Confessions of a Transylvanian (49 page)

I feel the need to preface the following by saying that, despite what we had accomplished over the previous year and a half, the Deerfield cast took nothing for granted. We did not, by any means,
coast
. We were still hump-busting every weekend, trying to fill the high-heeled shoes of the performers who came before us and, so far, it seemed to be working.

Russ and I had been running the show in tandem for about four months by the time summer arrived, and we had developed a system that ran smoother than a cashmere Camaro. Our A-list cast was as solid as it had ever been and our understudies were prepped and ready for anything. The money flowing in from the cast dues was steady (which kept our props and costumes in tip-top shape) and the attendance, though decidedly down from the weeks following SHE night, was still impressive.

So when yo
u’
re feeling as sure-footed as we did heading into that summer of 1983, the last thing yo
u’
re expecting is to have some schmuck grab the edge of the rug and
pull
.

Three weeks after graduation, I was living the dream.

I had spent the entire previous year busing tables and salting away whatever cash I could with an eye toward having a wad of money in my pocket when I left for college. That plan disappeared about three seconds after I got my diploma. In the time it takes to say, “impulsive wastrel,” I had quit my job and planned to do nothing over the next three months that did
n’
t involve blowing, dollar by dollar, the tidy sum I had amassed.

Alice and I were going stronger than ever. She was everything I had ever imagined in a girlfriend: beautiful, smart, sexy and able to pilot her vintage Chevrolet like sh
e’
d invented the damn thing. She had even joined the cast briefly and proved to be a terrific Magenta understudy (inappropriate flaming-red hair notwithstanding).

I was spending whatever time I did
n’
t spend with Alice hanging out down at Kenny and Trace
y’
s place. Like the Orphanage before it, their apartment had become the gravitational center of the entire cast. You could try to ignore the attraction, but the pull was irresistible.

In addition, I had finally been invited to sit in on the Dungeons and Dragons games that Donny hosted on a weekly basis. This was not an easy group to break into, but my time had finally arrived to become one of the Chosen Few.

To my disappointment, however, my entire D&D experience was an unqualified disaster. Do
n’
t get me wrong: I loved the game. But for some reason I had, without question, the worst luck of any player in D&D history. Certainly worse than any of the veteran players had ever seen.

This was a game, after all, that relied primarily on the roll of the dice. Everything, absolutely everything, depended entirely on whether you got a good or bad roll.

To my horror, every single character I attempted to play was dead within a few days. They would inexplicably die the most catastrophic and improbable deaths anyone had ever seen. The dice seemed to
hate
me.

If there was a 1 percent chance that my sword would shatter and I would get a fatal shard through the eye, or that I would trip on a dead Orc and skewer myself on my own pointy amulet, tha
t’
s exactly how it went down.

It became something of a joke. If our group of warriors entered a room and there was something sharp sticking out of the ground, you could pretty much guarantee that my head would be impaled on it sooner or later. It was a virtual certainty.

No one involved in the game could figure out why my luck ran so bad, and my fellow players would involuntarily cringe every time I reached for a twelve-sided die. I eventually just walked away, unable to endure their looks of pity.

Mostly, though, I went to Kenny and Trace
y’
s for the company. The Rocky stalwarts still saw one another at least two or three times a week, despite their having left the show. And though dozens upon dozens of cast members had come and gone over the months since the Ultravision show began, there was still a core group of about twenty of us who remained as close as ever.

Kenny, Ron, Tracey, Felicia, Iris, Donny, Russ, Steve, Sunday, Andrea, Tony, Tom, Billy, Boyd, Storme, Cheryl, Mark and me.

Half of us still performed the show every weekend, but most of the original Hollywood transfers had retired. They had put in their time. They were done.

Not me. I was still going strong.

One night in mid-June, Russ walked into Denn
y’
s looking as if someone had punched him in the gut. He sat apart from us, off in the corner smoking and drinking coffee, putting off the cast meeting until the checks had been paid and the entire cast was eyeing the door. We knew something was up, but could
n’
t imagine what it could be.

Sensing that he could
n’
t put it off any longer, Russ finally ground out what must have been his tenth cigarette, walked dazedly over to the table and called the meeting to order.

“Listen, um...” he started. “You need to know...” He paused again then simply appeared to lose steam. Finally, he managed to stammer out: “I do
n’
t know what to say.”

At this, everyone in the room had red flags flying. Russ struggling for words was ominous indeed. What the hell was up?

