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LAZZI DI POLICINELLO I scramble out the hay-loft door, tightrope the hoist beam, climb with ease to the peak of the barn. I can do anything. The crowd roars for me. And I yell, "Bring her up! Bring her up out of the dark!" There is a scuffle in the crowd now, and here she comes, dressed in whatever cast-off splendor the cellar could offer: fox fur, garter belt, Easter-parade hat with the billowing black feather. She looks up at me (Cock-a-doodle), her eyes bits of anthracite ringed with white grease paint. There is blood between her legs. The crowd loves to hate her. My every word, every flourish, prompts laughter. Every day we perform this, the script is different, pure improv. Ha, ha. Tomorrow, it will be she straddles the roof tree. My turn to play the bride. I see me mincing through the crowd with my fussy feather duster, cleaning up. Everyone will love it when I go up to the ladies, the teen-age girls, and dab at their asses with my mucky rag. (Doodle do.) It is easy to play a crowd with sanguinary jokes. But our acts are never the same. The day after tomorrow, the old man will sit on the roof. My turn to play the baby—hauled out like five pounds of sausages from between her net-stockinged thighs. We can do—and be—anything. The performance is guaranteed to bring the house down. Ha.
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