Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (20 page)

With all the changes happening around me, and being frustrated at where my life was, I decided that it was time for therapy. Why was nothing happening for me theatrically? Was I afraid of success? Why couldn’t I find, and keep, a lover? Why was I so angry? Why couldn’t I get along with my father? The only one of these topics that was actually resolved was the one about my relationship with Jamesie. My father and I had a strained relationship throughout most of my teenage years. It probably began the day I found out about his “girlfriend” and grew exponentially with each successive confrontation we had over the years. I always had a problem with the disrespect that he showed Ruthie but, despite this, I wanted desperately to have a good father-son relationship with him; like the one that we shared during my early childhood. Problem was, neither one of us knew how to do it. It wasn’t until I was in my thirties that we were finally able to become close again.

Of course, much of the problem between us had to do with my being gay, something that we never even discussed. I was determined to “be myself” at all costs. And he was set in his ways and was not about to change. Basically, we were both extremely stubborn. This is not to say that there weren’t attempts at closeness during that time, but they were always indirect. For example, I remember one conversation that we had while driving together shortly after his retirement. It was just the two of us and we were talking about Wally. He had gotten Wally a job at the company where he worked part-time as a handyman. He was telling me that he thought Wally was attracted to some of the young girls who worked there. Jamesie didn’t think that these girls had such wholesome reputations. (Funny how aging changes a man’s perception of “easy” women.) When I asked why he was concerned about this, he said that he was afraid that something bad might happen to Wally if he should have sex with them. Although he never put a name to this fear, it was evident that he was referring to AIDS. The one exact quote that I do remember from the conversation was when he said, “It would kill me if something like that happened to my son.” I knew it wasn’t Wally that he was concerned for, but me. I didn’t acknowledge it–the whole “transference” thing–but I was touched by his concern. He never was able to address my sexuality with me, and I completely understand that. He simply couldn’t handle it. But, he didn’t let that stop him from finding ways of letting me know that I could count on him, that his love for me would always be there.

One of the most rewarding benefits of the year that I spent in therapy was that Jamesie and I finally achieved a satisfying father-son relationship. One of the most shocking revelations from my time on the couch was how much like him I had become. When I realized that it was me who had the power to bring about a positive change in our relationship–Jamesie was far too stubborn and set in his ways–I set out to do just that. And without too much effort, I succeeded once I put my mind and heart to it. I idolized him as a young boy; it wasn’t until I reached puberty that things got off-track between us. It was nice when I realized, at thirty years of age, that we could get back much of what we had. At this point in my life, my feelings and thoughts concerning him are warm, loving, and good. If it hadn’t been for therapy, this never would have happened. That alone was worth the time and money spent on those sessions.

TRAUMATIZED

Abby got a job at a boutique on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, a Victoria’s Secret-esque shop specializing in ladies lingerie. Being aware that job opportunities available to Abby were limited, I’m sure that she was working for minimum wage. She put in a lot of hours and I doubt that she was being paid overtime. They were also inflexible about giving her time off. Many times she turned down invitations that I extended to see shows or go to parties. She also missed out on many auditions due to the strictness of her employer. What I didn’t know, until much later, was that her employer also operated and ran an “escort” service. Apparently, they swore Abby to secrecy with a threat to her job over her head. I also later found out that, on more than one occasion, the business calls for the escort service were forwarded to Abby’s apartment, and she was being forced to handle that business as well. This, in addition to the hours she put in as a salesgirl at the boutique. I often wonder if the boutique owners were pressuring Abby to become even more actively involved in their escort service.

The stress of this situation, not to mention the stress of everyday life in New York, began to wear her down. Abby began having periods of deep depression. It got so bad that she would spend hours doing nothing but chain smoking cigarettes and crying. She managed to hide all of this from me until a mutual acquaintance of ours from London, Nikki, came to New York for an extended visit. Nikki, who had also been involved with the West Side Story tour, stayed with Abby while in New York. When the situation became more than she could handle, and not really knowing anyone else in New York to turn to, she called me and asked for my help.

