Chanel Bonfire (28 page)

“Okay, girls, let’s try it again!” Randy boomed.

This required putting the set back to its original position and then repeating the change. By the end of that first day, the guy who had designed the set, some Yalie named Andrew Jackness, had been dubbed by his short, blond, non-weight-lifting crew “Jackass.” Jackass sat in the theater eating a sandwich while we groaned, pushing and pulling the set back into place. Randy licked his lips and seemed to get off even more the sweatier we became.

“Jesus, Randy,” said a girl named Lisa, who was mopping her brow with the bottom of her T-shirt. Another girl, Linda, started to cry harder.

“I said one more time! We need to get this sucker down to fifteen minutes, tops!” Randy hollered at us, brandishing his stopwatch. Jackass broke open a bag of Lay’s potato chips and propped his feet up on the chair in front of him. I imagined him being drawn and quartered in Harvard Square.

Even though every day of my new job was like reporting for duty on a slave ship and having to row for twelve hours, it was still the theater and I never missed my old job making change at the newsstand. Our crew worked hard all during technical rehearsals until, on opening night, we had finally got the change down to half an hour. Only then, with a full house waiting for the second act to begin and the stage manager and the house manager backstage arguing with Randy, did Randy see the error of his ways. It wasn’t really our faults: Jackass had designed the Moby-Dick of sets. It was enormous and took up the entire stage. And the play sucked.

The next day, Randy went out trawling on Brattle Street for beefy men to join his set crew, and we little women were relocated to different departments. Granted a reprieve, I was given a job in wardrobe that even came with a small raise. With this extra money, I was able to finish paying off my gargantuan therapy bill to Dr. Keylor.

I loved my new job as a wardrobe assistant, even though I knew almost nothing about sewing. My boss was a hilarious gay guy named Don Swanson. He was a little, puckish man-with a raunchy sense of humor and a laugh that sounded like the Wicked Witch’s. He chain-smoked Kools and had one of those beards that made him look like a beatnik version of Satan. Soon we were best friends, and he didn’t care that I didn’t know how to sew or fix wigs. “Oh, just beat it with a stick!” he would cackle.

My duties included doing the laundry for all the actors and actresses, any repair work that needed to be done, and helping with quick changes backstage. I had to sew up holes in Carmen De Lavallade’s bodysuit that she wore as Titania and strap Mark Linn-Baker into his flying harness for Puck, then test it by standing on a chair and trying to lift him. After the show, I fluffed the white, furry trousers he wore as Puck with a wire hairbrush. I held a flashlight in my teeth and helped the lovers change backstage for the wedding scene. And I watched the play—every night. The onstage chorus, dressed in iridescent green robes, sang music from
The Fairy-Queen
by Purcell. It was a wonderful production of the play—comical and well acted, with touches of sadness and darkness, too. I loved just being at the theater, the way it smelled, looked, and made me feel. Watching the shows from the wings every night, I felt that I was home.

I liked to deliver the laundry to the men’s dressing room, which was more lively and less serious than the women’s. The actresses seemed more interested in their preparation, whereas the men’s idea of a warm-up was to have a cigarette and read the paper. It reminded me of going backstage to see my dad at the Guthrie when I was a little girl. He’d be in his dressing room after the play in his undershirt taking off his makeup and having a beer. Which probably explains why I had innocent crushes on all those guys at the A.R.T.

During rehearsals for
Midsummer Night’s Dream
, I had started talking with an actor in the cast. We were both backstage—he was waiting for his next entrance, and I was waiting for my next costume change. He was playing one of the fairies and wore a green bodysuit that covered all of him, including his face. It was like talking to a giant stalk of celery.

He and I whispered backstage about the play and about Boston; he was from New York. His name was Michael, and he was very funny and seemed nice, even though I couldn’t tell what he looked like because of the bodysuit. After a week or two, he asked me out for coffee between shows on Saturday. No one had ever asked me out for coffee; it sounded very intellectual, very New York. I imagined dark-wood-paneled
rooms in Greenwich Village, filled with poets and people strumming guitars. I immediately said yes.

I told him I’d meet him outside the stage door, after I’d picked up the laundry. I ran through the dressing rooms, picking up damp socks and T-shirts off the floor. I hurled them at Don and asked him to put them in the wash.

“I have a date,” I said.

“Bitch. Jesus, I hope it’s not with one of the actors. Find out if he’s married!” Don yelled after me.

I ran out the stage door and looked around. People were milling about, waiting or talking. I looked around for Michael. Then I noticed a man standing by himself in jeans and a leather jacket. He was handsome and had a Roman nose. His hair was black and curly and he looked happy to see me. I felt as if we were meeting for the first time, and I suddenly felt quite shy. It had been easier to talk to him when I couldn’t see his face and it was dark. But now I could see he was a man and, as it turned out, ten years older than me—ancient, thirty. We went down the street to this coffee place in a basement, and he did most of the talking. I felt in awe of him; he was witty and smart and very sure of himself. I learned that Michael was a New Yorker and Jewish. His parents had divorced; his mother was dead. I said I was sorry about his mother. I didn’t tell him I wished my mother were dead.

“What about you?”

“Oh, I’m just trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.” I shrugged, suddenly feeling really insipid, like Gidget or something.

“And what’s that?” He smiled and looked at me.

