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The Golden Globe by John Varley


John Varley

THE GOLDEN GLOBE

ACT 1
"I once played Romeo and Juliet as a one-man show," I said. "Doubling with Mercutio won't be a problem."
The curtain was already up, and Dahlia SmithsonтАФour fair sun, the snowy dove trouping with crows, the rich
jewel in the Ethiop's earтАФhad yet to appear backstage. This was not a surprise. The last two nights we'd had
to winch her loveliness into the balcony and tie her down to keep her from falling out.
"You're out of your mind," shouted Larry "The Leech" Crocker, our producer-director-stage manager: the wax
in the Ethiop's ear. He was bug-eyed with fury, trembling, drenched in sweat... and the picture of calm
composure next to Dee, the assistant stage manager, who kept pushing Larry's ragged script away from her as
if it might bite.
There had been talk of bringing in an understudy in view of La Smithson's recent behavior, but this was not
the Schubert Traveling Shows, ladies and germs, this was The Crocker Players, and if you haven't heard of
them it's probably because you live within a parsec of civilization. We were chronically undercapitalized
(read "dirt-poor") and it fell to the ASM to understudy all the female roles. And while I'm sure Dee would
have provided yeoman service as Ladies Montague or Capulet, and could probably have taken a creditable
swing at the Nurse, the prospect of Juliet had turned her pale green.
"I don't know all the lines," Dee wailed.
"See?" I said. "She doesn't know the part."
"You're crazy," Larry exploded. "Aren't they onstage at the same time?"
"Mercutio and Juliet never meet," I said. "I know you've put Mercutio at the Capulets' party, but the Bard
doesn't demand it, and it can be solved by letting the Prince wear my costume in the scene. Mercutio is
masked, and has no lines. However"тАФand I cupped my ear to the stageтАФ"you'd better make up your mind.
Scene two is about to begin, and Juliet is in three. I'll need a little time."
"You're crazy," Larry the Leech muttered again, then jerked his head toward the dressing rooms.
"You'll never regret this," I said.
"I regret it already."


This being a Crocker show, it goes without saying that we were a lot more than forty-five minutes from
Broadway. Hell, we were just about forty-five hours from Pluto. That's how long it had taken my last message
to my agent to reach the System, and an equal time for the news to reach me that he wasn't answering his

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The Golden Globe by John Varley

phone. No big surprise there; I'd been "on the road," as it were, for almost ten years now, and my agent hadn't
been answering when I left. (The question I'd wanted him to answer? Simple, really: "Who booked me into
this toilet?")
The plumbing fixture in question was know as Brementon. Who knows why? Humans have this need to name
everything, no matter how little that thing may deserve it. When I saw the name on the travel itinerary it
brought to mind a peaceful little hamlet. German, perhaps. Happy burghers in lederhosen, smiling frauleins in
dirndls and pigtails and wooden shoes, cottages draped in swastika bunting. In reality, if they'd added
"Maximum Security Prison" to the place's name they'd have been closer to the truth. About a quarter of it was
a prison. We hadn't seen that part as yet, but if it was worse than the rest of the place, the mind reeled. B-