He stared at the floor for about a minute, unable to speak. Nobody moved. At last, he seemed to come to his senses and looked up.

“Well, what
can
I say? I
t’
s over. W
e’
re done.”

A murmur flitted across the table. What did
that
mean? Over? Over how? What was over?

Russ squared his shoulders and finally spit it out: “Look, I had a talk with the Ultravision management after the show. They had asked for a meeting, so I went to see them. It did
n’
t take long. Turns out they ca
n’
t afford to keep the show going anymore, so...the
y’
re pulling the plug.”

And with these words, the table went up for grabs. We could
n’
t believe what we were hearing. We did
n’
t even know that there was a
possibility
of the show coming to an end, so it was inconceivable for us to believe that this outcome, our utter demise, had already been decided.

Russ had his hands in front of him defensively as the questions rained down. He raised his voice.

“Settle down.
Settle down
.
I’
ll tell you what I know.”

We all found our seats and fell back, deflated.

“Her
e’
s what they told me: Apparently, the studio that owns the film—the actual film that we watch every night—they take this
huge
cut of the door. Even bigger than I thought they did. Because of the cost, the theater has to keep attendance really, really high in order to justify not only the money they pay the studio, but also the cleanup. I mean, we all know what a fucki
n’
mess the place is after w
e’
re done.”

No question about that. The theater was trashed every night. We all had wondered, at one time or another, how they managed to clean it when we were through.

“Well, apparently, w
e’
re not hitting our numbers. We have
n’
t for a couple of months, actually. And it is
n’
t us, do
n’
t get me wrong. The management, they love having us around, doing the show week after week, all that. But the fact is that the profit margin is
n’
t there. And without that...” He shrugged. “So the
y’
re cutting us loose.”

Steve piped up. “This is non-negotiable?”

Russ looked insulted by the question. “Steve, if it was negotiable, do
n’
t you think I would have negotiated with the man?”

There was no arguing with that. Russ was a horse trader from way back. If there was a deal that could have been struck, he would have made it happen.

After a second or two, Tracey seemed to find inspiration. “What about another special event? Like a SHE Night Part Two or something?”

Russ shook his head. “Too late for that. They already made up their minds. W
e’
re done.”

This pronouncement took a few moments to sink in. We all sat there with dazed expressions, unable to grasp the enormity of this news.

Finally, I looked up and asked the question that was on everyon
e’
s mind.

“When, Russ?”

Russ sighed and shook his head.

“Next week,” he said. I felt the blood drain out of my face. My mind was a blank, as if my power cord had been yanked. I was speechless.

Felicia was the first to respond. Her voice was choked with emotion. “Next
week
?” she said. “Tha
t’
s it?”

“
I’
m afraid so,” said Russ. He looked defeated. Like
I’
d never seen him before. He was
beaten
. “Next Saturday, we do the last Rocky Horror show at the Ultravision.”

And with that, he threw some money on the table for his share of the check, picked up his cigarettes and walked out the door.

I’
d like to be able to tell you that the big Ultravision farewell was this enormous, celebratory, we-packed
-’
em-in-like-sardines blowout the following week. But the fact is, partly because of the short notice and mainly due to how depressing we found the whole thing, we went out with a whimper rather than a bang.

The crowds were okay for our last two shows, but nothing that would have swayed the minds of the Ultravision management into keeping it going. They had done pretty well, all told, in hosting the Rocky show. No doubt a pile of money had been amassed in the previous year and a half. But they clearly felt that the experiment, successful though it had been, was over. In their opinion, it was time to move on and we had no say in the matter.

As far as quality goes, that last weekend featured two of the best shows any of us had either seen or performed. We certainly did
n’
t let the quality flag on our way out the door. But, maybe because we were being kicked out rather than deciding to end it ourselves, there was no satisfaction in having done a great job for our final performances.

We were performing the best Rocky show in the nation. And our reward was to be shown unceremoniously to the exit.

And though we considered it, we ultimately decided against putting together a huge gathering of all the veteran cast members for our final show at the Ultravision. No one had the energy or inclination to organize it. We just showed up, gave the crowd the best goddamn Rocky shows the
y’
d ever see for the rest of their lives, packed up our gear and walked out the door for the last time.

Tears were shed. Promises of fidelity and pledges of long and lasting fraternity were demanded and surrendered by all present. The final party, hosted at Storm
e’
s, lasted until the sun was high in the sky that final Sunday afternoon.