Little Did I Know

by Mitchell Maxwell

  Within that lesson was a profound disappointment for an idealistic young man with artistic aspirations. The next time I was in trouble, the next time the scenery was a clusterfuck or fatigue had set in, would I work as hard as I had the past few days? Or, with this new life lesson, would I simply say, “Fuck it, it’s good enough. No one will know the difference anyway.” How sad that would be?

  Bill Hockman threw his big, fat, sweaty arm across my shoulder, stuck his big, coarse face in mine, and shouted in his big New York accent, “What a night, my boy! What a show! Now we know who has the real smarts in the August family. Right, Herb? Right Phil?” Then he laughed so loud it made the birds fly away and the waves reverse direction and head back to England. Who did he think he was, Woody Fucking Allen?

  I wanted to say, “Fuck you, you fucking fuck. Why don’t you take your big, stupid face back to New York and continue to make people dislike Jews?” But I didn’t. Instead I said, “Thank you, Mr. Hockman, Mrs. Hockman. I am so glad you enjoyed the show. I know it was a long trip and I appreciate the effort you made in coming.”

  “It was our pleasure, my boy. See you on Broadway.” He smacked me on the back, but before walking into the crowd to find some other schmuck to bore, he barked a crisp order at my dad. “Come on, Herb, introduce us to some of these kids.” And then he was gone. The stars reappeared in the night sky and the man in the moon smiled.

  I spent a few awkward moments with my family and made plans to meet for a nice brunch the next morning. I made the perfunctory rounds and then bowed out and went to sleep.

  Sometimes you eat surf and turf, other times it’s franks and beans. They’re both good, just different.

  90

  I arrived early for the breakfast with my family. I had come alone, thinking and feeling that I needed to see Mom and Dad without distraction. My mother had gotten some sun while in town, and she looked flush and healthy. My father had abandoned the rubbing of his forehead and replaced it with a big, open smile. They told me my aunt and uncle would be joining us shortly. Then, as it had been for as long as I can recall, we didn’t talk about the ugliness of yesterday evening. It sat on my chest like the proverbial six-hundred-pound gorilla. Better to pretend you’re not sick and die than to deal with pain of getting well. So we danced and we vamped until we became five instead of three. I told anecdotes of my summer’s adventures and they told me how terrific the show had been last evening, how proud they were, and how much they’d enjoyed meeting Veronica. We’d had these conversations before. The shows had different titles, the girls had different names, and sometimes the score hadn’t always come out in my favor.

  I had so much cause to love my parents, if for no other reason than they were my parents. Recent experiences were going to change our relationship. To grow up, I needed to grow apart for a while: to truly stand on my own, to listen to my heart, to set boundaries. Then, at some point in the very near future, we could become close again, perhaps closer.

  As we sat and talked, I felt happy. Our familial love was sort of like a ride on the bumper cars. It was electric and silly. Sometimes it was an open ride with the wind in your face; other times it was a head-on crash with whiplash. Shortly after one o’clock, I walked them all to their cars to say goodbye.

  Just before my dad put the car in gear, he grabbed me behind the neck and pulled me close. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and his face was scratchy with whiskers. He whispered in my ear with power and fervor, “I would be proud of you if you walked on that stage last night and belly flopped. I was wrong to speak to you the way I did. You’re my boy. Sometimes even unconditional love isn’t enough. I love you, my son.” He pushed me away so he could look me in the eye. His gaze was strong, his eyes filled with passion. “Hey, Sammy. Kill the people.”

  He drove onto Route  south, heading home. It had been nice to hear his apology, and of course I would honor it. But as I climbed into my car, I had a couple of thoughts. Why did he have to whisper? And more important, why did I have to kill anybody? Why wasn’t trying my best all day, every day simply enough?

  91

  Five shows in ten weeks. Four down and one to go. We were entering the final turn at a full gallop toward the roses. The atmosphere had changed with our schedule, the weather and the wind. Company was the last big show of the summer. We were closing the season with The Fantasticks, a piece with a small cast of characters, lesser musical needs, and a spare, simple set.

