In that moment, the bar got higher. We had a true professional on board, and he was giving up something of value to play in our sandbox. The risk was shared, and winning the game now offered even greater potential for reward.
“How big are the lobsters at this place?” he asked.
“As big as they need to be for you, Bobby. I promise.”
We stayed in town till the place closed. Anything with a shell on it we ate. Sweet crisp lobsters, succulent pink shrimp, clams and oysters bathed in fresh horseradish and Tabasco. We all wore bibs that captured the drawn butter as it ran down our appreciative, happy chins.
When I played football, I learned that “chemistry” was when your team won. Chemistry in the theater was fallacy. Sure, it was good to get along, but it was always art before community. If the work was good then the community thrived. Despite the best of intentions, loyalties in the theater are found in the length of applause, and when that fades, so does the rest.
Bobby’s complete focus was on achievement. His goal was to sell seats and put our troop on the map. Yet as the evening grew late, it was evident that behind his eyes were intentions far greater and far more ambitious than I had ever seen in anyone. He had a look of raw ambition, as if he were saying, “This gets me to where I want to be. This offers a path to who I want to become.” To see that in a stranger’s eyes was scary.
We all toasted Bobby Stevens with one last iced brew at Souza’s. I caught his expression as the glasses clinked. It was calculating, where I expected warmth. Looking at him, I felt older, as if I had lost something held dear. Innocence.
40
Secunda, James, and I each did our daily chores from dawn to dusk. We were like Paul Muni in I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang. Tough, backbreaking labor all day that left us broken and spent by evening. True, JB and the “women” were strained to the limit as well, but their tasks were more cerebral. Kasen, Duncan, Holly, and their crews had jobs to do to make the shows happen on time. All that tomorrow offered to us, the three schmucks with aching backs, was more of the same. It was fun, though, and we had our share of laughs.
One early, damp morning, with sunrise at least an hour away, we tackled some of the shrubbery, clipping back rose bushes whose thorns painted pictures in red upon our faces. That afternoon, hundreds of pounds of fertilizer arrived for us to spread. The three of us looked at one another and I said, “What, and give up show business?”
Secunda lost it. He ripped open each bag of cow shit and hurled the manure at the flowerbeds, all the while grunting and screaming expletives at the plants. James and I watched in awe at the enormity of his efforts and misplaced passion. Piano music from rehearsals accompanied this meltdown, making the whole thing look like an old silent movie. When Secunda was finished, the manure had indeed been spread, except for the considerable amount he was wearing himself. He lay on the ground, covered in cow doody.
There was simply too much to do: houses to paint, a kitchen to repair, the signage to bring into this century . . . and then there were tickets to sell, actors to welcome and, oh yes, shows to put on.
There was only one way to respond to this. “Beer, gentlemen?” I suggested. Quickly, we were off to the Full Sail for brews. On the way, I realized one very important thing: horse manure, bullshit, and its relatives can always wait until tomorrow.
The next days flew by and jobs were accomplished. At night, we’d toss off responsibility and become young again. We looked for love or drank at the local bars, walked the beaches or danced with abandon at area clubs. We returned home buzzed, alone or with a soon-to-be lover on our arm.
Doobie and Veronica brought in their crews, and within days the place was transformed. The two old faded farmhouses were restored to their original colors, one in crimson red and the other in the clean white of a long-lingering January snowfall. Show tunes played throughout the compound on James’s makeshift speakers, and the crews danced from task to task. During breaks, groups of ten and twelve would walk to Garden’s. Papa would smile.
We finished the trimming of the tired landscape, planting armies of azaleas, zinnias, and robust rows of purple, white, blue, and red tulips. The compound was a sea of color and the scent of spring. A new city was built, orchestrated by desire and accompanied by the music of our genre. I felt like I was presiding over the resurrection of a small city.
