Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (16 page)

I still think of Peter often, especially when I come across the one and only picture of him that I have, a picture that he gave me during our brief time together. According to the death certificate, Peter was twenty-eight years old when he passed away. No cause of death was listed, but being that this was the beginning of the “gay plague” years, I’m guessing that he was an early victim of AIDS. If that’s the case, Peter was the first of many in my circle of friends and acquaintances lost to the disease. In some odd way that I can’t explain, this makes him all the more special to me. With no contact for all of the years between our affair and his death, there are many unanswered questions. More than the circumstances of his death, I would love to know what his life was like during the years that we lost contact. My memory of him is of a sweet, gentle, and somewhat fragile guy who didn’t ask for much to be happy. The chance to act his favorite roles in the plays that he loved, to listen to music which was such a big part of his life, to have meaningful conversations with friends over a meal and a bottle of wine, to be held and hugged after a stressful day–preferably by one he could call his boyfriend. I only hope that the missing years held those things for him.

FULL-TIME STUDENT

Armed with a few credits from NYU, not to mention my parents still questioning me about what I planned to do with my life, I decided to give college another try. So in 1977, instead of wasting my life (their words, not mine), I applied to Montclair State College (now Montclair State University) in Upper Montclair, New Jersey. And this time I majored in what I really wanted to do, I enrolled as a speech and theater major. Hey, Melba Moore, a member of the original cast of Hair who later won the Tony Award for her performance in the musical, Purlie, had gone there too, so it couldn’t be all bad.

My first day on campus, I ran into an old high school friend from Rahway. Susie and I met in the fifth grade when the integration of school districts reached my hometown of Rahway, and we had done a number of school and community shows together. Susie took me on my first visit to the Players office. Players was the college’s theatre group. That fateful day I met a number of people who, unknown to me at the time, would be a part of my life for years to come. Among them was Holly, a strikingly beautiful dark-haired girl surrounded by an aura of sophistication and class, whom I disliked instantly. Pretty, and obviously popular, I also sensed an aura of conceit and pretension. She “flitted” into the Players office air-kissing, hugging, and engaging in “enough about me, let’s talk about me” conversations with everyone present. Everyone except me, that is. She totally ignored me; acted as if I wasn’t even there! Finally, just before making her grand exit, she turned with a flourish, and acknowledging my presence and addressing me directly for the first time, she asked, “Do you dance?”

Do I dance? What the hell did she mean by that? She hadn’t even bothered to find out my name, or who I was, so why was she asking if I danced? And though I know that you should never answer a question with a question, I shot back with more than a trace of sarcasm in my voice, “What do you mean, ‘Do I dance?’”

“We’re having auditions tonight for the Spring Dance Festival. If you’re interested, we still have a few openings for male dancers.”

I didn’t know it at the time, but Holly was a featured dancer in the Spring Dance Festival in a re-creation of the Doris Humphrey’s ballet, Shakers. If the required amount of male dancers weren’t found, the number faced being cut from the concert. God forbid they should cancel the piece that she was featured in!

“If you feel you can cut it, stop by.” And with that, she was out the door.

What a piece of work of work this girl was! However, when my ruffled feathers smoothed a bit, I decided to go to the damn audition. And, despite the fact that I had never taken a dance class in my life, by my second day at Montclair State College, I found myself a member of the ensemble of the Spring Dance Festival. I guess the many nights spent boogying on dance floors, hustling and bumping my way to disco nirvana under flashing lights and glitter balls, had served me well. My chance meeting with Holly was single-handedly responsible for me falling in love with dance as an art form. It also set me on the path of pursuing dance as a primary career for a number of years. During rehearsals, Holly and I warmed up to each other, eventually becoming great friends. Though our lives took very different paths, we’re still in touch with each other today. She turned out to be one of the nicest people I had the pleasure of being associated with during my brief stay at the school. I guess that old cliché about first impressions shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

HITTING THE BOOKS

The first class that I attended as a full-time student was “Voice and Speech Improvement.” Since I already talked good, my memories of that class are more about the people in it than its subject matter. There was Martin, whose dream was to be a professional magician; Dorothy, a very odd woman who was twice the median age of the rest of the class; and Frank, a young Tony Danza-type, with a deep, gravelly voice. Frank and I ended up as roommates my second semester at the school. We shared a room together at the home of fellow theater major, Claudia.

