Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (14 page)

I’ve been accused, not necessarily unjustly, of being opinionated. But I can honestly say that my opinions are rarely based on what somebody else thinks, some esoteric religious belief, or some political/partisan point of view. For the most part, my opinions, like my passions, are always based on my own life experiences. They come from within–real and organic–not without; many of my opinions have been shaped directly, or indirectly, by the theater. An institution considered by many to be frivolous and unnecessary.

STRADDLING THE FENCE

Even though I loved the theater from an early age, I had my doubts about whether or not I had what it takes to achieve success in that field. I knew all the drawbacks and, as graduation day came and went, I was still undecided (dare I say, afraid) to make the commitment to pursue that which I truly loved. With no real affection for school, and being only an average student, I had neither the drive nor desire to pursue a challenging course of study in college, so I opted to enroll as an art/photography major. With a love of photography–though strictly an amateur–I figured this would be an appropriate field of study for me. However, I still couldn’t let go of the idea of a life in the theater. I compromised by both enrolling in college and becoming part of an apprenticeship program in one of the professional theaters in my home state.

THE APPRENTICE

The Oxford Dictionary defines apprentice as a “person learning a trade by being employed in it, usually at low wages.” When applied to the theater, that definition is amended to “a person doing jobs that no one else wants to do, for no wages, in the name of gaining experience. i.e., slave labor.” My apprenticeship was at the Playhouse on the Mall in Paramus, New Jersey. One of the better-known professional stock theaters in New Jersey at the time, the 600-seat Playhouse was located in the heart of a shopping mall. Formerly a shoe store, the Playhouse operated for nine months out of the year, September until June. Their season was made up of six or seven shows, a mixture of musicals and straight plays, each with a 2-3 week run. Many of the productions starred a well-known stage, screen, or television personality. Years later as I witnessed other apprentice programs while working professionally, I realized how good I had it at Playhouse on the Mall.

Delores Hall introduced me to Playhouse on the Mall when she appeared there in a production of Hair shortly after its Broadway run. Seventeen years old and just out of high school, it was my friendship with her that got me accepted into the apprenticeship program. Although I hadn’t turned eighteen, I soon found myself being entrusted with responsibilities usually reserved for the older and, supposedly, more mature apprentices. This didn’t surprise me, as I went in with the attitude that I was going to excel at any and all assignments offered me and make the most of this once-in-a-lifetime experience. And it was, in fact, a wonderful and rare opportunity. I gained invaluable knowledge about how the theater operates during the two years that I spent at the Playhouse. My time there provided me with a strong basic knowledge of the workings of the theater, both onstage and off. It taught me a few other things too.

I had always heard about the rampant homosexuality in the theater, but it wasn’t until my apprenticeship that I learned the truth of that statement. I had grown accustomed to the come-ons from gay guys who were, more or less, in my peer group; but coming from adults–and some famed ones, at that–was mind blowing! I was never so hit on in my life as I was during my apprenticeship! On the one hand, it was terrifying. Not so much the fact that it was happening, but that it was often by famous and presumed heterosexual actors. Despite all the attention, nothing more than a furtive kiss or grope happened during my tenure in the program. I was much too shy and inexperienced.

Another lesson learned had to do with the often unrealistic demands, diva-like behavior, and overall lack of common courtesy exhibited by some individuals who had achieved a certain level of success in the business. That lesson, in particular, served me well many times later in life. However, in all fairness I must say that the majority of performers that I had the opportunity to come into contact with were, in fact, wonderful human beings. Among those appearing at the theater during my two-year stint were the then-married Patty Duke and John Astin, John Lithgow, Broderick Crawford, Dina Merrill, Danny Aiello, and Brian Bedford. I also had the opportunity to meet, work with, and befriend a number of lesser-known performers that had impressed me in the many Broadway shows that I was seeing at the time. The only drawback, especially during my first year at the theater, was the intrusion of class and study demands placed on me by St. John’s University. My attempt to gain a college degree, largely to please Ruthie and Jamesie, was becoming a major pain in my butt, a serious distraction to what I was now realizing I needed to do with my life.