Doobie’s mom came on board, bringing dozens of grungy local workers to scrub the kitchen clean. Shining chrome replaced rusted stovetops, linoleum floors were waxed and countertops made to glisten like a showcase for Sears. Bobby completely redesigned the marquee; now it looked like it had been brought in directly from Times Square. He created a brand and logo for the theater. He removed the old signage letters and replaced them with colorful backlit plastics that beckoned everyone who passed our way with the titles of each show.
JB, Diana, James, and Debbie had opened the box office, and inside the small cubicle were almost thirty-five thousand tickets waiting to find eager buyers. The stacks of color, each assigned to a specific day of the week, offered a rainbow of promise. Sell these suckers, and the world would be a shiny beacon to the entrepreneurial spirit.
Delivery trucks came and went, bringing food and supplies for the house, lumber, paint, and hardware for the scenery, and fabric for costumes. The police department came by every few hours to check in on us. Tommy visited most often, and it seemed that whenever he did, JB disappeared for a bit only to return with a flushed face and a wink in her grin.
Early one morning before the sun was even on the radar, there was a loud pounding on my door. I rolled out of bed half asleep to find Johnny Iron, who had been so helpful with “raccoon night.” He stood drinking a big cup of steaming coffee, wearing overalls without a shirt. Over his shoulder there was a virtual mountain of white gravel. It was meant to fill the potholes throughout the compound, not to replicate a pyramid.
“Hey, Johnny, the pharaoh send you?” I asked.
“The pharaoh? I don’t know anyone named Pharaoh. JB ordered this last week.”
“How am I going to move all these stones? I’ll need a bulldozer. Why didn’t you spread them around the compound?”
“That’s not what you ordered, and it’s more money”
“I’ll need fifteen, twenty guys to get this done.”
Johnny considered that for a second. “I can get you some guys.”
“How much?” I asked, perking up.
“More than the bulldozer.”
“So get me the bulldozer.”
“Can’t. It’s booked.”
I was beginning to think he was enjoying himself. “Why didn’t you hold it for me?”
“You didn’t ask.”
And the carousel of idiocy continued.
“Can we get you some more coffee? Breakfast? Moses?”
“I don’t know a Moses, but I will take the coffee.”
“Okay then. We’ll figure something out later.”
I looked at the gravel Matterhorn and asked myself, How?
“Sam, you’re not happy with this delivery. I can tell, because I know of people.”
“Is intuition part of the purchase order?” He didn’t know an Intuition either.
“I will put the stones back on the truck and dump it where you want.”
“Who’ll put the rocks back on your truck?”
“My guys,” he answered quickly.
“Who pays them?”
“I do. I do what it takes to make my customers happy.”
The coffee and bacon smelled extra appealing. I put my arm around his shoulder and said, “You’re a good man, Johnny Iron. What would you like for breakfast?”
41
Everywhere you went at the compound, you always heard music. Lots of it. Our days played out to the beat of a soundtrack.
Secunda had worked out a deal with our orches
tra leader, Louis Rosenberg, and days before rehearsal, ten of his players arrived with their instruments roped to the top of their straining station wagon. Louis’s ten guys were an eclectic group: ear ringed, tattooed, big grins, and facial hair. Some were tall and gregarious like Louis, others sullen and intense, but they all seemed to perk up and embrace the ocean air and were quick to notice the bevy of chorines that increased with each new day’s arrivals. These New York City boys knew they were in the right place.
I have always marveled at the artists’ ability to create something from a blank page. Whether they built or composed something, or simply wrote it, you could see their ideas becoming part of a greater reality. Mary Holly was one of these talented artists. She worked long hours in the costume shop hunched over a sewing machine, surrounded by satins, feathers, and sketches haphazardly taped to the walls. She wove our ideas into short, skimpy outfits or elegant, cascading dresses that complemented Duncan’s and Kasen’s work in the scene shop. Together, their work melded into a world that would miraculously change from show to show.