Claudia’s parents owned a large house close to the campus and rented out rooms to students. Ironically, while her parents were supplying affordable housing to any number of students from the college, Claudia was sharing an apartment off-campus with a transfer student from another school, Sandi. Sandi was funny, outspoken, and (despite her protestations to the contrary) had the chutzpah of the most headstrong Yenta; we became fast friends. Sandi married Michael, another student who was active in the theater department. Sandi and Michael are still close friends of mine today, and are the parents of three incredible daughters. The oldest of whom, Lee, is a recent graduate of–you guessed it–Montclair State University.

Acting as a true microcosm of the professional theater world, we in the theater department were quite an incestuous bunch. There was much “hooking up” within the ranks and, in fact, some of those encounters did lead to more lasting (or, at least “legal”) arrangements. Other than Sandi and Michael, at least three other marriages from the group come immediately to mind. Claudia married David and, like Sandi and Michael, they also became the parents of three beautiful girls, as well. Sadly, Claudia’s story doesn’t have such a happy ending. Sometime in the 1980s, she was diagnosed with cancer, and in 2003 she passed away at the age of forty-eight. Frank, with whom I shared a room at Claudia’s parent’s house, also developed cancer–throat cancer, which probably explains the gruffness of his voice–and died soon after graduating.

GROWING RESTLESS

As a speech & theater major, there were a number of classes that I was required to take. In addition to the various acting-related courses, I had to take “Modern Dance I.” Not a course I would have chosen on my own. Jazz or Tap would have been my preference, but since it was required, I signed up for it my first semester to get it the hell out of the way. Rolling around on the floor and “feeling” the movements, as opposed to counting the beats, didn’t interest me in the least. I fared better in my acting classes. But the biggest thrill was working with my fellow students on their class projects. That’s where all of our true creative spirits soared. It was here that I came to further appreciate Holly and her inventiveness and creativity outside of the dance department. For one of her directing class projects–an experimental piece without any spoken dialogue–Holly had a number of us portray people waiting for a bus. Each person was reading a newspaper or magazine while they waited. Slowly we began to assume positions and postures representative of the style, tone, and models of our particular reading matter. As the piece went on, we began holding these positions and poses for longer and longer periods of time, ending up as a frozen tableau. Once frozen in place, my friend Susie entered dressed as a bag lady. As she crossed the stage, she stopped at each person and adjusted their clothing, then exited dragging her many shopping bags behind her. Pretty heady stuff!

My acting debut at the college was in a production of The Runner Stumbles. Our production of this play about a priest accused of murdering a nun was the first production after its Broadway run. The cast was made up of some of the finest student actors in the department, and I felt honored to be a part of it. The playwright, Milan Stitt, even made trips to the campus during the rehearsal period to help us better understand the play and the characters we portrayed. It was all very exciting. Studying at a college so close to Manhattan provided the added benefit of being able to supplement my academic training with professional classes in New York. I soon found myself hopping the bus evenings and weekends to study with some of the prominent teachers of acting and dance in New York at the time. This was both a good thing and a bad thing. Good, because it added greatly to my training and gave me an advantage over students studying in other parts of the country, but bad in that it made me restless to take my place in the professional world of theater. I quickly became fed up with academia, especially when having to take non-theater related courses to fulfill my degree requirements. Sitting through course like “Genetics for the Layman” was more than I could bear. I was anxious to make things happen NOW! I knew what I needed to do.

I left Montclair State after two semesters and spent the next two years trying to find my place in the world of New York’s professional theater. I continued taking dance classes, choreographed a couple of high school shows, and danced with a local New Jersey dance company. Coming to dance late in life had always left me feeling insecure about my abilities, but that insecurity was rapidly fading.

I had also, by now, formed a solid friendship with Delores Hall, and now hanging out with her was about more than just a good time; it was a chance to network with important people in the business. She had always been well connected, but her circle of acquaintances had grown even more since winning the 1977 Tony Award (Best Featured Actress in a Musical) for Your Arms Too Short To Box With God. As I came to the end of my first (and, ultimately, only) year of college, Delores was opening in a new musical, The Best Little Whorehouse In Texas. Damn it, I wanted to be on Broadway too! That was the life that I wanted for myself. And, truth be told, a Tony Award of my own would be nice too.