  There was less to build in both shops, and we had scores of actors who no longer needed to rehearse throughout the day. Those not in the last show lived the lives of film stars. They slept in late, strolled along the beach, and swam in the warm, crystal-clear August waters. They took day trips to local sites or, when asked, assisted Kasen or Mary, who now had more workers at their disposal than the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. The land mines appeared to have all been swept away. The icebergs had melted and it was smooth sailing into port and home.

  I had some free time for the first time since my meeting with Barrows in early May. I spent it wisely, mostly with Veronica, simply being two young people in something that was more than “a boy just passing through.” I also spent time with my close friends ASK, Elliot, James, and Secunda. The first three had places to go after Labor Day, and Secunda would find a way to fill his days and help build the GNP. We even arranged an afternoon of hooky by giving a rehearsal to Jojo and attending a day game at Fenway. But by the fourth inning, with the Sox hammering the As, we wanted to head back home, all of us suffering severe separation anxiety from the daily tasks that had consumed us these past weeks.

  The following Friday, on the evening of our penultimate performance of Company, I returned from a long run on the beach. The past few days had morphed gracefully into late summer, bringing with them a hint of its end. You could stumble on crimson-red or pumpkin-orange leaves, putting us all on notice that the long, lingering days, the best of the season, were no longer plentiful, that fall was just hours away. The air held a different scent off the water; the energy of dusk less active, now infused with calm.

  I had taken to running barefoot in the wet sand, and as I did my steps would churn up mud against my chest, to the back of my thighs and up onto my neck and face. Until I had time to shower and change, I looked like a young boy who had endured a friendly mud fight with his pals. When I reached the compound I found a little red Mercedes parked and still, front and center. My stomach flipped. I had no need or desire to speak with Lizzy Barrows, especially not when I was covered in sand, mud, and sweat.

  She called out to me before I had a chance to disappear. “Mr. August, hello. You’ll be happy to know I just bought every seat you had available for the final performance.” If this had been my first exchange with this woman, it would have been lovely. However, what she had proffered in the past kept the butterflies darting inside my belly.

  “That’s lovely, Mrs. Barrows. Will you be having actual people sitting in those seats, or will you be using them to store your sweater and handbag?”

  “Sam, that’s not very nice. I’ve been back many times since that night. Can’t we forget all this bad stuff? Leave it behind us?” She actually seemed to mean it.

  “There is no we, Mrs. Barrows. And no, I can’t forget. What you did was wrong. The game your husband tried to play with me and his threat to my friends was also wrong and I have no reason to forgive you.”

  She stared at me as if I had slapped her. Clearly she didn’t hear a lot of “no” on the Barrows estate. “But it all worked out. I’ve made a lot of friends here. Andy has stayed away. Even he wants to make amends, maybe talk to the press and say good things. Please, can’t you and I be friends as well?”

  “No,” I said. “Just because you drive drunk and get home without killing someone doesn’t mean it’s an okay thing to do. And just because someone evil says they are not doesn’t make it so. No, we aren’t friends.”

  “You’ve let
Gary in. Why not me?”

  “You’ve both been living in shit, doing bad things. I guess I think he’s trying to climb out while you’re still stirring the pot.”

  “You don’t know that. You don’t know about a lot of things in this town . . .”

  “I know what I need to know.”

  “No second chances?”

  “Always. Just not for everyone, Mrs. Barrows.”

  “Sam, why did you sign the note ‘Spartacus’? Who was he”?

  “Come on, Lizzy, you don’t know who Spartacus was? You never saw the movie with Kirk Douglas?”

  “No, I was out whoring around,” she said with self-effacing irony. I offered no protestation on her personal assessment. I imagined it was true. “Tell me who he was.”

