterly earnings in her stock portfolio to higher than believable White House approval polls.
    Everyone who had ever been to a party at Pepper Plantation agreed that Polly was unrivaled as a hostess and that her son, Tim, was a champion in the art of creating high-end Hollywood shindigs. Just as an invitation to Elton John’s Oscar night party used to be the most sought-after social ticket in town, everyone wanted to receive a call to a Polly Pepper blowout. But after the success of his last big bash, Tim knew he’d have a tough time topping his Immigration Reform theme. For that affair, which was given in honor of the Mexican consulate who had written a gushy fan letter to Polly, Tim had outdone himself. The dress code mandated that guests wear (without first washing) the sweat-stained work clothes of their gardeners, maids, mechanics, handymen, or plumbers. On the other hand the valets and catering staff wore Dior evening gowns and Hugo Boss tuxedos.
    The character reversal playacting probably didn’t change any political minds, but the guests whooped it up mimicking the various foreign accents of their “domestic engineers” and addressing each other with names and epithets that if used on their real employees would have them being sued for unlawful workplace harassment. Still, Polly felt she had performed a social service by reminding her friends that their so-called menials were an important part of the fabric of their cushy lives.
    “The party that I have in mind is just for the cast and chorus kids,” Polly added, sensing Tim’s unspoken reluctance to tackle a big affair.
    Tim sighed and shook his head. “You hardly know these people.”
    “All the more reason for a party,” Polly declared. “Relax. Make it a simple theme.” She thought for a moment. “How about a cell phone swap? Everybody tosses their phone into a bowl, and then blindfolded they reach in as if they’re drawing a prize. Like the old car key games of the swinging sixties!”
    “Ooh! Then everyone dials their own number and they go home with the person who answers their line!” Tim laughed with excitement. “But you’re not entertaining Charlie Sheen. Sophistication is clearly the guide for this event. These people all have you pigeonholed as a legend, and they’ll expect nothing less than high style. Waiters with crudités on silver trays. A champagne fountain. The usual. Trust me, business attire and a string quartet and a giant ice sculpture of your initials will make them remember the night forever.”
    “Boring,” Polly complained. “You know that I always hate to see my PP drip!”
    Placenta nudged Tim. “We’ll have that cell phone party the next time your mother goes…”
    As the trio approached the stage door entrance, Polly suddenly stopped. She sniffed the air, as if she were a deer sensing a nearby hunter. She looked around the parking lot. “Hmm. Notice anything unusual?”
    Tim and