After twelve-hour days, we would have dinner at dusk. We’d barbecue burgers and dogs, and mingle in the compound. Then for breakfast Doobie’s mom would serve stacks of pancakes, endless bacon and sausages. The scent of hot coffee mingled with the sunrise. Ma had kids in at 5 a.m. squeezing fresh juices. Everyone carried a script or a music book. The musicians practiced their brand of jazz, adding more hues to the colors of the day.
In addition to all the work, we formed cliques and smoked pot and drank too much and had sex on the beach or in our rooms. Stage-door Johnnies wooed our chorus girls, and we were sent good-luck gifts from all sorts of members of the community. It was one long joy ride and we felt bulletproof. One afternoon, Lizzy Barrows drove up in her red Mercedes and walked purposefully to the box office. Diana greeted her, and after they chatted back and forth, Mrs. Barrows came looking for me. She carried two large stacks of tickets and wore a smile on her face. Under the afternoon Cape sun and wearing a simple outfit of jeans and alligator polo shirt, she looked like a young, sweet coed.
“I just bought eight hundred tickets to your shows,” she called.
“Thank you, Mrs. Barrows. Are you going to stop the check or let it clear this time?”
“Come on, Auggie, be nice.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the show. Have a good afternoon.” I started to leave.
“Come over to the house,” she said suggestively. “I’ll teach you how to swim . . . and you won’t even need to bring a bathing suit.”
“Your overtures are indecorous to say the least,” I said, my voice oozing with condescension.
“Ooh, one of your fancy words! ‘Indecorous.’ Does that mean you’ll be by to see me?”
“No fancy words, Lizzy. It’s simply one you don’t like to hear: no.”
“How about, ‘You’re fucked, you smart-assed prick?’ You like to hear that?” she shouted.
The compound fell silent. She walked right at me, leading with her chin. “You think you can come into our town—Andy’s town—and play by your rules?” she barked in a heated whisper. “Think again, shitpot. You think you’re better than me because you use fancy words and think you’re some kind of kike prince?”
I almost slapped her, but then she would have won.
“No, Lizzy, I don’t think I’m better than you because I use fancy words. I think I’m better than you because I am. Then again, you don’t set the bar very high. Now, unless you want to buy some more tickets—for cash—get off the compound.”
I walked away, still stupidly thinking that harlot or not, she was one great-looking girl.
42
Within days of settling into our quarters at PBT, James began making friends with the “weed people” in town. Hence, each evening many of us would congregate in the loft he had built for himself in the attic of the white house and partake of their offerings. The festivities commenced at 7 p.m. sharp.
The crowd varied from night to night, but the reason for getting together was to watch reruns of Star Trek that James had pirated from local TV affiliates in Providence and Boston. Many of us loved Captain Kirk and the crew; as we reviewed episodes we knew all too well, we smoked the bong, drank beers, discussed the day’s events, and planned for tomorrow. Dates were made for late “rendezvous” on the beach that meant “I’ll meet you there naked.”
One night, Doobie showed up at the Star Trek fest with some new weed from a friend. It was pungent, unlike any other pot we’d smoked. Nevertheless, we already had a good buzz and I led the way with two long drags. Others followed, but more temperately.
It was a cold New England spring night; there was a damp breeze off the water and an unexpected chill in the air. The wind kicked up and an occasional gust made the entire house creak, while the trees outside whipped with an ominous tone.
I felt very uncomfortable after my tokes on the new weed. I was uneasy— or somewhat unhinged, to say the least. When I stood up my balance was shaky. I remained somewhat dazed until I found the blue TV screen and locked on to it like a pit bull with a bone. I was frightened by what I saw. Something had happened to Spock. He was injured. His brain had fallen out of his head and no one, either on the Enterprise or in James Feldman’s room, seemed to notice or care. I became more agitated as I saw Spock’s brain leave the TV set and roll across the attic loft and down the steps onto the compound. I shrieked, “Spock!” and ran in pursuit.