It should also come as no surprise that maintaining an adequate cash flow was a problem for me at this time. Neither the theater apprenticeship nor my college career was an income-producing venture. The exact opposite was the case. Not only was I not making money, but the time available for gainful employment was severely limited. My parents filled my pockets with the money I needed for the basics, but it never seemed to be enough. And I hated having to be so dependent on them for cash. After all, I had spent most of the last two years of high school working, and I was used to earning and having money of my own. I began searching the recesses of my brain for creative ways to make money given my situation and circumstances and, by chance, I stumbled upon an interesting solution.

IT SHALL BE REVEALED

One day while on a break from class at St. John’s, I noticed a number of students congregating outside the door of an adjacent classroom. They were taking turns peeking into the small window at face height on the door. I heard some giggles, some furtive whispering, and wondered what was going on that was worthy of such attention. When the opportunity arose, I decided to take a look for myself. Peeking through the small window I saw, at the front of the classroom on a small stage and under bright lights, a man standing with outstretched arms as if reaching to catch a football–totally naked! My initial reaction was shock, then I remembered hearing about art classes using live models to pose nude for students. Well, here it was happening right in front of my eyes. The rest of the afternoon in my own basic drawing class–where our subject was a bowl of plastic fruit–was unproductive to say the least. All I could think about was that naked man across the hall. I was dying to leave the room and get another quick peek. It wasn’t often that I got to see a penis other than my own on display like that. Sadly, by the time my own class ended, the room across the hall was dark and empty. On the long drive home, as I thought about what I witnessed that day–trying to keep the memory fresh for future recall–I had an epiphany. Here was a way for me to make some serious money! This had to be a well-paying gig. Besides, what better way was there to become more confident in my own skin and overcome my inhibitions (a plus for any aspiring actor) than to get naked for a room full of strangers?

Even as I drafted the letter of introduction to send to local colleges and universities offering my services as a figure model, I still wasn’t sure that I had the balls (literally) to go through with it. Still, I finished my letter and sent it off to five local institutions of higher education. After they were dropped in the mailbox and I had no way of getting them back, a shiver of panic surged through me, but it passed quickly. Barely (pun intended) a week had gone by before I got my first response. It was an offer to pose for an evening class later that week. With my heart racing, I accepted the job. The days between getting the phone call and the evening of my nude debut were filled with fear, anticipation, guilt, horror, and an ungodly amount of sit-ups. There was also, I confess, a certain degree of excitement.

Arriving at the appointed time and location, the first person that I met was the instructor of the course. An attractive young woman in her twenties, she was very professional and made me feel comfortable. She was unaware that this was the first time I would be doing this. After a brief explanation of what was expected of me, she explained that the class was made up of first-year college students, none of whom had ever worked with a live model before, let alone a nude one. She said I should expect some nervous giggling at the start, but it should pass. I acknowledged what she said, and added confidently, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with that situation before.” Was I an incredible actor, or what?

My first night on the job went extremely well. The biggest surprise for me was how hard the work actually was. For the first part of the class I did five three-minute poses, followed by ten one-minute poses, and ending with five minutes of thirty-second poses. This was actually the hardest part of it all, because I had to come up with the poses myself. After a break, I did two fifteen-minute poses–one standing, one reclining–and a final thirty-minute pose. My body was killing me by the time the night was over. However, the pain was eased considerably by the $75 in unreported cash nestled comfortably in my pocket. Of the five places that I sent letters to, four of them contacted me and hired me to model. So there I was, hopping from campus to campus, putting my naked self on display for all these budding Picassos. I felt wild, free, and rebellious. I was becoming more comfortable with my newly sculpted body than I ever imagined I would. However, as exhilarating as this experience was, there was obviously some degree of embarrassment attached as I kept my little moonlighting gig a secret. Not even my best friends knew what I was up to. That I was being so secretive should have clued me in that there was some degree of underlying shame and/or guilt attached to this new rush-inducing pastime of mine. It wasn’t more than a month later that those repressed feelings came rushing to the surface, bringing my modeling career to an abrupt halt.

