by Marc Acito
In one swift move she flings off her vest and snaps it like a matador before easing it over Doug's broad shoulders, then slides off her piano-key tie and lassos him around the neck, pulling him a little too close. Dragging him along as she does a few impromptu tango steps, she sashays over to the Lost in Space lunch box she uses as a purse, removes a button that says UNIQUELY MALADJUSTED, and pins it to his chest.
I've got to give her credit. He looks like one of us now.
“I was getting too hot with all that on, anyway,” she breathes at him, and she unbuttons one, no, two, then (yikes!) three buttons on her shirt, flapping it to fan herself and, of course, give Doug a preview of her nineteenth-century hooters.
“What about me?” Natie asks.
“Yeah, here ya' go,” Paula says, squashing her porkpie hat on his cheesehead.
She musses her curls in the manner of a 1950s Italian movie star and clears her throat as if she's about to make some kind of pronouncement when a champagne-colored Jaguar slides into the parking lot and pulls up next to us. We all turn to look at it.
When they make the movie of my life, this will definitely be a slow-motion moment.
I can't see her face as she steps out of the car, hidden as it is by a shiny black wall of hair, but I'm immediately struck by her endlessly long legs, slender and firm in a pair of ivory Capri pants, and her bony, almost boyish, torso braless under a silk camisole, the breasts small but alert. She flips her straight, silky hair just like a girl in a shampoo commercial and tilts her cocoa-brown face toward the sun, revealing cheekbones like shelves and a long, tapering nose, onto which she slides an enormous pair of Jackie O sunglasses.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
Doug devils me a grin. “That, Teen Angel, is my date,” he says. “Nate here explained the thing about, y'know, five people being a funny number.”
I don't dare look at Paula, and couldn't even if I wanted to. I can't stop staring at this . . . this model in front of me. I've seen her once or twice in the Workshop office but always assumed she was a grown-up.
“Who is she?” I hiss.
“Her name is Ziba,” he says.
“Zebra?” I ask. Who the hell names their kid Zebra?
“No, Zeee-bah. She just moved here.” He beams at her admiringly. “Is she hot or what?”
Even in a pair of gladiator sandals that lace up around the ankles, Ziba is still taller than the rest of us, I'd say close to six foot, and she has to lean way over to talk to her mother through the car window. I assume it's her mother because she, too, is beautiful and elegant and Ziba kisses her goodbye on both cheeks, European style. Her mother hands her an ivory silk scarf and a beaded clutch purse, then waves a manicured hand our way like she knows us (which she doesn't) as the Jag slowly slides away.
Doug tugs on his new vest and struts over to Ziba, smirking like a little boy who just got a pony for Christmas. Ziba takes her time wrapping the silk scarf around her head, crisscrossing the ends over the architecture of her neck and shoulders, the way you see in old Audrey Hepburn movies. She inclines her head so Doug can do the European two-cheek-kiss thing, which I must say he manages to pull off without looking too retarded. I make a mental note to practice this gesture until I can accomplish it with grace and ease. I glance up for the first time at Paula, whose left eye is twitching like she just drank something sour.
Ziba marches over, hips swinging like a runway model, and sticks her arm straight out to give each one of us a firm handshake as Doug introduces us, something I've never seen another teenager do.
“Well,” Paula says, trying to look chipper, “we better go or we'll miss the train.” I'm just about to feel sorry for her when she grabs her lunch box in one hand and Ziba in the other and says, “Now, I'm fascinated to know, what kind of name is Ziba? Let me guess. Is it Indian?”
“No, it's Persian,” Ziba says, emphasis on the “purrrh.”
“Persia!” Paula squeals, pulling Ziba toward the station. “You must tell me all about it.”
Paula wasn't a National Merit scholar for nothing. Faced with insurmountable competition for Doug's attention, she solves the problem neatly by monopolizing Ziba's attention instead. I know her feelings are hurt, but she's too fair-minded to blame Ziba for it, and I can tell she can't help but admire someone who has the good sense to do the Audrey Hepburn scarf-on-the-head thing and carry a beaded clutch bag.
But if Paula's banter fills the train ride, Ziba's mere presence dominates it, and we all make minor adjustments to accommodate her. Natie rattles on about everything he's ever read in the New York Times about the Middle East, explaining to those of us who only read the Arts & Leisure section that Persia is the ancient name for modern-day Iran. He also guesses rightly that Ziba's family had to get out in 1979 when the Ayatollah came to power, although she doesn't volunteer why and we don't ask. Personally, I prefer to revel in the mystery where she's concerned so I just try to seem droll and blasé. Doug, on the other hand, tries to act all worldly and Continental because he's spent summers with his mother's family in Germany, like that's got anything to do with Persia.
Ziba doesn't say much, but sits with her long legs crossed, her head tilted at the most flattering angle, a closed-mouth Mona Lisa smile indicating that perhaps she finds us amusing, perhaps ridiculous, I can't tell. In the course of a one-hour train ride we do discover through various reluctant responses that, after fleeing Iran, Ziba lived outside of Paris, then outside of Washington, D.C., and now, of course, outside of Manhattan. “My parents think it's best to raise children outside of a city,” she says in a voice that's deeper than Natie's. “They're wrong, of course.” I nod in agreement, although I can't decide whether she's insulting us or not. “Ever since I arrived here I've tried to spend as much time in New York as possible, so naturally when Douglas mentioned this little excursion . . .”
