Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  Tom Sr. went below and returned with two beers. He handed me one, took a long pull on his, and sat close by again on the deck chair.

  “You Jewish?” he asked.

  “Are you, sir?”

  “No, of course not.” He laughed as if I had asked if he was green.

  “I like your daughter, Mr. Chapman. She wanted me to meet you and your wife and so here I am. Nothing more.”

  “There is a lot more, son. Ten days ago, Veronica came home smiling for the first time since Eddie was arrested. She talked all night about this boy she had met at work. Her face was bright and animated. She was a girl again. My little girl.”

  “My mother always said, ‘What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ We somehow find a way, don’t we, sir? A way to get through all the stuff that comes along.”

  He regarded me for a moment. “You be nice to Veronica, son.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, and offered my hand to seal the deal. He took it, held it firm and strong, then looked deep into my eyes.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Kindness.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “Just what I was looking for, son, and a great deal more. Now let’s go see my daughter smile. Then you two can be on your way.”

  47

  When I was in college, I was never a very good student. I took courses that began after noon, and would never consider a Friday-morning lecture. I crammed for midterms and final exams. I read only the books I wanted to read. I used Cliff ’s Notes to get through the rest. I loved college, but the structure and the preparation required didn’t much work for me.

  Except when it came to any course that dealt with the theater. Anytime a playwright was assigned, I didn’t just read the play—I read everything the playwright ever wrote. I did it for me and not for the grade. I also acted in many school shows. I was competent. Like a .280 hitter who bats sixth with a bushel of doubles. I paid attention and I saw what worked, what captured the audience. I watched the directors.

  I came to believe two things. The first was that you never truly have all the answers; if you did, the theater would be a science and not an art. More important, a director must never lie to an actor, for if he does, the whole production is doomed to become a lie. Tell the actor the truth, help make him be better to find his way. Clarify his actions, advise him how to use his body, how to measure the beat. But never lie—as it stunts growth and kills creativity. The actor’s reward is in a fine delivery, not bogus rhetoric from some pontificating student director or false praise from someone with a PhD.

  On Tuesday morning, we had our first rehearsal. JoJo and her management crew had dressed the stage with some fifty chairs in one big circle. The entire PBT company was in attendance. They had arrived early, wide awake, with their eyes and bodies suggesting they were ready to get up and dance. It was like a first date. Everyone wanted to look good and be liked, so they pretended to be who they perhaps were not. All too cooperative and oh so lovely. They laughed at all the casual jokes and listened with intense sincerity.

  Usually at a first rehearsal there is a “table read” where the actors sit around and read the play. It breaks the ice and allows for discussion about the characters’ motivations and backstory. What did the playwright mean when he said that? Why that song lyric or orchestration? It is also good for the designers to hear the piece out loud. It is also fun.

  However, PBT was summer stock. Five fully produced musicals in ten weeks. Eight shows a week dictated how much time was left for rehearsals, and it didn’t allow for a great deal of analysis of character or motive or backstory. Additionally, we were presenting famous musicals with dialogue, music and lyrics set in stone. Cabaret, Funny Girl, Anything Goes, Company, and The Fantasticks were part of musical theater lore. The gold standards. The songs and scenes had been played thousands of times. These shows were like the great classics authored by Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Rand. Each time they were revisited by the reader, or in our case the performer, something of the reader was brought to the written word.

  There was no table read. We didn’t have time. I had told everyone what I expected from them at their auditions or at the beach or through Jojo. I let Elliot speak regarding the music and Ellie regarding the dance. They reminded everyone that rehearsals set the steps or the notes, but perfecting their work had to be done on their own time. Whether they were jogging or working out, eating dinner, shaving, or showering, they had to find ways to turn the sketch into a picture. They were allowed an occasional respite for making out or a ballgame or a brief letter home. But that was it.

  I told them that Joe DiMaggio played every inning as if it were his last because, as he explained, “There was someone in the stands who came to see Joe DiMaggio play for the first and only time, and that fan deserved to see the real deal and not some faded copy of Joe DiMaggio who might be tired or bored, or upset about something that day.”

  “We are all Joe DiMaggio,” I explained. “Whoever comes to see us deserves the best that we have to offer. If one of the greatest athletes of all time could give that to his public, we should be ashamed to offer any less.”

  I looked at everyone seated in a circle in that old barn that had been putting on shows since the slaves were freed and offered a final thought. “Everyone here has to want to be here. In some shows you will be the star, and in others you’ll play backup and give the star a foundation from which to shine. Whatever role you play, you must commit with all your strength and all your heart. Otherwise, you will be cheating yourselves, your friends, your audience, and me. If you don’t feel comfortable with that, then get up and go home.”

  There was quiet in the theater. No one got up to leave, which I thought was a good sign. “Okay then,” I said. “Let’s go to work.”

  48

  When I was a sophomore in high school, I was the only one in my class selected to be a starting player on the varsity football team. It was sort of one of those good news–bad news talks with my coach. Mr. Serpe told me I was a first-team player. That of course was the good part. Then he informed me that I would be up against the best middle linebacker in the state on Saturday morning when we scrimmaged with Roosevelt High. My stomach turned and I wondered if I really wanted to play varsity football.