  I considered whether I should spend the time. It’s always better to be kind, particularly when you’re winning. So I told her. “Spartacus was a Roman slave, a gladiator. He led a slave army of misfits against the Roman Empire in the Third Servile War. He fought against oppression, privilege, the aristocracy. He was crucified by the legions of Rome.”

  “That’s sad.” She looked confused, as if I were speaking a foreign language.

  “After the Romans captured his forces, they told the slave army that if Spartacus was identified he would be the only prisoner crucified. Rather than betray their leader, each of the five thousand members of his army stood up and proclaimed, ‘I am Spartacus.’”

  She had been listening with interest until the last part, when her expression turned sour and dismissive. “That’s arrogant,” she said. “That’s why you signed the note ‘Spartacus’?”

  “No, I signed it that way because Kirk Douglas and I are the same person. Never seen us in the same place at the same time, have you? Enjoy the rest of your summer, Mrs. Barrows, and give my best to ‘Andy.’” I turned and headed toward the house.

  “Sam, come by tonight. Anderson’s away. We’ll have some fun . . .”

  I kept walking, opened the door and entered my room. From the window I watched Lizzy Barrows climb into her fancy, red sports car all coiffed, buffed, and so terribly gorgeous. Yet so desperately sad.

  “People often get lost on the way to anywhere, let alone to a rendezvous that will change their lives,” Lizzy had told me over drinks that first night at the Full Sail. I knew there were many songs that mirrored her life but at that moment, I couldn’t think of a single lyric.

  I walked into the bathroom to shower and checked myself in the mirror. I didn’t look anything like Kirk Douglas. I was taller, and he had that hole in his chin. I climbed into the tub, turned the water on, and washed off the mud.

  92

  I watched the performance that night. Company was my favorite of all, brimming with originality and a great score. Our version had matured into something of substance. True, it had its share of pretensions inspired by youth. At our tender ages, we really didn’t understand nor had we lived through the issues that drove the older characters in the play. Nevertheless, we did a fine job. We played it with tremendous commitment; as a result the show provided entertainment and emotional catharsis.

  As important, Zach Rush was simply fantastic in the lead role. He was the personification of a leading man: tall, handsome, intelligent, graceful, alert, and generous. And Zach could sing. He made every song his; he owned the lyrics. As I watched him that night, I felt that even after I had grown old and seen dozens of productions of this show, no one would have played the lead as well as Zach.

  After the performance, I stood on the deck outside the theater and watched the crowd walk to their cars. I enjoyed doing this. It was tactile. People had come to our house, plunked down their money, and left with a good feeling. There was quality in our product, the best of the American Dream, a cherry on top of the nation’s birthday cake.

  Jojo approached me. “Sammy, Rush needs to speak with you. He’s in his dressing room.”

  “Okay, Jojo. Thanks.” I headed his way without a second thought.

  As a lead player, Zach had a private dressing room. It was small but it was his. He had decorated it with mementos of his summer: photos, telegrams, letters from fans, invites from numerous women who had come to see him. Taped to his mirror was a picture of his girlfriend, Paula, a rare equal to Zach in both beauty and grace. On the opposite wall he had posted all his reviews as well as the interview he had done for the Boston Globe. That particular piece was framed in expensive dark wood.

  The door was open and Rush invited me in. He looked tired and much older than when we had first met in the basement of Tufts University. Zach had carried the season and made it special. His hard work and professionalism had raised the bar for everyone at PBT. He had made us more than a group of kids leaving college behind, and because of him we were better than most.

  He asked me to sit. Turning away, he looked into his dressing table mirror for a long time without saying a word. He had called this meeting; he would speak when he was ready. It began to feel like a really long time to sit in silence; worry crept into my chest.

  And then finally, “Sam, I don’t know how to say this to you . . . I’ve been trying to figure a way . . .” He continued to stare into the mirror, speaking to my reflection as if he were hoping I wasn’t really present. “I’m leaving tonight. I have to. I love it here. I love you and Secunda, Jojo, Trudy, but I have to leave . . .”