DADDY GOES STRAIGHT

Early one fall morning in 1978, a very frantic Ruthie awakened me from a sound sleep. It was about 6:00 a.m., far earlier than I normally got out of bed. I was living at home again, sorting out my game plan for success. Still in a sleep stupor, I couldn’t quite understand what it was that my mother was trying to tell me. Anybody who knew Ruthie knew that she was laid back to the point of being practically comatose; nothing ruffled her feathers. Her behavior this morning was totally out of character. That she was so frantic popped my eyes right open. To give you an indication of her state of mind, my first thought was that perhaps the house was on fire and she was trying to get me to vacate the premises. When I was coherent enough to begin piecing everything together, the first words that broke through the haze were, “Help James.” Help James? Help him with what? It was around this time that he left for work each day. Was he having car trouble? Did he need a ride?

I stumbled out of bed, grabbed a pair of pants, and stepped into them as I made my way downstairs trying to keep up with my mother who was moving faster than she had moved in years. When I reached the living room, I was brought into a total state of alertness by what I saw. There, sitting on the edge of the large chair in the corner of our living room, directly in my line of sight as I entered from the dining room, sat Jamesie. Although dressed for work, I knew instantly that he would be calling out on this particular day. The entire upper half of his body and clothes were covered in blood! If I hadn’t recognized what he was wearing, I wouldn’t have even been sure it was him. His facial features were completely obliterated on his blood-soaked head. When I was finally able to speak, I asked him what had happened. He was obviously in pain and not up for much conversation. He just uttered, “They jumped me, they jumped me.” “Jumped you?” I asked. “They were waitin’ for me with baseball bats.” I didn’t need to hear anymore. I ran to the phone and called the police. As I tried to explain the situation to a 911 operator who was asking more questions than I had the patience to answer, I could hear my mother asking my father question after question. “Who did this to you?” “Did you know them?” I don’t think he even attempted to answer her.

They were never caught. As it turned out, the attackers were part of a new breed of thugs taking over the illegal activities of the streets at that time. They saw the money that my father had been making from his still thriving career as a numbers runner and decided that they wanted a piece of that action. No, I stand corrected; they wanted all of that action. They had approached my father with threats days earlier and he had dismissed them as nothing but young punks. They had returned to show him that they meant business. My father’s long and rewarding career in organized crime came to a swift and permanent end that morning, which was fine with me. It’s not much fun living with the prospect of your parents being thrown in jail–or maybe killed –hanging over your head each day.

NEW YORK DEBUT

In 1980, I moved into my first apartment. It was in Jersey City, New Jersey, just across the river from Manhattan. I finally decided, at age twenty-three, to make a total commitment to my heart’s desire and began a full-steam-ahead journey to becoming a New York theater professional. I had pictures taken, put together a (rather skimpy) resume, and began reading the trade papers that listed all of the auditions slated for the upcoming week. Oh, the money I spent on “Back Stage” and “Show Business.” I would buy these trade papers every week on the day that they came out, go through them page by page, circling every audition that I even thought I might be right for. Looking back, this was really an incredible waste of time and money because no job of substance and/or importance came my way from answering a single one of those ads, or going to any audition advertised. Every important, well-paying, or impressive theater job that I landed came about through some kind of connection, because I happened to know somebody. This is not meant, in any way, to underestimate the value of these publications. They have been, and continue to be, an incredible resource for many working in this business. Actually, there was one job that came my way as a result of an ad in the trade papers. It was my first real New York directing credit and the experience was a memorable one–for all of the wrong reasons.

First of all, anyone who would seriously consider hiring me, an inexperienced college dropout with no professional theater credits, to direct a musical for them had to either be (a) desperate to get somebody to take the position, or (b) doing some serious drugs. I think both reasons came into play with this particular situation. The playwright was a black woman of indeterminate age who shall remain nameless. In retrospect, I’m sure that any other prospective directors that interviewed with her knew within minutes that this was a situation to steer clear of. Instincts told you, within minutes of meeting the woman, that this was a situation best to be avoided. Not that she was a bad person; she just didn’t exude an air of “having it all together.” But, this was my chance to put an honest-to-God New York credit on my resume and, for that, I was desperate. So, with a “nothing can be that bad” attitude, I accepted the offer to bring her work to the stage.

Regardless of the fact that this show, and everything about it, reeked of failure, there were some very talented people who committed to being a part of it. A number of the cast members went on to work professionally in the theater, and our musical director is a busy Broadway conductor these days. I’m sure that all of us who were involved still tell stories about that experience to this day. That show, and all of the adventures therein, could fill a book of its own. Here was a musical about a Jewish boy who, after receiving a visit from Jesus, decides to leave home in search of “The Way.” He ends up meeting, befriending, and living in the streets with a group of illegal aliens, each from a different part of the world. In the end, he finds love and they all get their visas. All of this set to a rock, pop, and R&B score. It was a classic.