  As the days approached for my showdown with Rock Mental on Saturday morning, his legend grew. Yes, his name was truly “Rock Mental.” He had been all-state the past four years and was already guaranteed a free ride to Ohio State. Roosevelt had been undefeated since he’d joined the team. He weighed 250 on Monday and 280 on Wednesday, and by Friday night he tipped the scales at over 300 pounds. He was as fast as Jim Thorpe and as violent as Jim Brown. He never missed a play; those who went against him rarely finished the game. He was a Viking. He was a Hun. He was Paul Bunyan, Ulysses, and Goliath. And I was dead.

  I didn’t sleep well leading up to Saturday. I was anxious at the thought of being beaten to death by this thyroid freak, yet determined to show up and do the best I could. I studied my playbook and film on the guy. I figured he was vulnerable to certain trap blocks and that in playing him, the second and third blocks were as important as the first if I intended on making it home. I practiced extra hard with the line coach, ate well, and took all my vitamins. Friday night, I rested and prayed. When Saturday morning arrived, I got on the team bus and headed east to face a most certain and unceremonious ending for an all too brief high school athletic career.

  We arrived at Roosevelt High and began our warm-ups. All of my teammates were on the lookout for Rock Mental. They were more nervous than I was about facing this human Loch Ness monster, and their sympathy for me could be inferred from their stoic expressions. But no one sighted him. If he were that enormous, you’d think he would stand out in a crowd, but no one on my side could locate this brooding giant.

  Just before kickoff, Coach Serpe approached me with a wide
grin. He said, “Sammy, you’re going tear it up out here. I got faith in you.” Then he slapped my butt and moved away. I felt no better about my fate and continued to search the field for Rock Mental.

  Unexpectedly, Coach Serpe returned to my side, laughing. “Sammy, Rock Mental graduated last year. He’s starting at middle linebacker for Ohio State this afternoon. Now go make some hay.”

  I did make some hay that day. In fact, I played a terrific game. We won the scrimmage by more than thirty points, and the bus ride home was raucous and happy. We had kicked some ass that morning.

  Amid all the chaos, I sat alone a while and thought that sometimes when the worst actually happens it’s never as bad as you think it will be. More important, the things in life you most tend to worry about often take you away from the things in life that really need your attention.

  I was brooding over these thoughts as I sat on the deck at the Full Sail and sipped tequila a week after our first show had opened. The bar inside was packed, but out on the deck it was quiet and the ocean was almost as smooth as glass. A chilly mist descended from above, casting little shadows on the mirrored seatop. The deck was empty except for two women in their late twenties who were obviously looking for company. As they eyed me, I was tempted to tell them they should take their business inside.

  Bobby Stevens pulled up a chair and sat next to me. He had been right about his fair skin; the Cape Cod sun had not been kind to him. His face was bright red. He was in good spirits nevertheless. He told me he thought the show was terrific and I shouldn’t worry about what had been small attendance to this point. It took time for word of mouth to build. He mentioned that the season didn’t really begin till after the Fourth of July, and assured me the crowds would pick up then. He reminded me about all the press we had received and the big article that was to appear in the Globe early next week. He added that the goal was to sell thirty thousand tickets over the entire summer and not in the first week and a half, and that he had every confidence we would do so.

  I nodded silently and sipped my tequila. I noticed the two ladies had gone inside for better pickings. Maybe Bobby was right, but I didn’t think so. I believed that when you opened, whether on Broadway or in a small town, you should generate some sense of urgency in people to get to the box office and buy a ticket. It was true we were selling more each day, but our increases were nothing for anyone to get particularly excited about.

  Then I told him my Rock Mental story. He laughed but didn’t see the connection. I explained that while we were all so concerned about the quality of our product, we had neglected or at least so far failed to let the world know it existed. We were so concerned about being beaten to death by Rock that we overlooked the essential fact that he was now a “Buckeye.”

  The company had been so professional. Our first shows were excellent: crisp, clear, precise, and imbued with a joy that flooded over the floodlights, even though the story itself was about dark things. The crowds were enthusiastic, staying afterward to compliment the young actors. Morale and dedication remained high, but playing in front of fewer than a hundred people a night—our best was a hundred and seven—had to take its toll. Christ, we only had fifty-three people at our opening!

  I walked back into the bar and ordered two shots of Cuervo gold with two beer backs and returned to Bobby. We clinked our glasses and threw back José’s poison; wincing, we chased it with a swig of cold beer. We sat for a while. There was no show tomorrow, since it was July 4, and the company was scheduled for minimum rehearsals. We could stay out late and misbehave if we wanted; there was no homework to do.

  “We have to finish these drinks and head back to the theater,” Bobby said with a certain sense of urgency. “We have to round everyone up, even the local kids. Hell, I’ll even call Gary Golden if it will help.”

  I went to the bar and came back with two more shots of Mr. Cuervo. I thought if I couldn’t sell tickets sober I might as well try it drunk.

