Confessions of a Transylvanian (40 page)

Black jacket. White shirt. Black pants.

Joining the Transylvanians, in this case, did
n’
t quite work. Boyd never seemed to fit in with everyone else, mostly because he was missing that essential element that makes for a truly top-notch ensemble member: He could
n’
t
blend in
. He was always just a half a beat off, or a second or two behind the big dance moves. And because of this, he was
mesmerizing
. You could
n’
t take your eyes off him. This, for a Transylvanian, was a problem.

Given his...wha
t’
s the expression?...
stand-out-ish-ness
, there was little that Russ could do about Boyd. As cast manager, Russ essentially had two choices: Fire Boyd or kick him upstairs. Given how sweet and kind Boyd was, the likelihood of his getting booted out of the show was pretty low, so Russ decided to see if Boyd could actually become an understudy for anyone. And with Mar
k’
s exit and Billy officially taking over the role of Frank, there was suddenly a very large hole in the cast for Boyd to fill: Frank-N-Furter understudy.

And so, inexplicably, after only three months in the cast, Boyd had a shot at this extremely difficult and highly coveted job. As risks went, this was a doozy.

Up until this time, Billy had been the Frank-N-Furter backup whenever Mark was not around, and the part-time work seemed to suit him fine. Now that Mark was gone, though, Billy was
n’
t all that anxious to step into the role full time. He had always seen himself as merely a fallback, not a replacement. Besides, slathering all that makeup on every night took
forever
.

Per Rus
s’
s edict, every understudy had to suit up and play the role once a month, so we were all anxious to see if Boyd, when his turn at the plate arrived, could even begin to do what Mark, or even Billy, had done with the role.

I was playing Dr. Scott the night he went on and, consequently, had a front-row seat. I could hardly believe my eyes.

Until Boyd took the stage as Frank, I had always assumed that the primary job of the Rocky performer was to mimic, as closely and minutely as humanly possible, the actor on the screen. Boyd, for his debut as Frank-N-Furter, took another route.

He
interpreted
the role. And it was a sight to behold.

Boyd did all the blocking, sang all the songs and went through most of the same motions that Tim Curry had done when they filmed the thing, but Boyd...added a little something of his own to the part. It was subtle, yes, but distinctly noticeable.

And, strangely, it worked.

You felt compelled to watch him because, unlike most of us up there, you did
n’
t know quite what he was going to do next. If Curry threw a look at the camera on the screen, Boyd threw a similar look out at the audience but, somehow, it was his own. He was
n’
t copying Curr
y’
s performance as much as he was using it as a springboard for his own.

Needless to say, he was a huge success. Within a week, Billy had stepped aside and handed complete control of the role of Frank-N-Furter over to Boyd.

Just like that (and from the least likely source imaginable), we had a new Frank.

Unfortunately for Billy, and for all of us, Boyd was
n’
t destined to wear the pearls for very long. His personal life was a mess, his finances were in shambles and his prospects of employment were extremely dim. Given these circumstances, Boyd finally decided to take the route that so many young men had taken before him:

He joined the Army.

We cautioned him against it, partly because we were worried that he would wind up battling on some distant shore (after all, there was a Republican in office), but also because…well, we knew him. Army life, what we understood of it anyway, did not seem to be the sort of thing that would agree with our free-spirited Frank-N-Furter performer.

None of us, save Doc, had ever been in the service, but we imagined that the Army was going to
expect
some things of our friend Boyd. We thought, for example, that the Army might be...disciplined. We were
n’
t sure, of course, but we thought it might.

We also speculated that life in the Army could very well mean adapting to a regimented existence (in that Boyd would be part of a regiment, and all). Again, it was just a guess.

We further thought that Boyd could be expected to (and this was just wild conjecture)
do as he was told
. We were concerned that his introduction to the armed services could quite possibly be filled with mundane and routine tasks that, despite his protestations, were not to be altered in the slightest bit.

Mind you, these were just guesses. But we thought they were pretty fucking
good
guesses. And we also thought, just as a sidebar, that Boyd was completely and utterly incapable of performing the types of duties that the Army required as a matter of course.

In short, we were of the collective opinion that the Army was going to chew him up and spit him back out again, and imagined he might not enjoy that chewy, spitty experience. And we told him so.

Boyd was having none of it. He had made up his mind and, by God, he was going to have a future. He was going to sign up, ship out and shape up.

He was going to be all that he could be.

So, after only two months as Frank, Boyd announced that he was going. Bye bye Boydie.