Nikki was frantic when she finally called and, against Abby’s wishes, filled me in on all that was happening. I stopped what I was doing and rushed over to the apartment. Although it was the middle of the summer, I arrived to find Abby dressed in a leather pants and jacket outfit, huddled under a blanket on the bed, sobbing. It took us almost an hour to convince her to get out of the bed and talk with us. Nikki said that Abby’s behavior had been “odd” since she had arrived, but that it had escalated to this point in the past few days. She was scared to death and didn’t know what to do. I was shocked because I talked to, and saw, Abby constantly during this time and hadn’t noticed anything wrong. Obviously something had to be done, but what? Abby had no way of paying for the necessary medical help that she obviously needed. And, of course, any suggestion to Abby that she might want to return home to her mom in England…even temporarily, was met with adamant screams of refusal and more tears.

The next couple of days were hell! Between working full-time and trying to help Nikki as Abby fell further and further into a black hole, I was exhausted. It became clear that something had to give; none of us could continue going like this. One day, after about a week of this drama, I dragged myself out of bed, shoved a bowl of cereal down my throat, and headed to work. As had become my ritual, I picked up the phone as soon as I was at my desk and dialed Abby’s number. There was no answer; the machine picked up. I started leaving a message, hoping that they were screening calls and would pick up the phone; they didn’t. About thirty minutes later, I tried again. And, again, no one picked up. This went on all day and by 5:00 p.m. I was afraid that something bad had happened. I decided to go over to the apartment as soon as I got off from work. Since Abby only lived a few blocks away, I stopped at home first to change clothes. Before leaving my apartment, I called the number one more time. Nikki answered.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been calling all day!” To which she replied, “At the airport.” Apparently, the night before, Abby had become completely uncontrollable and Nikki, out of desperation and frustration, telephoned Abby’s mother who, in turn, wired money for a plane ticket. That morning Nikki had taken Abby to the airport, put her on a plane, and sent her back home to London.

NOT A GOOD WEEK

It had been almost two weeks since Abby’s return home when I got a long-distance call from her back in England. As I said, the days leading up to her departure had been very draining, and I had used the intervening time to unwind from the stress of dealing with that situation. I had a friend over on this particular Sunday night that I hadn’t seen in some time. We were drinking wine and catching up on things when the phone rang; it was Abby. She was very low-key and soft-spoken, but she seemed to be back in control again, probably due to medication of some kind. When I asked her the reason for this long-distance, quite unexpected, call she said there wasn’t any particular reason; she just wanted to talk. I explained to her that I had a friend over and that it really wasn’t a good time. I let her know that I was glad to hear from her, and said that from the sound of her voice, she seemed to be doing better; she agreed that she was. Then there was an awkward silence, as if both of us were waiting for the other to take the conversation wherever it was going next. Not in the mood to deal with anything heavy this particular evening, I broke the silence. I used the excuse of it costing her a fortune to call from London “just to talk” as my way of getting off the telephone and getting back to my friend. I promised that I would call her the next day from the office; that way it wouldn’t cost either of us anything and we could talk as long as we liked. She calmly replied, “Okay, I’ll talk to you then.” And we both hung up.