  “We have to make a splash,” Bobby continued. “We have to do something they have never seen here in Plymouth. We have to pull off a stunt and make everyone, whether they are locals or just passing through, remember our names.”

  “Okay, I’m in, ” I said. “Where do I sign?”

  “I signed us up to be a float in the parade tomorrow. I located a big flatbed trailer that will be at the theater in about fifteen minutes—”

  I cut him off. “Bobby, this is stupid! Nobody goes to parades anymore.”

  “They might in Plymouth on the Fourth of July. It’s the bicentennial, for Christ sake. Even if there aren’t lots of people on the parade route, we will win first prize with our float and that will get us on TV. We need to do this. Otherwise, we are going to play to a lot more empty seats. Trust me on that. I should have realized this sooner, but people aren’t coming because we don’t feel like a winner. The experience we are offering is like kissing your sister or going out with a girl who is your best friend. Everybody knows we are here, but they don’t believe they have to call tonight or they’ll get shut out.”

  “Bobby, no one goes to parades. What does the float look like that you’re so sure we’ll win, anyway?”

  “The float will be everything we want the public to know about us. Our shows will be represented on the float as miniature versions of our sets, and the van itself will carry a replica of the barn. It will be filled with our chorus girls in skimpy outfits, and who won’t notice that? The entire orchestra will play everything from show tunes, to Sinatra, to the blues, to patriotic melodies.

  “We’ll serve drinks in the heat and sing. Everyone will join in and they’ll hear us in Boston, and they will remember us and talk about us. Those who hear of our day on America’s birthday will buy tickets and tell their friends.”

  Man he was good.

  “How skimpy will the girl’s clothes be?” I asked.

  “Naked. They will be practically naked.”

  “That should sell tickets. Naked is good.”

  I went to the bar for one last refill, then returned to Bobby.

  “I am calling your marker,” he said. “You promised to back me and I’m not letting you say no.”

  “I did promise, that’s true.”

  I raised my glass and he his. We clinked, winced, and followed with a swig of beer.

  “It’s after midnight,” I said. “When does this parade begin?”

  “Nine o’clock this morning.”

  “Well then, what are we waiting for? There are naked girls waiting to ride this float!”

  49

  As luck would have it, we were able to round up nearly everybody in the company. Bobby and I recruited JB and Tommy, James, Feston, Debbie, and Ellie. We quickly explained our emergency and they scattered off to the beach, to knock on doors, and to the local watering holes we all seemed to frequent. Within thirty minutes, everyone stood in the parking lot waiting for instructions or at least an explanation.

  In the center of our circle was the powder-blue birthday present lit to the tits by a dozen cars whose headlights all pointed directly at the van. It had heated up over the past few hours, and everyone was dressed down in shorts and T-shirts, eager for news about what the fuck was going on. James had put a loop on the sound system, and due to the late hour, it was the soft smooth sounds of Johnny Hartman. The place looked like Area ; all we needed to complete the picture were a few aliens. Yet I took comfort in the fact that it was early, and who knew what might happen next?

  Bobby and I stood by the van. I held a large piece of white poster board rolled up in my hand. Bobby held a clipboard and had a whistle around his neck. If it were another time or place, this would look like the beginning of a track meet. Doobie’s Full Sail truck pulled up. He removed three large kegs of beer and placed them on the picnic table, then began to fill plastic cups with the crisp amber brew and pass them around.

  “You all know Mr. Bobb
y Stevens here,” I said. “Tonight he will lead us on an important adventure.” I held up the poster board and turned it a few times to make sure everyone got a good look, then handed it to Bobby and said to the group, “This is Bobby’s marker, and he’s calling it. So whatever Bobby says, we do.” I turned to Bobby. “What do we do?”

  Bobby unrolled a huge sheet of paper on which the PBT float had been rendered just as he had described it to me less than an hour ago, although the girls weren’t naked in this version.

  Kasen laid out a giant paint-by-numbers set which, when painted in the appropriate colors, would be hoisted together to replicate the big barn theater. Once complete, it was to be worn by the van like a form-fitting jacket and topped with the roof of the building and the high-flying sign that Bobby had designed earlier that week.

  Enormous, it would be seen from miles away as it snaked down the parade route. Kasen had hooked it up to a flatbed trailer that must have been the length of half a football field; on this platform were built little replicas of our coming season’s shows. They sprouted up like little cities, a twenties neighborhood that housed Funny Girl, an opulent ocean liner where the characters of Anything Goes romped, and the modern steel and coldness of seventies Manhattan that acted as the backdrop for Company. Germany in the s for Cabaret and a minimalist stage set for The Fantasticks. Attached to each miniature show city was a pennant flag intended to wave on what promised to be one of the hottest Fourth of Julys ever.

  The entire orchestra had been set on the flatbed and secured in place. The generator Bobby had procured was plugged into the cigarette lighter, which was going to keep that sucker going until Christmas. The float took shape around the band, who were playing a medley of songs and styles. It was like turning the knob on a car radio and you’d catch snippets of different artists and genres. Bebop, swing, raucous jazz, show tunes, and sweet melodies floated up toward the sky and accompanied the stars as they found partners and danced.