The janitor was diligently color-coding dust when the director burst in. &ldquo;Mort, none of the actors showed up. We need you to be King Lear.&rdquo;
Mort, who rarely opened his mouth except to smoke and second-hand smoke, was taken aback. &ldquo;You tellin&rsquo; me&rsquo;s I&rsquo;s got to play broads&rsquo;s and blokes&rsquo;s? You tellin&rsquo; me&rsquo;s I&rsquo;s gotta express themes of political complexity&rsquo;s whilst juggling vocals of every range?&rdquo;&nbsp;
It was a tall order, but Mort took it with the easy swagger he had since his family died in a similarly brazen theatrical challenge. Some say the facade of casual confidence hid what was deep inside: incomprehensibly extreme confidence.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Just tell me where&rsquo;s I gotta stand and what&rsquo;s I&rsquo;s gotta do and you won&rsquo;t hear no complaining from me,&rdquo; Mort mumbled, having unconsciously walked on stage.
&ldquo;You know&rsquo;s what I hate&rsquo;s most about&rsquo;s the New York Metro?&rdquo; He asks the crowd. The audience is mesmerized, having never seen a more working class man. Mort chose to leave that question rhetorical.
Mort turns out his pockets.&nbsp; &ldquo;See&rsquo;s? More nickels than&rsquo;s quarters just like&rsquo;s I thought.&rdquo; Confident he&rsquo;s nailing it with just about anything, he struggles to parse the lyrics to &ldquo;Seventy Six Trombones.&rdquo; &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t help&rsquo;s me!&rdquo; He warns the audience, who try to chip in.&nbsp;
The play ended as abruptly as Mort&rsquo;s intermittent smoke breaks had started. The lights turned back on, revealing a stunned Simon Cowell. &ldquo;Mort, you son of a bitch,&rdquo; he said, starting a slow clap that spread through the audience. Mort brushed it off with a few &ldquo;yeah yeah&rsquo;s&rdquo; and returned to playing with his dusts. The director was desperate. &ldquo;Mort, please, for the love of God. Go out there. Be Somebody. Anything Mort. Please, they want, no, need more.&rdquo; Mort gave the director a look he saved only for his ma and passing cattle. &ldquo;Little ol&rsquo; me? Wheezy ol&rsquo; janitor Mort who ain&rsquo;t&rsquo;s never up to nothin&rsquo;? Get real boss. I don&rsquo;t&rsquo;s even know&rsquo;s the difference between&rsquo;s a jack pipe and&rsquo;s a dweller receiver pipe.&rdquo; Then Mort grinned. He knew the difference all too well.

The janitor was diligently color-coding dust when the director burst in. “Mort, none of the actors s...

Elie Salem.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

Elie Salem