“I guess I’m not sure.” I explained how I had dropped out of college, had worked at a newsstand, and was now working at the theater and liked my job. Talking to him made me realize that I couldn’t talk about my plans or dreams because I didn’t have any. I was amorphous. I had no idea who I was, what I liked or disliked. I had spent so much time as Mother’s warden, and Robbie’s bodyguard, that I had subjugated a large part of myself that was, from lack of tending, small and undeveloped. When I walked into a grocery store, I would walk up and down the aisles, like a robot, aimlessly looking at all the boxes and jars wondering what I should buy. Did I like green beans? Cheerios? Cheddar cheese? I didn’t know. Living my little half-life, I was so used to not thinking for or of myself. I was just going along. Just existing.

On opening night of
Midsummer
there was to be a big party, a splashy affair, in the theater lobby after the show. The high society of Boston would be there, in addition to all the critics from New York, and the entire cast and crew. Michael would be there.

“What are you going to wear, darling?” inquired Don. I hadn’t the faintest. For the last week, all the crew members had been in technical and full-dress rehearsals, which, for everyone but the actors (who had Equity contracts and had to be given time off), had been virtually all day and all night. There was always mending to do,
Puck pants to fluff, boots to shine, wigs to spray, wash to do. The theater was like a factory that was open twenty-four hours a day. I’d been crashing on the ironing board. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen the sun or changed my clothes.

“This?” I said, gesturing to my jeans and ratty T-shirt.

“No, Cinderella, you will not go to the ball in
that
.” Don raised his hand and shook a set of keys, looking like a gay jailer. The keys were to the private costume collection that was kept locked in a room above the stage. I followed him up the stairs and he opened the door.

“Now let’s see, kiddo.” He disappeared into the racks of clothes. “What color are your eyes?”

“They’re blue.”

Don picked out a midnight-blue sheath dress with netting on the arms and across the back. “Try this on. It’s from the forties, which I think will be a good decade for you.”

I went behind a rack to put on the dress. It fit me perfectly. Don tossed some pumps over to me. I came out from behind the rack and took a few turns up and down the room, modeling for him.

“Not bad. Dramatic but not too pushy. Very Veronica Lake.” He stood looking at me with his arms crossed and a hip jutting out.

“What are you going to wear?”

“Jesus, you must be kidding. This old queen is going home to his bottle of Kahlúa.” He turned and I followed him out into the hallway.

“But you’re my date.”

“You wouldn’t catch me dead at one of those parties.”

I thanked him for stealing something for me to wear.

“Anytime, princess. Now, have fun and don’t turn into a pumpkin,” he quipped, and was gone.

The party was in full swing by the time I got there. I was disappointed to see Michael talking to the actress who played Hippolyta. She was a Nordic-blonde type, pretty and tall, your basic queen of the Valkyries. I wondered what kind of girls he liked. He looked all lit up; he was talking animatedly to the actress. His dark hair was a little wet from his having washed his face, and it tumbled across his forehead, making him look even more dashing than usual.
Oh well,
I thought,
what a waste of a beautiful dress
. Maybe I could have a drink and sneak out.

I walked over to the bar, trying not to wipe out in my heels on the waxed wooden floor. I hadn’t had much practice with the standard trappings of womanhood: high heels, makeup, panty hose, perfume. I actually tried to avoid them because they seemed like things my mother used to entice men. Makeup seemed like a trick, a way of attracting attention that was fake and predatory. Even standing there all dressed up made me feel like an impostor. I was pretending to be a woman. Pretending to be sexy.

Suddenly Michael was there behind me when I turned with my glass of champagne.

“I see you have legs.” He laughed. Everyone at the theater,
if they had noticed me at all, had only seen me in my work clothes—black pants and shirt.

“Yes, there they are. My legs.” I felt once again like a dumb bunny.

“So you
are
a girl.” He led me out onto the dance floor.

“I guess so.” His arm embraced my waist.

“But it seems a reluctant one.” He smiled at me and I had to look away because his face was so close to mine. We danced to a few songs, then he lured me into the costume shop, where we made out on one of the cutting tables. I went home with him that night.

I started spending a lot of time at Michael’s apartment. I still felt a bit shy around him; he was older and seemed to know much more than I did. He had friends come and visit from New York. They were all sophisticated and up on current events. We would go out for drinks after the show, and everyone would be laughing and talking about so-and-so’s new book or the presidential primaries. I felt so dull next to his New York friends. I just couldn’t imagine what he saw in someone like me.

When he started to ask me what really interested me, I said the theater, books, movies, art. He asked me if I had ever considered taking photographs. He thought I would be good at it. He encouraged me to start taking pictures and even took me out and bought me a camera. I took photographs of lots of stuff—the actors, diners, trees, barns. I decided to apply to film school in New York. I had loved my film classes at BU, so maybe I would love film school. On the
application you could either submit a film or photographs you had taken. I sent in my pictures, thinking I didn’t have a chance in hell.

At Michael’s apartment one morning while he was in the shower, I was snooping around and found some letters from a woman on his desk. I didn’t open them; I was too afraid he might catch me and of what the letters might say. I felt a horrible sense of dread all day.

That evening after the show we were having a drink at a bar down the street and I asked him about the letters, feeling sick. “Who are they from?”