Forever the Fat Kid: How I Survived Dysfunction, Depression and Life in the Theater (22 page)

“Barry, I’ll see you again,” I said, still holding his hands. “I’ll make another trip out here before the year is over. I promise.” Even as I said it, I knew it would never happen. I couldn’t afford to fly back to San Diego. And even if I did, I knew that the odds of his making it that long weren’t very good. I don’t think he heard a word that I said anyway, he just kept crying. He cried as I pulled my hands from his, he cried as I babbled on about how everything would be all right, and he cried as I gathered up the last of my things and walked out of the house.

I called Barry the next day and we both acted as if the highly dramatic goodbye scenario never happened; everything was normal again. Just as he predicted, that was the last time that he saw me, or that I saw him. It was just three months later that his sister, Grace, called to give me the expected bad news. It was October 31st and, after giving me the specifics of the exact chain of events that morning, she made a joke about the irony of Barry dying on Halloween. It was most definitely un-PC, and a lot of people would have found it to be in poor taste. But we both knew that Barry would have found it funnier than either of us did, and that made it all right.

CABARET DAYS

I began 1995 with the knowledge that, whatever it held for me, it couldn’t possibly be as bad as 1994. I’m a firm believer that the way the year starts out is a clear indication of how things will go for the remaining months. On January 11th my sister, Liz, gave birth to a baby girl. My new niece, Valincia Alexis, quickly became the pride and joy of all our lives. 1995 was also my “Cabaret Year.” My life seemed to center around various cabaret shows presented throughout Manhattan. I may have seen more cabaret shows that year than I saw plays or musicals. Not only was I attending them, but I found myself producing and directing them as well.

Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS (BC/EFA) is a fundraising branch of the actors union that raises money to help those in the theatrical community who are living with HIV/AIDS. The organization hosts a number of events annually where members of the performing arts community lend their time and talent to assorted fundraising efforts. The Triad, a popular bar/cabaret on the upper west side of Manhattan, made their space available every Monday night (typically the night when Broadway shows don’t have performances) to any performer who wished to use the venue with all proceeds going to BC/EFA. Partly in memory of Barry, and partly as an outlet for my creative juices, I became quite involved in the Monday night series. After staging shows for a number of Broadway performers, I decided to put together a night of entertainment of my own. Listening to a variety of CDs from my rather eclectic collection of music while cleaning my apartment one afternoon, I came up with the idea of presenting an evening of unconventional love songs. After choosing the music, writing a script, and meeting with a musical director, I contacted seven incredibly talented friends and acquaintances and Simply Songs of Love was born. It was the culmination, the high point, of the year I spent immersed in the cabaret scene. The format was also good practice for many of the projects I would become involved in during the coming years. The entire process was fulfilling, enjoyable, and a nice way of passing the time until my next major career opportunity came along.

CAUGHT IN A MOUSE TRAP

Disneyworld in Orlando, Florida, is probably the most popular family tourist attraction in this country, and deservedly so. If I were a parent, I’d surely see that my kids made at least one visit to the self-proclaimed “most magical place in the world” during their childhood. Most magical? Absolutely! But let’s call a spade a spade, folks–it’s also the most racist, sexist, homophobic, over-priced, and crassly commercial place in the world too.

A friend from the local New Jersey theater circuit had moved to Florida and now held a secretarial position in the Creative Entertainment Division at Disneyworld in Orlando. While chatting on the phone one day, she suggested that I send her my resume, which she promised to forward to the individual(s) responsible for hiring in the division. Not really expecting anything to come of it, I sent her my resume. Well, quicker than you could say, “Bibbity Bobbity Boo!” my butt was on an airplane headed to Orlando to interview for a position as a show director & writer at Florida’s number one tourist attraction.