Most of those in the group thought I was being goofy. But Secunda, JB, Bobby, and Veronica followed me out. By the time they reached the compound, I was racing toward the ocean in irrational hysteria shouting, “I’ll save you, Spock!” As I ran I shed my clothes.
What I heard later was that Veronica suggested she call the police and Bobby Stevens laid her out. “Call the police!” he shouted at her. “Get him arrested and this place shut down?”
“He’s fucked up on something, Bobby. What would you have me do? Drop to my knees and pray that he won’t fucking drown?”
“No, I would get on the phone to everyone you know and get them down here and stop this before he ruins his life.”
With tears running down her face, Veronica ran to the office and reached for the phone. Simultaneously, she picked up the compound’s PA mic and shouted, “Everybody up, report to the office now.” There was no need to say it was an emergency; you could hear it in her tone.
Our friends who had been in the attic with James raced into the fray. They had heard my howling as it cut through the stillness and chill of the rainswept night. Secunda, Elliot, and Duncan chased after me. James ordered Debbie to run to the theater to get flashlights, rope, and first-aid materials and bring them to the shore.
I had a big head start on everyone, so when Secunda reached the beach, I was at least two hundred yards into the face of a frigid Atlantic. My voice had become muted in the distance, but I was still shouting for Spock’s salvation. Debbie arrived with the flashlights; several of the others had driven down to the shore and pointed their car headlights into the night sea. James, Duncan, and Kasen showed up on hot-wired jet skis from local beachside cottages and hit the water with engines screaming.
I remember swimming away from the shore, and although I could hear voices behind me and see streaks of car lights, I continued to swim straight ahead, just within reach of Spock’s brain. I felt no fatigue and no chill—just the single purpose to save the Vulcan. There were beams of light everywhere. One moment I was visible and the next I had disappeared. I began to swallow water and realized that I needed to rest a moment, or neither Spock nor I would make it home alive.
Whatever had sent me more than a half-mile out to sea had begun to wear off. I was taking in increasing amounts of water and I was now shivering, my lips blue, my limbs numb. I wanted to shout, but I was breathless and no words were audible. I treaded water, but my legs cramped. I still heard shouts t
hat sounded like “hold on,” “stay strong,” and “we got you,” but with each passing second the words faded, becoming indecipherable. All sounds were muted now and everything moved in slow motion.
I was ice. Exhausted, I went under, cold and limp. Light flickered above me with no direction or purpose. I was under for a while. As I pushed myself up with all my might to catch some air, I came away with more water than I could handle. I choked, my lungs filling with water as black as tea. Then I saw nothing, felt nothing but a deep, bone-chilling cold . . . In a final instant I was no longer conscious.
43
I lay in my room directly off the compound on the first floor of the red house. I was wrapped in so many blankets that I felt mummified. My head was throbbing and my bones were still ice. Most of the witnesses from yesterday’s near-catastrophic event had left shortly after I was safe on land. The difference between tragedy and anecdote is faint. They had almost seen my death play out and wanted to build a Chinese wall around my impetuous behavior.
Bobby Stevens was the first to visit me. He was terse and made me feel the fool. He acknowledged that it could have been he who had partaken of the PCP-laced pot, he who might have acted outside the boundaries of safety. However, I was the one who had gathered everyone here in Plymouth, and my responsibility to be a grown up transcended the others. He told me he hadn’t joined up to promote or condone tragedy. He was grateful I was all right, yet this was a business arrangement. His loyalty was to the opportunity and not to foolishness, no matter how benign it appeared before taking a turn into darkness.
“Are you staying on?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Even fools overcome their mistakes. I still have faith in you, but don’t fuck up again.”
“I promise,” I said. Then he left without a smile.
It was close to midnight. Since everyone was gone, the compound was silent, yet the wind whipped the trees, and the rain spanked the buildings and pelted the windows as if threatening to break and enter.
Little Did I Know Page 17