Naturally, we had a big goodbye bash for him. We gathered at the Orphanage, roasted him unmercifully and teased him about how the drill sergeants were going to kick his ass. We made special mention of how miserable he would be without his long, sequined gloves to pull on every weekend.

Boyd promised to stay in touch and smiled through all the good-natured teasing. And then...he was gone. Off to boot camp. Frank-N-Furter had gone to war, God bless him.

Almost immediately, we began getting dispatches from the front (actually Boy
d’
s base camp up in Georgia). He had arrived safe and sound and at first seemed to enjoy the change. As expected, they had begun conditioning Boyd and, from what he said, he appeared to enjoy the new routine.

As his letters continued to trickle in, however, they grew more and more despondent in tone. The regimen, which at first blush had seemed quaint and new, quickly grew tiresome, ponderous and very, very depressing. The Army, as it has been known to do for its entire existence, was sucking the individuality out of young Boyd and turning him into a soldier. And the experience was just killing him.

We did what we could to cheer him up. We wrote, we called, we sent him magazines, photos, mementos from the show. We said how much we missed him and begged him to let us know if there was anything we could do.

His responses went from sad to depressed. Then from depressed to
extremely
depressed. Ultimately, he appeared almost on the verge of suicide. We were scared to death for him.

Two weeks later, Boyd was home.

Walking into the Ultravision one night in his fatigues, Boyd announced cheerfully that he was done with Army life and that the Army was decidedly done with him. We were thrilled and amazed at this development but also more than just a little perplexed. What on earth had happened?

We all knew that getting
into
the Army, if you are an able-bodied, young American man willing to give it a try, is about the easiest thing in the world to do. You sign up, they look you over, they stamp you “approved” and off you go.

But if you become displeased with your decision and wish to rescind it...good luck, pal. Once the
y’
ve got you, getting them to let you go is quite a trick. They
own
your ass and they take pride in ownership.

So in case yo
u’
re wondering how to get
out
of your Army commitment once you join, her
e’
s a tip:

Have your friends send you pictures of yourself wearing black-and-silver high-heeled shoes, fishnet stockings, black underwear, a woma
n’
s bustier and a sassy set of pearls around your neck. Then take said photos and...share them with the boys in the barracks. And your sergeant. And your C.O.

It also does
n’
t hurt to get caught at lights-out with a pair of fishnets under your uniform.

Go ahead. Try that. The
y’
ll have you out the door faster than you can say, “Atten-SHUN!” (Perhaps not nowadays, in the new, more open-minded Army. But back then? That kind of thing did the trick every time.)

Boyd had been summarily booted out of the Army due to what they called his “moral depravity.” For his part, Boyd did little to argue the point. He saw the open door and went through it as quickly as he could. They called it a dishonorable discharge, but Boyd saw no dishonor in it whatsoever. He was free.

The Arm
y’
s loss, however, was our gain. We had our Frank back.

He just had to wear a long wig until his buzz cut grew out.

19

Super Heroes Come to Feast

“T
he Piranha is coming.”

Tracey dropped this little nugget of information on me in a matter-of-fact tone and then stared at me as if I was expected to react in some way. Trouble was, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“What,” I asked, “or who, is the Piranha?”

Tracey looked stumped. We were sitting together at the long table at Denn
y’
s and she leaned in close to answer me. “I was hoping you could tell
me
,” she said. “I do
n’
t know what it means, either. All I was told was:
‘
The Piranha is coming
.’
Seemed like a big deal to Storme, anyway.”

I glanced down the table and spotted Storme curled up in one of the diner chairs, grinning to herself. She looked like the cat that had just fucked up the canar
y’
s taxes real good.

“She told me to keep an eye on Ron during the cast meeting tonight,” Tracey went on. “Sh
e’
s up to something, but I ca
n’
t imagine what.”

Before I could ask anyone else at the table what might be at the bottom of this little mystery, Russ called the nightly meeting to order. He dispensed with the busywork pretty quickly, told us to expect a new Brad steering wheel the next week (our old one had been stolen by an audience member, presumably as a souvenir of the show), collected the weekly dues and then began running through the cast for the following wee
k’
s show.

“Okay, now as we know, both Boyd
and
Billy are going to be out of town next Saturday, leaving us without a Frank. Fuck you very much, fellas, for leaving me high and dry.”

“Yo
u’
re welcome!” called out Boyd cheerfully.

