In summer stock, 1953, I played Caesar. One matinee, as I felt the phony rubber knife in my ribs, I uttered the memorable line, “Et tu Bruté?” and slumped to the floor. The assassins shuffled backward as they surveyed the bloody scene. The house was as quiet as the night before Christmas. Suddenly, without warning or explanation, the stage manager’s phone in the wings rang. All the way to the back row, it could be heard, “Rrrrring!”. Togas stopped rippling. Blood stopped dripping. Eyes were riveted in their sockets. “Rrrrring!” The audience grew restive. “Rrrrring!” And then an actor in a stage whisper heard in Mexico City said, “My God! What if it is for Caesar?” Bedlam. The curtain slammed shut! I knew then that I would create another Caesar. I had no idea it would go on lettuce.