The interview process involved meeting with a number of people throughout the Creative Entertainment Division. Most of those that I met with were management level individuals, but I also met with a few people employed in positions similar to that for which I was being considered. In addition, I was dispatched to see as many of the stage shows currently running in the parks as possible during the few days I would be in Orlando. Afterwards, I was to report back and share my opinions on what I had seen. The final part of the process required me to write a treatment (i.e., a descriptive visualization of a proposed stage production) based on guidelines that they provided, giving them an idea of both my writing and creative skills. I was allowed to complete this final step on my own time schedule and mail it back when completed–along with a signed release giving Disney full-ownership of it. Within weeks of jumping through all of the required hoops like a well-trained show dog, I was informed that I had proven that I had what it takes to join the ranks of the talented folk who work at the happiest place on earth. So, with visions of Tinkerbelle dancing in my head, I gave up what had become my favorite apartment in New York City–an illegal sublet in the East Village that I had lived in for the past three years–threw myself a “fabulous” goodbye party, and headed down to sunny Orlando, Florida.

To backtrack just a bit, when I was initially invited to interview with Disney it was with the understanding that all travel expenses and accommodations during the interview period were my responsibility; an omen of things to come. Of course, in my anxiousness to become a part of this iconic empire, I chose to ignore any indication that working there may not be the most ideal situation for me. They did, however, try to make up for their stinginess in the number of passes that they gave me to check out the shows in the various parks. Enough for myself and a companion, and a few extras to boot! I actually had passes left over at the end of the process that I put to good use.

Leaving EPCOT on my last day of seeing shows, I noticed a black woman and two young girls standing outside the entrance to the park reading one of the signs that listed the cost of admission to this and the other parks, and the various “package deals” available. I could tell that she was having some kind of issue with the cost. I walked over to them, smiled, and addressed the two little girls: “Are you ladies going to go to see Mickey Mouse today?”

They were shy and not sure if they should even speak to this strange man who had just approached them. They nervously nodded yes while, at the same time, looking to their mother to see if it was okay that they had answered me. The woman looked at me and said, “I should have found out the prices before I came. I’m not sure what we’re going to do. I wanted to take them to the Magic Kingdom but thought we’d come here first, but it doesn’t look like we’ll be able to do both. Have you been here before? Which do you think they would enjoy most at their age?”

“I think they would enjoy them both. And I think that you should take them to both.” And I handed her my remaining tickets.

“What are these?” she asked.

“Tickets to get you into any of the parks you like. Enjoy!”

“You’re giving these to me?” the woman asked incredulously.

“Yep.” And I added, “Just make sure you take the girls to see ‘Honey, I Shrunk the Audience,’ okay? It’s the best thing here at EPCOT.”

“I sure will.” she said. “Thank you. And God Bless You!” Hopefully, those two little girls will always remember that trip to Disneyworld.

TERMS OF EMPLOYMENT

Though it was clearly stated to me that this job offer was as a contract employee, and did not necessarily guarantee full-time employment, I figured that the prestige of working there–after all, this would be an impressive credit to add to my resume–would be worth any sacrifices that I had to make. Additionally, no one in this business expects to be unsuccessful. I was sure that I would dazzle them with talent, personality, and climb my way to full-time “cast member” (how Disney refers to its employees) in no time. Besides, I had always been adept at finding “survival” jobs, so I was sure that supplementing my income, if necessary, would not be a problem. Well, the ball was slow to get rolling. It was almost two weeks before my first assignment materialized, and that was a one-day job. By that time, with bills to pay, I was already working as a commissioned shoe salesman at a local JC Penney department store.

For those not familiar with corporate double-talk, contract employee is a term meaning no benefits whatsoever. Apparently, this was the norm for hiring in the Creative Entertainment Division at that time. Obviously, I was now a part of a company that took their bottom line very seriously. So being the good company man, I simply had to trust that there was a good reason for such corporate decisions, and that there were more pressing needs for the money saved by not giving every employee benefits. I was right. It was less than three months into my tenure when Disney bought out its CEO, Michael Ovitz, to the tune of $109 million dollars after just one year of service. It did my heart good to know that the money I wasn’t receiving was put to such good use.

HEIGH-HO, HEIGH-HO, IT’S OFF TO WORK…

To say that Disney and I were not a match made in heaven would be the understatement of the century. To begin with, I’ve always approached any theatrical endeavor, first and foremost, from an artistic point of view. Well, I quickly learned that “art” was a bad word at Disney. You could have your mouth washed out with soap for even uttering the word! That simply was not what Disney entertainment was about. I also learned that the word “Creative” in Creative Entertainment Division was a misnomer. Creativity was not only discouraged, it was practically forbidden! Disney doesn’t do shows; they do a series of grand finales. Which is fine, I guess, if that’s what you’re into. Basically, each and every show that they present to the public is a string of one grand finale after another, after another, after another. One “American Idol” modulating, key-change after the next–each sung to a pre-recorded track to ensure perfection, of course. Each and every musical number is a full-company showstopper, with an ending that almost always includes the obligatory shooting of confetti and the releasing of live birds, whether appropriate to the action or not. Nowhere in the lexicon of Disney Theme Park Entertainment will you find the word “subtle.”