  As his words faded out I felt my breath disappear. This was a kick in the groin, a punch to the solar plexus. I looked at my reflection in Zach’s mirror and saw the color drain from my face. “Why?” was all I could find to say.

  “I got a job.”

  “You have a job.”

  “This is a union job. I get my equity card. It’s what I always wanted.”

  “You have a job.”

  Zach continued to talk to my reflection. I heard footsteps descending the stairs, and in a moment Secunda appeared at the door, happy and chomping on one of his stinky cigars.

  “What’s up?” he said, clearly unaware of the situation.

  Zach moved his gaze from the mirror to look directly at Secunda. “I have to leave, I’m sorry.”

  “Zach has another job,” I said in a monotone. as if repeating the news a thousand times would make it go away. “He’s leaving us to get his union card. It’s what he’s always wanted.”

  “When?” asked Secunda.

  “In the morning, at six,” Zach said. “They’re picking me up.”

  Secunda was immediately in his face. “Who? Who is picking you up, Zach? Are they going to stay long enough to finish fucking us before they take you away?” A switch had been flipped and he was out of control.

  Zach sat motionless and let Secunda scream at him. His face flushed bright red. Finally, when Secunda was finished berating him, Zach said, “I have to think about my career, Josh. I came here to start a career. To get seen, to find an agent. This is a Broadway tour with a big star. They’re offering me a lot of money. I have to do what’s right for me.”

  “There’s only one way to do the right thing, Zach, and that’s to do the right thing,” I said. “Can’t they wait till you’re done here?”

  Before he could answer, Secunda jumped back in. “I’ll . . . we’ll . . . pay you ten grand to finish here. They can’t be paying you more than ten grand.”

  “We are not paying Zach ten thousand dollars to finish the job, Josh,” I said, now on the edge of fury myself. “We’re not doing that. We’re not paying Zach-fucking-Rush ten thousand fucking dollars.”

  Secunda got in my face. “What are we going to do, Sammy? We blow up here if he leaves. Do we cancel the show tomorrow? Close early?” He turned to Zach and pulled back from rant to request. “Zach, will you stay if we pay you the ten grand?”

  “It’s not about the money, I want to get in the union. This is a big chance for me.” Zach seemed to whine as he
offered this bullshit defense.

  “Josh, we are not paying him to stay,” I repeated.

  “Then I’ll pay it to him. I’ll find the money.”

  I leaned toward Zach. “No one will pay you, Zach. You are staying and finishing this job. You are staying and finishing this job. You are staying and . . .” I tried to be firm without a show of anger, but it all began to get the better of me. “You know, Zach, when we gave you this job you told us it was a big chance for you. Remember that? Now you found a prettier girl, so you’re gonna run off and leave us at the altar? No fucking way.”

  I wasn’t shouting, but there was menace in my tone. The room was airless, a small underground box without windows. You could hear our brains working overtime to find a way. Our hearts beat out loud.

  “I can’t turn down the money,” Zach said after what seemed like minutes. “I can’t.”

  “I’ll pay you the money!” Secunda shouted. “Now stop it!”

  “You said it wasn’t about the money and now it seems that it is,” I said. “Is this a holdup? You think this is the last union job you’re ever going to be offered? You’ll walk into an audition in two weeks and get another job, and then another. You’re too good.”

  “Sammy, it’s only money.” Secunda said. “It’s only ten grand.”

  “Shut up, Josh,” I shouted. “I will not let you give Zach any money. He made a deal with us and with everyone upstairs and with everyone who bought tickets to see him in the next show. What about my money, Zach? What about the money I lose if you walk? Don’t I matter in this equation? You think there are no consequences other than a little guilt? Not so. I’ll be there at six tomorrow when they come to pick you up. I’ll tell their company manager that you walked out of your contract with us. Maybe it will happen with them as well. I’ll run into you down the road. Do the right thing, Zach. Please, for both of us.”