The playwright (and I use the term loosely), who also served as producer, lived on the upper west side of Manhattan. I have strong reason to believe that she was a former hippie, as she would often arrive at rehearsals dressed either in jeans and tie-dye tops, or long flowing, brightly colored muumuus. With a headband wrapped around her unkempt Afro, she would often interrupt rehearsals, shouting out a loud, “That’s hip!” whenever something pleased her. She was basically a good person and relatively harmless. However, armed with her constant rewrites, her constant comparisons to an earlier production of the show, and a serious speech impediment, her presence more often annoyed the cast than pleased them. To be honest, she ended up being the butt of many jokes.

The small apartment that she and her husband lived in was made to seem that much smaller with the presence of her two pre-adolescent children. In addition to the cramped and crowded apartment, our playwright/producer also lived in a slightly deluded world of her own making, conceived somewhere in the recesses of her well-intentioned but, I suspect, drug-impaired mind. On numerous occasions, she would proudly proclaim that it was she who had actually written the musicals Hair and Godspell. Unfortunately, she explained, they had been stolen from her before she was able to get them copyrighted. She also repeatedly regaled us with the story of how it was she who created the popular Raggedy Anne and Raggedy Andy dolls. That this woman actually wrote the script and music for this show and got it up onto a stage twice says much about the brazen determination that she could muster up when she chose to. If she had been a bit more talented, and a lot more grounded in reality, she probably could have made something of a name for herself in the business.

Early on, everyone involved in the production realized just how God-awful the show was but, not being quitters, we decided to stick it out. It also helped that, personality-wise, we were a well-matched group of people and bonded quickly. At some point, we came to a group decision that the only way to make this show even marginally entertaining was to play it for every laugh that we could get–much to the chagrin of the author who had written it as a serious social, religious, and political piece. And, if I say so myself, the final result was hilarious…even if it didn’t make a shred of sense! Friends who saw it had a blast. Also, being the late show at a popular midtown venue and performing after a popular mainstream musical review, no one had a good excuse not to be there to see it. Even Delores Hall came after a performance of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, which was playing up the block. She laughed harder and louder than anybody else and brought a real energy to the place the night that she attended. As bad as the show was, it actually opened a few doors for me. Since it only ran for a few nights, nobody saw it. But a New York directorial credit looked mighty impressive at the top of my much-padded resume.

SIX DEGREES OF…

Sometimes, no matter how talented you may be, it really does come down to who you know. And those connections are often made where you least expect them. Such was the people-path that led to my first reputable and respected theater job. After the above-mentioned show, I got a summer job working on an assembly line at a factory that manufactured hygiene and beauty products. Any visions that may spring to your head of a certain “I Love Lucy” episode are dead-on accurate! The company cafeteria was shared by all of the employees of this now-defunct company. That was where the lowly factory workers, like myself, had a chance to mingle with the upper-caste office workers. During the summer, there were quite a few young people employed there during their time off from college. This often created a Club Med-like atmosphere during lunchtime. Many days it was like happy hour at a singles bar in the company cafeteria. I was quick to get caught up in the socializing that was going on. Not for sex necessarily–it was a decidedly hetero environment–but simply because I enjoyed meeting new people. I ended up becoming friends with one of the secretaries with whom I discovered a common bond. Rosie was a keyboard player and singer with a local band. Not only that, I discovered that another member of her band was a girl that I had gone to high school with.

Although Rosie had graduated a number of years earlier, she remained friendly with the head of the drama department at her high school. The year that I met Rosie was also the year that the principal of her alma mater was retiring. As a tribute to the departing principal, instead of the usual musical theater production, the high school was presenting an original extravaganza in which the entire school would be participating. In addition to the drama students, the various school sports teams, members of the community, and former students were lending their talents to this production. Rosie, a singer and accomplished keyboard player, supervised the musical aspect of the production. The drama director wanted to bring in a professional choreographer, as opposed to using the gym teacher as had been done in the past. Rosie recommended me, and I was hired. The school had a number of talented dancers and I was able to create some large, technically advanced and impressive numbers. The show was a huge success. Little did I know that the husband of the high school’s drama director was a board member at one of New Jersey’s professional regional theaters. The following season, when an opening for a choreographer arose, guess who got the job? Not only was it my first professional job, it led to my first–and, so far, only–New York Times review: “Michael Boyd has neatly choreographed the incidental steps that the show requires.” And that’s an exact quote, folks! From the assembly line to The New York Times in less than a year, all due to a chance conversation.