“However,” Russ went on, “
I’
ve had a couple of weeks warning about this development and I managed to put my hands on a one-night-only replacement. This particular understudy will come and watch the show on Friday and then step in on Saturday. There should
n’
t be any problems.” Russ smiled. “You know, I do
n’
t think w
e’
ve ever had a special guest pop in and do the show. Should be fun. And this is one special guest, lemme tell you.” His tone of voice had taken on a mysterious air.

“So? Who is it? Spit it out,” said Sunday, clearly annoyed by Rus
s’
s attempt to build suspense.

Russ looked around the room dramatically and announced: “Charley. Charley Paretta.”

During the course of the meeting up to this point, Tracey and I (and presumably a few others) had been watching Ron very carefully. He was sitting two seats to Rus
s’
s left and did
n’
t seem to be paying much attention to what was being said, choosing instead to concentrate on what appeared to be a very tasty bacon cheeseburger.

At the pronouncement of this name, however, Ron suddenly looked as if h
e’
d been jacked into a wall socket. His back went rigid, his eyes flew open and, for a moment, I thought he might actually be choking to death.

Andrea was the first to speak. “No shit,” she said and a huge smile lit up her face. She looked over at Ron and rumbled a low chuckle. “Well. This should be interesting.”

“Wow,” said Sunday, and for the first time since
I’
d known her, she actually looked impressed. “Have
n’
t seen that motherfucker in a while.”

By this time, Ron appeared to be slowly regaining the ability to express himself. His mouth, at least, was opening and closing and something resembling sounds were coming out. Before he could actually form words, though, Cheryl called out, “Who the hell is Charley Paretta? Is he cute?”

“Sh
e’
s not a
‘
he
,’
Cheryl. Charle
y’
s a
‘
she
.’
” Russ informed her. Cheryl looked crestfallen. Ron looked like a beached tuna. “And sh
e’
s agreed to come out of retirement and give us her Frank for one night only. Cool, huh?”

By now, I had gathered that Charley was the infamous Piranha. Wha
t’
s more, since the Hollywood veterans all knew her name, it appeared that she had once been associated with the show down at the Twin. Unlike every other member of Marshal
l’
s cast, however, Charley appeared to be neither despised nor, it seemed, unwelcome. This in itself was surprising. Most of the Twin actors were, by definition, Ultravision kryptonite. But what made the whole thing truly intriguing was the effect that this news was having on Ron.

In all the time
I’
d known him, I had never seen Ron appear to be anything less than unflappable. No matter what you threw at him, he seemed able to handle it. Andrea and Sunday, at various times, had unloaded both barrels of their infamous, biting scorn at him and he had
n’
t blinked.

But this. This was historic. Ron was actually
speechless
.

Russ looked around the table one last time, ready to wrap up the meeting.

“Anything else? No? Okay. See you next wee—”

“
Wait
.”

Ron had finally choked out a word. Russ froze, an amused smile dancing around his mouth. “Yes, Ron?”

“Who…” he stammered out. “Wh
o’
s playing Brad?”

Russ appeared confused, but you knew he was
n’
t. “Saturday you mean?” Ron nodded. “Well, you are, of course.”

“About time, too,” Andrea murmured.

“You want me to…?” Ron looked as if h
e’
d been kicked in the gut. He seemed unable to finish the sentence.

“Is that…going to be a problem?” Russ asked sweetly. Ron looked up and, for a second, he looked almost
scared
. Then he looked around the table. All eyes were on him. With an effort, he sat up straight and cleared his throat.

“No,” he finally said, forcing a wan smile. “Not at all. Why should there be a problem?”

Russ nodded, satisfied. “All righty, then. See you Friday everybody.”

He left Ron looking disconsolately at his plate, his appetite clearly destroyed.

I looked from Ron to Tracey. She sat, open-mouthed, like the rest of us.

“What the hell was that all about?” I whispered to her.

“I do
n’
t know,” she said. “But
I’
m gonna find out.” We both stood up and made our way over to Storme, who was cackling maliciously as she tucked into a chocolate sundae.

“Okay, spill,” said Tracey, flopping down next to her. “Who is Charley Paretta?”

Storme grinned widely. “Nobody calls her that. Paretta. Tha
t’
s not her name.” She tipped a spoonful of whipped cream into her mouth and dropped her voice. “Sh
e’
s
the Piranha
.” Storme laughed quietly and shot a look over to Ron to make sure he was
n’
t listening. “Wanna know why?” she asked us coyly.

“She…likes to swim?” I offered. “She has good dental hygiene?”