Not surprisingly, all of the projects assigned to me were off property, meaning not in the theme parks and not for the general public to see. I was that Disney staff member assigned to work with companies and corporations wanting to provide some sort of entertainment for their employee or stockholder meetings; something to liven up an otherwise boring annual presentation. Interestingly enough, this turned out to be very enjoyable work. I would meet with executives from various companies, listen to their ideas, and write original scripts incorporating their particular products, lingo, and corporate ideals into the production. There was originality, there was collaboration, and there was creativity. However, the biggest plus was that I was not required to keep it all “G-rated.” None of the projects that I did in this capacity would have fallen into the “family fare” category that is Disney’s trademark. I take some small pleasure in that.

IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL

Many of the employees that I met at Disney seemed to be brainwashed; I referred to them as “The Stepford Mice.” They were unquestioning in their devotion to Disney. They had grown up loving all things Disney and were happy just to be associated with this place that held such fond memories for them. Some were downright scary in their devotion. Many were former performers who had gotten their first (and, in many cases, only) performing jobs there. Happy, peppy, boy- or girl-next-door types who, as a result of much brownnosing, had been promoted to positions of power behind the scenes as their youth–and limited performing abilities–started to fade. More than once, I fantasized about meeting one of them in a dark alley far away from the Magic Kingdom. As they had never actually worked in the real world, I had a problem with them asserting their ill-gained power over me. There were more than a few conflicts between us. This is not to say that there weren’t people employed in the Creative Entertainment Division who did, in fact, have a clue and knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, they seemed to be in the minority. I applaud them for having found a way to thrive and be successful in an environment that was decidedly old boy and incestuous.

I’M MELTING

Being acutely aware of my own limitations–one of which is the inability to find common ground with those for whom I have no respect–it should be clear where all of this was headed. I realize how much this particular character trait has hindered my success in certain situations. However, it is a flaw that I have no desire to fix. I may profess to be many things, but perfect is not one of them.

On one particularly bad day, as I wondered what the hell I was doing there, frustrated and angry that I was struggling so hard to make ends meet, missing my family and friends, and generally feeling sorry for myself, I passed by the office of one the people with whom I’d interviewed. Pam was a very warm lady; always with a supportive word and smile–a genuine smile–not one of the manufactured Disney smiles that most of the employees wore. She was one of the few people to whom I took a liking instantly. Seeing me, she called from her desk, “Hi Michael! How are things going?” It had been my way up to this point to smile and say that everything was fine, but not this day.

“You have a minute? Come on in and sit down,” she said, inviting me into her office, “we haven’t had a chance to talk in a while. I want to hear how things are going.”

I went in and plopped down into one of the very comfortable chairs in her office. Again she asked, “So how are things going?”

“Do you want the truth?” I asked.

“Of course, or I wouldn’t have asked.” And that’s exactly what she got.

“I’m miserable! I’m struggling more here than I ever did in New York. This is crazy!”

“Things are bad?”

“Bad? You have no idea! It was a major mistake for me to come here. I finally have a place to live (I had bounced from place to place my first month or so in Florida) but I have no furniture, no bed, and no place to sit other than the floor! I have my television, my stereo, and my computer–that’s it! I’m eating off of paper plates and using plastic utensils. I’m not used to living like this! I’m ready to throw in the towel.”

“Michael, I had no idea…”

I cut her off and continued my tirade. “Not only that, but I think that the powers that be here in Creative Entertainment have no real use for me. How am I supposed to survive on one or two assignments a month? I knew that I was coming on as a contract employee, but this is ridiculous! Why did they even allow me to come here? Why didn’t they just tell me to stay in New York? I have a cubicle and a phone line, and nothing to use them for, no work. I don’t get it, I really don’t. Why am I here, to fill a quota? To provide a little color when VIPs tour the facility?” (Yes, I played the race card…)

“I feel so bad, Michael.” She was sincere and I immediately regretted having dumped on her.