I’M OUT OF HERE!

The human psyche is a complicated thing. We go about our way thinking that everything is just fine, and then one small thing happens, some errant thought pops into our head, making us totally re-evaluate our behavior, attitudes, and motives. Such is the way that my stint as a nude model came to an end. That day, as I stood positioned in front of the classroom, ensconced in one of the longer poses of the session, my mind began to wander. Completely unrelated thoughts came and went at random: “What was I going to eat for dinner that night?” “Did I need to do laundry when I got home?” “Was there enough gas in the car to get me through the rest of the week?” You may think it difficult to allow yourself to entertain such thoughts as twenty-or-so college undergraduates stare at, scrutinize, and attempt to draw your naked body, but it becomes routine in a relatively short time. While I was lost in thought, one of the students–obviously unhappy with the way his drawing was turning out–ripped the sheet of paper from his pad to start over from the beginning. The sound of the page being ripped from the pad brought me back into the present moment. Suddenly I was acutely aware–as I had never been up to this point–that I was standing in front of all these people naked as the day I was born! The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. Soon there was only one thought racing through my mind: “What the hell am I doing letting all these people stare at my dick?” I couldn’t wait for the class to be over. An hour later, fully clothed and with cash in hand, I walked across the campus parking lot to my car knowing that my days of nude employment were behind me. What was I thinking? Was I crazy or what? Besides, if I was going to work in the theater, become a famous actor, I couldn’t do anything that might come back to haunt me later. The idea of waiting tables, something I swore off, didn’t seem like such a bad thing after all. In a totally unrelated move, I also gave up on St. John’s University where I had gotten this crazy idea in the first place.

MOVING ON

The decision to leave school brought both joy and relief, feelings not shared by Ruthie and Jamesie. Disappointed that I had become a college dropout, they strongly suggested that I find a full-time job, threatening that their financial support would be ending along with my academic ambitions. Since I wasn’t quite ready to do the college thing, they insisted that I find gainful employment. With free time on my hands again, my thoughts began wandering back to the apprentice program at Playhouse on the Mall. I craved to be back in that crazy, yet exciting, environment. I wasn’t exactly a slacker during this time, but I certainly was no overachiever either. Finally, after bouncing from one part-time job to another, my parents gave in and began to supplement my miniscule income with additional funding allowing me to return to the Playhouse. They didn’t understand this thing that I had for the theater, but they did realize that it was the one thing in my life that I seemed passionate about. So, once again, they did that incredible thing that only a parent–or an exceedingly compassionate lover–can do. They put my happiness ahead of their own.

SAY CHEESE!

At the end of my second season of apprenticeship at Playhouse on the Mall, I was once again wandering aimlessly through life. As I lay around the house one afternoon, I noticed a newspaper left lying open on the kitchen table. I picked it up and began scanning the Leisure section to see if there was a play or movie that I might want to catch. Somehow I drifted into the Classifieds where a large ad caught my eye. It was for a company looking to hire photographers.

As far back as I could remember, I’d always owned a camera. From the pre-historic Brownie when I was still too small to appreciate the real function of a camera (I just liked watching things through the little opaque viewfinder on top; it was like having a little television camera), to the Polaroid Land Camera that I got at twelve, the Kodak Instamatics (with their cool flashcubes), up through the 35mm SLRs that I owned as a teenager, I always owned a camera of one type or another. And I loved taking pictures. Unlike Ruthie, I was damn good at it too! With her, it was always a crapshoot. Too often we’d pick up her pictures from the store only to find that many of the shots were out of focus, over- or under-exposed, and poorly framed. For years there was a picture that she had taken of my father one Easter, showing him from the neck down, prominently displayed in one of our many photo albums. One day, I finally asked Ruthie why she had put this headless picture of my father into a photo album that people would be looking at. Her reply? “Well, except for no head, it’s a good picture. And I always liked him in that suit!”