A veritable Stanley Kowalski in a cheap dress, the rude, crude Mrs. Wire makes no bones about shattering the delicate fantasies and vulnerable sensibilities of not only Mrs. Hardwicke-Moore, but none other than the Author (here, the Writer, played on alternate evenings by Leon Fallon and Vincent Oppecker). In this penultimate scene of the night, he wanders by casually from next door, still in his robe and doubtless recovering from a drunk the night before. He tries to protect Moore from the slings and arrows of the outrageous Mrs. Wire, but receives only scorn as well as a demand for his back rent for his trouble.

Vincent Oppecker as The Writer in The Lady of Larkspur Lotion
Nevertheless, the Writer (played with a charming mixture of self-deprecating charm and impotent chivalry by Leon Fallon on that particular night) makes a noble case for the alcohol fueled fever dreams which both these kindred souls cling to — in her case, for a Shangri La to come; in his case, for fame and fortune which will surely follow as soon as he completes his great American novel in progress. In any case, as he tells Mrs. Wire, even if these dreams never come to fruition, they are still entitled to cherish these “harmless” fantasies in the face of the cruel realities they face in the Quarter. As the play ends, this neo-prototype of Blanche meets the Author face to face, and they comfort each other in their mutual dreams of glory still to come.

The denoument to Five by Tenn returns the audience to the same corner of the stage where Mother DuClos and her flock have sat silently in darkness throughout each of the four previous plays. Now, a final lost soul comes to join this hapless group in the person of the Little Girl, played alternately by Grace Manzo and Emily Arrington. On the night in question, ten-year-old Manzo gave a touching performance as a sweet young girl who, like Laura, walks with a slight limp. As Mother proceeds to evoke the Kind Spirit with her preaching and incantations, the “unkind presence” at last emerges as the Woman in the Rear confronts Mother openly, declaring her to be a fraud and a sham, a drunkard and a scam artist with illegitimate children of undetermined parentage. The local priest is summoned and handed a carton, and the whole congregation proceeds to dismantle all the mementoes in Mother’s ramshackle room — the tattered pictures and trinkets, the voodoo-like paraphernalia, the collection basket. When the Woman in Rear finally grabs the last item — Mother’s crucifix — from the wall, Mother collapses in despair with cries of “My Jesus! Don’t take away my Jesus!” followed by soft, incoherent African-tinged utterings.