A new Chicago theater company

At Duke and Jen’s theater benefit, the two undercover cops try to bluff their way in and at the same time find out whether there’s a rave going on. This is happening in a loft in Pilsen which is lived in and regularly rented out to such groups by an artist couple. Duke and Jen have rented it for seven hundred dollars and bought five kegs of Budweiser. They suggest a ten dollar donation—‘suggest’ because as a private home with no license to sell alcohol, they are perched precariously on the inside edge of the law.

They need about a hundred guests to break even, but expect at least three hundred. One of their ranks works in a copy shop, and has printed thousands of flyers which they’ve all been handing out for weeks, so hopes are high. Five hundred would finance the first show, some David Mamet one-act.

Duke’s appointed station is front door of the loft, at the bottom of a staircase the guests must climb. Of course he can’t require that anyone pay because of the legality thing, but they really need to make back their cash and of course earn money for the theater company.

“The worst thing is, one of them looks exactly like Serpico—all thin and swarthy,” says Ben, who prefers to be called Duke. “Other dude is typical Chicago cop—portlier, shorter. And these guys are in khaki clacks and white polo shirts. Their hair is pushed back over the side, but not with any product, you know? And they’re going, ‘It’s ten dollars, but I don’t have to pay, do I?’

“I’m like, ‘Technically, you do not have to pay technically, but you will be doing humanity such a huge favor if you choose to donate ten bucks that you technically, no, do not need to pay. Technically.’

“And the cops are like, ‘Oh, so you have beer here?’ And of course the whole time, people are walking back and forth behind me with big cups. So they think they got me, but I’m like, ‘We don’t know if we’ll offer you some or not.’ Score!
“Then they go, “So what’s the name of your theater company? and I go, ‘Heartbusters!’” When relating this story later, now, in a bare kitchen in Wicker Park, Ben says this to the other members of his company with a grin. Apparently it’s an inside joke. “And the cops say, ‘Heartbusters?’ and I go, ‘Yep, Heartbusters.’

“Serpico goes, ‘You live in Pilsen?’

“I go, ‘Yep, Pilsen,’ Then I totally turn the tables. I’m like, ‘You from Pilsen?’

“ ‘Yep,’ say the cops.

“ ‘You friends with the hosts here?’

“ ‘Yep.’

“ ‘Really!’ I give them a huge grin. ‘Which ones are you friends of?’

“Serpico is just standing there. The fat one goes, ‘Uh, John and Mary.’ And Serpico’s like, ‘Yeah, John and Mary.’ And I’m like, ‘Really! That’s crazy because I know the people who live here, and there’s not a John or Mary among them! Who are you?’
“The cops don’t back down. They go, ‘Who are you?’ And I go, ‘I’m John.’ Major pause. They are so beaten. I’m like, ‘Adios, Serpico. Save me a donut.’ ”

“Score,” says Jen.

On the downside, the company got only 57 guests at the benefit, so tonight they are having a what they call a pity party to finish off the beer and make a few more bucks. There is a bowl on the table for donations. After he tells his story, Duke is handed a class of beer. He begins to drink it, then pauses, “This smells funny. Why does it smell so odd? What is that?”
Jen says shortly, “It’s a little old. Don’t worry, it tastes fine.”
Duke drains the glass.

And that seems to sum them up. They are not complainers, whoever this new theatre company really is. They are together for some reason or other, and they will enjoy that as their natural right.