“Fuck you, Jack,” said Storme blithely. She turned her attention to Tracey. “Can you guess?”

Tracey crinkled her brow. Why would someone be nicknamed “the Piranha”? Because the
y’
re mean? Violent? Dangerous? There were lots of reasons, none of them good.

“Nope,” said Storme, after Tracey had rattled off a few options. “Not even close.”

“So? Why?”

“Because,” Storme whispered conspiratorially, “sh
e’
s a man-eater.”

Charley “the Piranha” Paretta, it turned out, was something of a local Rocky legend back in the old Hollywood Twin days. Originally from New Jersey (the actual town was unclear), Charley was a bona fide RHPS veteran even before she arrived in Florida. She had been involved in one of the early Rocky casts back in her hometown and, like many of us, had worked her way up from the bottom. By the time her snowbird parents dragged her down to Ft. Lauderdale, she had reached the very pinnacle of Rocky achievement: performing the role of Frank-N-Furter for over six months, one of the few girls ever to hold the honor.

When she got to the Swamp, her arrival oddly coincided with Marshal
l’
s attempt to put together the show down at the Twin. And while some people might have seen this as a sign from above that destiny was pointing her toward the Hollywood cast, Charley had other plans.

She had been doing Rocky for so long, she no longer felt the need to get her Frank on every weekend and she certainly was
n’
t about to let herself be bossed around by a lowlife like Marshall. Besides, she was
n’
t the “reliable” sort and could hardly be counted on to show up every weekend and do the show like it was a
job
. That kind of dependability just was
n’
t in her.

Instead, she somehow wangled special permission from Marshall to make guest appearances at the Twin whenever she got the itch. Every few months she would show up, unannounced, and ask to do the show that night. Mark, as a courtesy, would step aside for the evening, Charley would strap on the bustier, take the stage and…things would get shaken up for an hour or two.

From what Storme had heard, this girl just burned up the stage. Not only was she hot-looking, she was utterly fearless. Where Tim Curr
y’
s eyes on the screen would flash, Charle
y’
s would practically shoot flames. She was predictable only in the sense that you knew she could be counted on to mouth the words that were being spoken on the screen by her character. Beyond that, everything was up for grabs. You never knew
what
she was going to do.

Especially, Storme told us, in the Brad/Frank bedroom scene.

This scene, when performed by two men, is sexually charged to begin with. After all, Frank actually seduces Brad during the course of a few minutes and winds up actually servicing him orally before the scene is over. Performing this on stage, live and in person, involves some strategic choreography of Bra
d’
s robe to mask the “naughty bits.”

Of course, once you knew that it was all carefully staged and that nothing even remotely sexual was taking place, watching the scene live became routine. Just another part of the show.

Not, we were told, when Charley was involved.

Like everything else she did, Charley dove into the scene…ahem…headfirst. Storme had heard from a reliable source—Russ himself—that Charley made a point of performing the scene as written and would actually go so far as to service whomever was playing Brad on that particular evening. Russ had learned about this
first hand
, so to speak, and swore that it was gospel.

The legend of Charley the Piranha, Storme assured us, was no myth.

“Wait a minute,” I said to Storme. “If it happened to Russ, it must have happened to Ron too, right? He was the full-time Hollywood Brad, was
n’
t he?”

“Yeah, funny thing about that,” said Storme, “but whenever Charley would show up to play Frank, Ron would magically disappear. Previous commitment, feeling sick. Something always prevented him from playing the role that night. Weird, the coincidence, innit?”

“So, what, h
e’
s
afraid
of her?” asked Tracey. “Tha
t’
s not possible. H
e’
s not afraid of anything.”

Storme slurped the last bit of ice cream from her spoon and shrugged her shoulders. “I guess w
e’
re gonna see on Saturday, are
n’
t we?” She glanced down the table at Ron who was sitting very still, looking as though someone had reached into his chest and removed his soul. “Me? I ca
n’
t wait.”

Friday night rolled around and I got to the show early, anxious to finally meet the one person in the world who could rattle Ro
n’
s cage. What kind of exotic creature could she be? And what was it about her that could put Mr. Unflappable on edge?

By 11:15 she had
n’
t yet shown her face, so I drifted over to Ro
n’
s car to learn what I could from him instead. He had pulled up a few minutes earlier, glanced around and, seeing that our special guest had
n’
t yet made her entrance, was simply sitting there, listening to the radio and staring out the windshield. I sidled up next to him and he killed the music.