That Would Be Me (dot net)

Christopher Fry’s delightful verse play, The Lady’s Not For Burning, opens with young, pretty Alison Elliot, having recently been let out of the convent to marry, entering the town hall sun blind. “I am all out at the eyes,” she says. “I have a winter blindness.” Richard, the clerk, sees her, is instantly smitten and lets go with a string of “God, God, God” or some such exclamation of shock. Allison, who was told no one would be there, cries, “Oh! They told me no one would be here.”

“That would be me they meant,” Richard replies.

My first encounter with this play was as a very young man. My mother had a recording of the Broadway production starring John Gielgud (pre knighthood) and Pamela Brown. An actual album of five or six records consisting of the entire play, along with a copy of the script. I listened to it raptly more often than one may suspect a toddler would want to. It probably goes a long way to explain my love of all things theatre and especially all things Shakespearean theatre. (Yes, I spell “theatre” with an “re”. I am pretentious and gay. Join with me or move on, I say.)

Several years later, I wrote for, then joined the cast of, then became director of a long-running scripted cabaret show called Tony Mack’s Swingin’ LA (not the least Shakespearean, I’m afraid) about several Gumbas trying desperately to become the Rat Pack and failing miserably. There were torch singers, a swing band, variety acts. It was all very grand. The fellow who was playing the Dean Martin wannabe was married to the very beautiful, sexy lady who played the silent but buxom show girl. Once, during a rehearsal, someone farted. (If I really were pretentious, I would say “passed gas” but farted is so much more earthy, don’t you think?) The lady playing the show girl thought it had been her husband and, in order to humiliate him in front of friends and family, said, “Who let one?”

I looked over at her and said, “That would be me.”

I had, actually, let loose. I have no problem admitting my sins, but wouldn’t normally have done so at that particular moment, but I saw why she had asked the question and wanted to spare the poor sap some grief. In fact, the show girl, not the husband, became very embarrassed, and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. Really. I thought it was Johnny! Sorry!” It was a proud moment.

Ever since then, my writing partner, Steve Mancini, reminds me of the incident by randomly looking over at me and blandly saying, “That would be me.”

Welcome to my blog.

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Geoff Hoff is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“