That Fellow

Paranoia: Recurrent suspicions, without justification—The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 5th Edition 

Saint Louis was on his stallion atop Art Hill Saturday night. My ass was in the grass. My pocket buzzed. “Charlie! I'm sitting here in the green chairs in the middle, in front of the stage [chairs she corralled from the VIPs]. Take a look. I don't know where you're at.”

Another call. “I have no idea where you're at. None. I'm on the hill now. I don't see anything. Weird. I'm moving around all over this damn park, and I don't see you anywhere! And you're not answering your phone. I'm wandering around here, and you're like nowhere.”

One more time. “I don't get it at all. What'd you do, go to the wrong park? What'd you do? I'm walking around. You should see me!” I fancy Arlene’s eyes and her voice, but I was wondering what was behind the green doors on stage. I look up: Arlene, hands on hips, looking electric. “Yeah, it’s me.”

I held an apology picnic while we rolled into a play set in the Georgian era. If you’re looking for Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights or Marmee from Little Women, Othello is not for you. A source of terror in exam halls, it had zero engagements in the South before Civil Rights and rewards assailants more than victims.

Shakespeare found a way to put black in this play, so we have General Othello (Billy Eugene Jones), a hard-charging Moor from a darker shade without a cunning detector or sense of humor. He hooks up with Dez (Desdemona played by Heather Wood), a sweet, up-market white girl who checks all the boxes. They elope.

We sipped our old fashioneds.

“I bet she cuts her steak in little bitty pieces,” says Arlene.

“They’re closer than the average couple, right?”

Venice is panicky. Turks. As fate would have it, Othello—the pinnacle of male warlike perfection—is toast of the town after scuttling the Turkish armada, aided by the weatherman. Things take a negative turn when Ensign Iago (Justin Blanchard), his two-faced adviser—a sketchy, gossipy smear merchant—picks his moment to juke Othello: DEZ IS A PLAYER.

Soon Othello and Dez are talking past each other. He accuses Dez of cheating and strikes her, the very best thing he has going for him!

“The first year’s the hardest,” says Arlene. “I’d love a little chat.”

“They got married pretty quick,” I replied.

“She’s not showing yet.”

Shakespeare doesn’t tell us what makes people tick. What’s on Iago’s mind we don’t know. Is he retaliating for Casio’s lieutenancy? Is he evil? An act? Is Othello a black guy Iago can burn? Is Othello ‘tupping’ Emelia, Iago’s worldly wife, mistress to Dez? We simply follow Iago badmouthing Dez—to feed Othello’s jealousy train—and it’s just gearing up.

“Iago’s got a little chutzpah going here,” says Arlene.

“The boss is his obsession.”

“The boss needs to check into Better Days.”

“Well said. Any chips left?”

“Oooh. You won’t find any in there.”

While Dez spreads wedding sheets on their bed, Emelia consoles her with a cynical rant on marriage. Arlene agrees. “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

We’re not hugely literate in the invaluable wealth of Shakespeare’s language but we’re getting a good read. So, Iago throws Othello into the spin cycle and he jumps the shark—did Casio sleep with Dez? I have no proof, but I can pretend.

Scene: [honeymoon suite, lights out]

Enter Othello.

Dez: [asleep in bed]

Othello: [hovering bedside] “YOU SWITCHIN’ UP?”

“Now what?” asks Arlene.

“The handkerchief is back.”

“Stop with the handkerchief already!”

“He’s got hands on her.”

“Step it up, girl. Spread those knees,” advised Arlene.

The problem with white women is that they never expect to be hit.

“Oh God…he killed her!” Arlene gasped.

Othello fillets himself. Bodies and blood all over the bed. Iago’s career of doing everything he could to stimulate Othello’s hatred of Dez has been unfortunately interrupted. He’ll dangle for killing Emilia.

“Life goes on—Casio rules in Cyprus.”

“We learn so much from Shakespeare, don’t we?”

Arlene yawned. “O. J. and Nicole would have done better.”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked.

“You know nothing about women.”

“What do you mean?”

“...like this....”

I’m amazed by anyone who understands Shakespeare or Arlene.