There's something about her calling him Douglas that irks me, like she's poaching my Pygmalion project but, on the other hand, I can't help but feel grateful to meet a kindred spirit. Clearly I'm not the only one who feels this way. Compared with Ziba's understated elegance, Kelly and Paula both look like they're wrapped up as birthday gifts, and by the time we arrive in New York, Kelly's ponytail has migrated to the back of her head and she and Paula have discreetly discarded whatever bangles and bows they can.
As I watch Paula lead the way from Penn Station to Times Square I see that she's gained something, too: Ziba's gestures. It's as if she's inhaled her essence—the brisk runway-model walk, the provocative tilt of the head when speaking to you, the flip of the hair. She'll make a fine actress, Paula. We pick up tickets and try to get into Joe Allen's for dinner, but it's packed, so we have to settle for one of those New York delis where they act like they're doing you some big favor by overcharging you for a sandwich.
Paula and I have both seen A Chorus Line before—twice—but I'd go every weekend if I could. For you people out in Iowa who don't get any real culture, I guess I should explain that A Chorus Line is about these dancers who are auditioning for a Broadway show. The director asks them to talk about themselves so he can get to know them better and they do all these numbers about their childhoods and their ambitions and who they really are. They talk a lot about what it's like being a teenager and the stuff they say and do is exactly the kind of stuff that Paula and I say and do all the time. Our absolute favorite character is Bobby, the one who went down to busy intersections when he was a kid and directed traffic. Even better is the story he tells about breaking into people's houses—not to steal anything, just to rearrange their furniture.
That is so us.
But I relish every brilliant, inspired moment. This is who I'm determined to be—an actor/singer/dancer—no, I take that back, this is who I am. These people are my tribe, my destiny. I know it.
I can't wait for my life to begin.
Afterward, Doug, Natie, and I wait in the breezy open plaza of Shubert Alley while the girls pee. I ask Doug what he thought of the sh
ow.
“That was a great play, man,” he says, his bright blue eyes gleaming. “I didn't know you could say ‘fuck' in a play.”
I make a mental note to teach Doug to only refer to dramas as plays. He probably calls original cast albums “soundtracks,” too. I've got my work cut out for me.
“And I can't believe there was a song called ‘Tits and Ass.' Man, that was comical, I was laughin',” he says.
I want to ask him if the show meant anything to him, if he could identify at all with the characters' anguish and frustrations, if he understood the sacrifices we artists make for our craft and our careers.
“Yeah, that was comical,” I say.
Wuss.
The girls return from the bathroom, chatting among themselves. (What is it about peeing together that makes girls bond?) But as they get closer I see that Ziba and Paula are actually having an argument.
“All I said was that the characters were full of self-pity,” Ziba says, her voice dark and low.
“Wallowed,” Paula says. “You said they wallowed in self-pity.” She turns to me. “Ziba said she found the show masturbatory.”
“I thought it was pretty hot, too,” Doug says.
Ziba lights a cigarette. “All art is masturbatory,” she says baritonally.
There's a brief silence while we try to figure out what the hell she means.
“So, what do we do now?” Kelly asks.
“Why don't we get some beers?” Doug says. “There's this bar in Penn Station that served us on St. Patrick's Day.”
Ziba and Paula both give him a look that makes it abundantly clear they have no interest in drinking beer under fluorescent lighting while transit employees make announcements like “Last cawll to Joisey City.”
“I know a place in the Village that's exceedingly lax about checking ID,” Ziba says.
“Splendid,” Paula cries. “We love the Village, don't we, Edward?”
“What's it called?” I ask.
Ziba pauses to blow a smoke ring. “Something for the Boys,” she says. “It's a gay piano bar.”
“I didn't know a piano could be gay,” Natie whispers to me.
“It's only attracted to other pianos,” I explain.
Ziba ignores us by turning to Paula and Kelly. “The best part is that you don't have to be concerned that some cretin will hit on you.” Kelly nods, being the kind of girl who cretins often hit on.
“Sure,” Doug says, “that's okay for you. But what if someone hits on us?” He points to himself and me.
Ziba gives him one of those deadpan looks, like Cher does to Sonny after he's said something stupid. “Any man who's secure in his sexuality shouldn't feel threatened by the attention of another man,” she drones. She fixes her dark gypsy eyes on him, daring him to contradict her.
“I'm cool,” Doug says. “My uncle in Germany is gay.”
Jesus, enough with the Germany thing already.
“He was on the Olympic gymnastics team,” Doug adds, as if that explained it.
“Smashing,” Paula says. “Edward, lead us not into Penn Station, but deliver us to the E train.”