“Please don’t, it’s not your fault. You’re actually one of the few rays of sunshine in this place. Forget I said any of this, okay? Everything’s fine. Let’s just forget this conversation ever happened.”

Being that it was my night off from the shoe department at JC Penney, I had that evening free. With my mood still somewhere around my ankles, I decided that I would go home, have dinner (courtesy of the McDonalds drive-thru), and watch whatever happened to be on TV. Thank God I had cable! Hopefully, there would be something worth watching on one of the premium channels. If not, I would just play around online and then go to bed. No socializing tonight, although I did, by now, have a number of people that I could call and hang out with. However, I was in no mood to be around people. After finishing my dinner, I channel-surfed for a while. Nothing even remotely interesting was on that night, so I got up to turn on the computer. Just as I stood up, the telephone rang. I checked the caller ID to see who it was. I was about to go online with a dial-up connection and whoever was calling was screwing up my plans. The number on the ID was local, but not one that I recognized. Thinking that it might be someone from one of the local theaters that I’d sent resumes to in search of more rewarding work, I answered.

“Hello?”

“Michael?”

“Yes?” At first, I didn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line. And being that the female caller called me “Michael,” and sounded extremely friendly, I was sure that it was a telemarketer–one with poor timing as I had already finished eating my dinner.

“Hi Michael! It’s Pam!”

It was Pam, whom I had so unceremoniously dumped on that afternoon at Disney.

“Are you busy?” she asked.

“No, not really, I was just about to go online.”

“My husband and I just had dinner in your neighborhood. If it’s okay with you, we’d like to stop by. Maybe take you out for dessert, cheer you up a bit. You seemed pretty upset today.”

“I’m okay, Pam,” I said, feeling rather embarrassed for my decidedly un-Disney-like behavior that afternoon. Still, it was a very nice gesture and I’d be a real shit to refuse. So even though I wasn’t in the mood, I said, “Sure, come on by. That would be great!”

About fifteen minutes later a van pulls up outside of my house. Opening my front door, I saw Pam stepping out of the passenger side of the van.

“Michael, is that your driveway?” she pointed to the concrete entrance in front of my place.

“Yes, you can park there if you like. This street is pretty narrow.”

She got back into the van and her husband, who was driving, backed the van into my driveway. As he turned off the engine, Pam stepped out again and instead of coming over to my front door, she went to the back of the van and opened the two large doors. I walked over and looked in. The van was packed. There were chairs, end tables, lamps, and all kinds of things. There were also a number of cardboard boxes.

“We brought you a few things you could probably use.”

There had been no dinner out that night. They had loaded up the van with extra furniture they had and weren’t using; with pots, pans, plates, utensils, and everything else one could need, and had made the trip just to bring this stuff to me to make my home more habitable. I was floored. I thanked them profusely and forcibly suppressed the tears that wanted to come.

After they left I called Ruthie and told her what happened. She was glad to hear from me. We usually talked on the phone every other day, when things were good. I had been really down for more than a week and hadn’t spoken with her the entire time. Whenever I’m down, I tend to withdraw from everybody; I don’t like to burden other people with my problems. Knowing me, as all mothers know their children, Ruthie knew that my lack of communication meant that all was not well in my world. She also knew that to ask me about it would only make things worse, so she waited it out. She didn’t ask me how things had been going, or why I hadn’t been in touch, but simply said, “I’m glad to finally be talking to you. Don’t go so long without calling me again, okay?”

MICKEY GETS HIS GROOVE ON

Things improved somewhat over the following months and after Christmas, I finally got the chance to work “on property” and have my work seen, not only by the general public, but also by some of the Disney execs that only attended the on property events. With the success of the film The Lion King, it became obvious that the need for people of color at Disney was going to be stepped up. Better The Lion King than a re-issue of Song of the South, I suppose. So the company decided that it would be in their best interest to pay more attention to the ethnic population of the world and, as a result, in the year of our lord 1997–over 20 years after it was first celebrated–Disney decided to recognize Black History Month, albeit only at Epcot.