The next day at work was crazy busy and I didn’t get a chance to call Abby back. Figuring that she would understand, I promised myself that I would call her the following day. When I got into work the next day, I grabbed a post-it note and wrote “Call Abby” on it, stuck it on the phone on my desk, and went to get a cup of coffee. When I returned, the phone on the desk was ringing. Picking it up, I was surprised to hear the voice of David Allen, our musical director from West Side Story on the other end of the line. “Michael, I’m sorry to have to ring you at work, especially with the news that I have…Abby is dead.” It seemed as if everything around me stopped when I heard those words; time stood still. Perhaps I went into shock. The rest of the conversation is a blur; Even now I can only recall bits and pieces. I recall him saying something about “her mother returning home,” how “everyone thought she was better,” and then something about Abby “hanging from a rope.” When our conversation ended, I hung up the phone, calmly placed my cup of coffee on the desk, went into the men’s room, sat in a stall, shut the door, and cried. When I felt in control again, I went to my boss’s office and told him that a personal matter had come up and that I needed to leave for the day. I’m sure that he could tell from my bloodshot eyes that something was seriously wrong. An understanding man, he didn’t question me about it. As I walked out of his office he simply said, “Call me if there’s anything I can do.” I went home, got in bed, pulled the covers over my head, and slept for the rest of day. The next day I dialed her mom’s number, having no idea what I could possibly say that she might find at all comforting. No one picked up. Abby’s voice was still on the outgoing message. I hung up without speaking.

I was scheduled to leave for Aruba at the end of that week. A well deserved vacation that had been planned months earlier. I came very close to canceling it to fly to London for Abby’s funeral, but in the end, I decided not to. My week in the tropics wasn’t nearly what I had hoped it would be when I first booked the reservation. When I returned home from my vacation, I sat down and wrote Abby’s mom a letter. It’s as close as I ever got to closure.

DIVING BACK IN

And so, after another emotional upheaval, I rushed back to my security blanket, the theater. I threw myself into preparing to mount an off-Broadway revival of Inner City. I contacted Eve Merriam, the show’s author with whom I had become acquainted while choreographing a regional production of the show. Eve, along with composer Helen Miller, took an active part in the endeavor, even writing new material for this anticipated re-mounting of the show. I began holding backer’s auditions, which are small presentations for “money people,” in an effort to raise the necessary $500,000.00 required to put the show on. I called in a few favors from some very talented friends to perform. We began holding the backer’s auditions, usually one or two a week. However, the necessary funds just weren’t coming. Nobody seemed to be interested in the project. After a number of months, and far from raising the necessary capital, I came up with a plan.

I knew that a well-known performer attached to the project would help raise money faster. And, so, with the deadline for raising the total amount necessary for production fast approaching, I put in a call to a friend of mine who worked for a major theatrical casting agency and asked for a favor. Nick, very willing to help, offered to submit a cast breakdown–a list describing the characteristics of each performer needed for the show–to the casting directors at the agency he worked for, and to a few others as well. In describing the lead role, I added the comment “someone like Darlene Love,” remembering how impressed I’d been with her in Carrie. As fate would have it, Darlene’s agent was one of the people that Nick sent the breakdown to. Imagine my surprise when Nick called to ask if I’d be interested in Darlene Love, herself, for the role! Would I be interested? What a dumb question! Phone calls were made and within hours, Darlene Love was in a mid-town Manhattan rehearsal studio auditioning for the part. She needn’t have bothered; the part was hers for the taking. At the time, she was touring with Cher. However, the tour was on a brief hiatus that happened to coincide with the time frame that we needed her for. When I offered her the role, she immediately accepted it. I couldn’t believe this was happening! As I remember it, her exact words were, “I’d love to do the show, Michael. It beats sitting around the house watching soap operas all day.”

Darlene was incredible in the role. She got to sing what were, arguably, the three best songs in the show, which she made the absolute most of! Her presence in the cast kicked everything into high gear. Darlene not only worked like a horse and brought an energy to the project that had been previously lacking–she even drove me home after rehearsals! What more could I ask for? Everything began to turn around. Investors, previously unwilling to part with their money, were finally ready to write checks.
Unfortunately, Darlene joined the project in the final two months of a nine-month period in which we were required to raise full capitalization for production. Practically nothing had been raised at that point, and to re-file the offering would have cost us money that we simply didn’t have. So, once again, a project that I loved, that I believed in and had put my heart and soul into, came to a screeching halt. I got a few jobs immediately afterwards, thank God. I directed a children’s theater tour of The Wizard of Oz and a regional production of Ain’t Misbehavin’, but nothing that I had been as strongly committed to, or loved as much, as Inner City.