Since Natie's got less facial hair than Paula's cousin Crazy Linda, convincing even the most lenient of bars that he's of legal drinking age could prove challenging. He is, after all, the guy who still has to prove he's tall enough to go on the good rides. So we decide we have no choice but to pass him off as a girl. We huddle in front of a camera store called Toto Photo (WE'LL PRINT ANYTHING . . . SO LONG AS YOU LET US KEEP THE GOOD ONES), while Paula and Ziba both oversee the swapping of clothes between him and Kelly. It's quite astounding, really. Add some makeup, accessories, and Ziba's Audrey Hepburn scarf thing and voilà: a small, homely guy is magically transformed into an even homelier girl. Ziba hides a good part of Natie's baby face with her Jackie O sunglasses.
“I can't see a fucking thing,” he mutters.
Just to be safe (or just because it's fun) we create new legal drinking age personas for the rest of us. Kelly and Ziba are to be a couple of seniors from the Yale women's track team; Paula and Natie, a pair of funky SoHo party girls out for a night on the town; and Doug and I are cast as a young, gay couple.
In love.
Poor Doug looks like he's about to have kittens, but I convince him he'll be safer going into the bar if he's already on the arm of another guy. What I don't tell him, of course, is that I've actually had a homosexual experience myself, having experimented last summer with a guy at the Bennington College summer theater program. I suppose that technically makes me bisexual, but I prefer to simply think of myself as open-minded. As an actor, you need to be receptive to all kinds of experiences.
We enter in pairs staggered a few minutes apart so as not to attract attention, and I find myself getting excited as we watch the others go in—there's something thrilling about acting in real life, even if it's just buying a bus ticket with an English accent or pretending you're retarded while waiting in line at the grocery store.
“You ready?” I ask Doug and, to my surprise, he responds by taking my hand.
It feels kind of weird. Even though I've fooled around with another guy, it wasn't his hand I held and, in a strange, Alice-Through-the-Looking-Glass kind of way, it feels almost, I don't know, comforting. I make a mental note to remember these feelings in case I ever play a homosexual.
We have to descend a small flight of steps below the street level to get in. According to the historic landmark plaque next to the door, Something for the Boys was originally a speakeasy during Prohibition, and I can't help but feel the thrill of the forbidden as we step into a place that once counted gangsters and their molls as its clientele.
It's a small subterranean cave of a room, bathed in a hazy magenta light that gives the Broadway musical posters on the wall an eerie, psychedelic look. The place is packed, but I immediately spy Ziba and Kelly lurking at a table in a dark corner. Doug looks nervous at the prospect of pushing through a crowd of a hundred men belting out the final chorus of “I Feel Pretty,” but trouper that he is, he puts his arm around me and plunges in. I'm glad he's acting so cool, but I'm embarrassed at how soft and mushy my waist must feel to him. I really have got to get in shape this summer.
We arrive to find Kelly and Ziba sipping piña coladas through straws, which strikes me not only as elegant but sexy, too. “We made it!” I shout over the noise.
Ziba glances around like she's Mata fucking Hari. “Try not to be too conspicuous,” she says, which seems entirely unnecessary, considering we're surrounded by men so flaming they're in danger of setting off the sprinkler system.
“Where are Paula and Natie?” I ask.
Kelly giggles into her piña colada. “Natie's been captured by a transvestite,” she says. “Someone called Miss Demeanor grabbed him like a handbag and we haven't seen him since.”
I look across the room and see a pair of Jackie O sunglasses peek out from behind the fleshy arm of someone who looks like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and a Teamster. A siren of a soprano starts to wail.
“Summertiiiiiiiiime . . . and the livin' is easy . . .”
I turn and there's Paula perched on top of the piano, practically fellating the microphone. So much for being inconspicuous. I venture off into the sea of bodies in search of beer. I'm halfway through the crowd when I find myself face-to-face with a skinny waiter holding a tray of drinks over his head.
“Oh, thank God you're here,” he cries, handing me his tray. “Be a doll and deliver these to that table of horny Jesuits over there, will ya'?”
“I don't work . . .”
“Thanks, hon,” he says. “I'm on as soon as this drag queen gets done singin' ‘Summertime.'”
I look at the drinks in my hand and decide that the unexpected presence of alcohol paid for by the one holy, catholic, and apostolic church is surely a sign from God, so I bring the tray back to our table. None of us can tell what the horny Jesuits ordered, but it sure as hell ain't communion wine. We applaud loudly
for Paula, who tries to do an encore, but is pushed aside (rather rudely, I think) by the skinny waiter, who performs “I Could Have Danced All Night.” In Julie Andrews's key.
I watch Paula as she makes her way through the crowd, accepting compliments and working the room like she's the mayor of Gaytown. “Look,” she cries, handing me a business card advertising something called Les Femmes Magnifiques. “A producer gave me his card, a real producer!” She points across the room at a roly-poly man chatting up Miss Demeanor. “It's a revue right here in the Village. It means Magnificent Women. Isn't that enthralling?”
After downing what we decide must be scotch and holy water I decide to do a number myself. I slither through the crowd as everyone belts out “Anything Goes,” and squeeze in next to the pianist, a balding guy with a happy Humpty-Dumpty face.