A NEW BEST FRIEND

Broadway performers often moonlight outside of their eight shows a week. These “side jobs” often end up paying them more than their Broadway contracts (TV commercials being a prime example). More often than not, though, the monetary rewards are low, and they do these jobs solely to advance their careers and gain additional exposure in the industry. One of the most popular routes taken by singers is Manhattan’s cabaret circuit. Usually performed late in the evening after whatever Broadway show they’re currently appearing in has ended, performers will take to some small nightclub stage and sing, dance, and joke their way through their favorite material. Patrons pay a small cover charge and usually have a two-drink minimum for a 60-90 minute show. It’s a win-win situation for everyone involved. On occasion, critics will attend these shows, and a favorable review can do plenty to help their careers. A number of cast members from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas were doing this, and doing quite well in the process. Delores decided that she wanted to give it a shot. Seeing that I was taking serious steps toward a professional career in theater, and wanting to help out a friend, she decided to let me work with her in putting her cabaret show together. I was elated!

One of the first decisions Delores made was to have four male backup singers, which was a real break from tradition at the time. “I’ll be the only diva up on that stage!” she joked. In addition to being outstanding vocalists, she wanted her “boys” to be able to dance-or to, at least, move well. She also had one final requirement. “I want each one to be a different race, and I want ‘em all to be FINE!”

As we were planning her show, I went to see a production of Hair at Theater-in-the-Park in Queens, NY, with a group of friends and one of the cast members caught my eye. First off, he was strikingly handsome–Latino, with a body to die for! Second, he was obviously one of the better dancers in the show. I remember thinking “If that boy can sing, it’s one down and three to go for Delores’ back-up boys.” I also remember having a few other thoughts about him which were totally unrelated to anything having to do with Delores or her cabaret act, but that’s a whole other story. Unfortunately, because the friends that I had gone to see the show with were in a hurry to get back to Manhattan, I didn’t stay to speak with him after the show. I did, however, manage to get in touch with him by phone a few days later.

The performer in question was a nineteen-year-old aspiring dancer/singer/actor named James Rivera. That production of Hair was his only real theatrical credit to date. When I spoke with him, he suggested that I come to the closing performance of Hair the following weekend so that we could meet face-to-face. I went back and we met, spoke briefly about Delores and her cabaret act, and I told him that I would be in touch regarding an audition. By the way, he was totally charming, had a great sense of humor, and was even more handsome up-close. He was one of those people who you immediately write off as potential date material because you know you’d never be worthy.

Days later, Delores found herself involved with another project that severely limited her time, and plans for the cabaret show were placed on hold. Soon after, I got a telephone call from the handsome young dancer from Queens.

“Hello, Michael? This is James. You spoke with me about auditioning for Delores Hall. Do you remember me?” (As if I could forget?) “I hadn’t heard from you and I was wondering if you had a date for the auditions yet?”

“Actually, James, I was just about to call you. Unfortunately, Delores has had to postpone for the show for now.”

“For how long?” The disappointment in his voice was painfully obvious.

“Indefinitely. But, trust me; you’ll be the first person to get a call when it’s back on.”

“Wow. That’s too bad.” And then, after a short pause, “Are you working on any other shows that I might be good for?”

“Not right now, but I was really impressed with you. I’ll definitely keep you in mind if something else should come up.” He might have been young, but this kid had the assertiveness of a seasoned pro!

“This is a New Jersey phone number. Do you live in New Jersey?” he asked. This question caught me off-guard. “I’m not trying to be nosy or anything, but if you work with Delores Hall you must be in the city a lot.”

Okay, what’s going on here? Where’s this kid going with all of this? I may have been new to this myself, but I know that this isn’t a typical conversation between a performer and his perspective employer.

“Don’t sweat it, James; you have nothing to worry about. You’ll definitely get a call when the situation changes.”

I was beginning to think that, as cute as he might be, this guy is a little weird and I now wanted to end what was turning into a strange conversation. As if reading my mind, he said–and all in one breath, if I remember correctly,