On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (11 page)

At 2 p.m. the following Saturday, I walked into a posh subterranean Soho makeup store looking for Jesus. The store, much larger than it appeared from the street, instantly overwhelmed me with its vast selection of run-of-the-mill cosmetics: base colors, eyeliners, lipstick, gloss, all the things you could easily find at Macy’s.

I walked up to the counter and asked for Jesus.

“
Jesus is in the back,” the woman told me. “On the other side of those mirrors.”

She pointed to a panel of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that seemed to divide the store in two. I walked around to the other side of the panels and could hardly believe what lay beyond. Since every wall was covered in mirrors, the much brighter light kept smashing into itself. Mirrored shelves held brightly colored make-up containers, stockings, and wigs.

“
This must be where drag queens go when they die,” I thought.

In the middle of the section, although it felt more like its own room, sat two barber chairs. I quietly walked around and looked at the various lip liners and eye shadow. The colors here were over the top, meant for the stage not for the street. That much I could tell.

“
Excuse me,” a voice said from behind me. “May I help you?”

“
Yes, hi, I’m Randy Anderson,” I turned around and extended my hand. “I’m supposed to meet with Jesus.”

The small, very effeminate Latino man gingerly took my hand, pressing his palm to my fingers.

“
Yes, I’m Jesus. How can I help you today?”

“
Where are you from?” I asked, wanting to get a little personal before letting him work on my face.

“
Let me guess. You think I’m Puerto Rican, don’t you?”

“
No,” I said. “I didn’t know. That’s why I asked.”

“
Why does everyone assume I’m Puerto Rican? Does every Latino in this city have to be Puerto Rican?” He added an overdramatic sigh.

“
No, that’s not what I…”

“
Ai yai yai! Papi! Then, why do you assume I’m from another country?”

Feeling totally stupid, I wanted desperately to steer away from the topic but couldn’t seem to find my way.

“
Because people don’t name their kids Jesus in America.”

“
Dis is true, mijo. Americans don’t like their kids to be called Jesus. Even the Latino kids get named Bill or Joe. It’s so boring. Now, what can I do for you?”

Jesus didn’t seem to know why I was there.

“
Did you talk to my friend Chris about helping me with some drag makeup?” I asked, hoping I could jog his memory.

“
No, papi. I didn’t talk with nobody about you. But I can help you. Sit down. Tell me what you need.”

Jesus drilled me with questions, first about my character, who I described to him; the purple dress, which I showed to him; and the wig, which I explained was still missing in action.

“
Ai, papi, no! You cannot buy makeup until you know what wig you are going to wear.” He frantically circled the room.

“
We just haven’t found the right one,” I explained, not wanting to get into the sordid details of our arduous search. “We know we’re looking for fire-engine red. But the really good ones cost a fortune, and the ones within our budget look cheap.”

“
Here,” he said. “Close your eyes.”

I did as he asked, prepared for him to put some eye shadow on me. Instead, I felt the tickle of long hairs on my neck and the subtle pressure of mesh close around my head.

“
OK. Open your eyes.”

I winced briefly at the sudden influx of light piercing my corneas, but as my focus sharpened, I saw the most amazingly beautiful, bright-red cascade falling off my head. This was the perfect wig.

“
How much is this?” I asked with an overwhelming directness.

“
I guess you like it!” Jesus said. “I give it to you for 200.”

“
Done!” I said without hesitating. “Now, can you design something to work with this wig?”

“
You bet your little white ass I can.”

Jesus pulled out little makeup containers by the fistful. Four hours and a whopping $400 later, I walked out of the store with a wig, a bag of more than two-dozen makeup containers, and a Polaroid of the final design. I had spent nearly 20 percent of our budget, and I braced myself for the inevitable lecture from my fellow producers.

“
Rock-and-roll!” Lolly shouted as she placed the six-pack on one of the Odd Lot
Testing Average
TV trays now populating my apartment.

“
Rock-and-roll!” I replied, grabbing one of the bottles. I had finished shaving 10 minutes earlier, and my face was perfectly smooth and dry—a blank canvas for Lolly to work her color magic.

The makeup ritual for
Theodora, She Bitch of Byzantium
, had become my favorite weekend activity. We started with the base. For 10 to 15 minutes, Lolly pressed a thick pancake base into my every pore to hide any semblance of a five o’clock shadow and even out my skin tone. Next, she would work from top to bottom. Penciling over my naturally sparse eyebrows took only a few minutes. Then, she’d spend a good 20 minutes on each eye—applying fake lashes, eyeliner, and eye shadow and pressing glitter onto the shadow.

For the next half-hour, she’d sculpt my cheekbones with highlights and lowlights and brighten them with blush so they’d pop. She’d do a little ladylike chin-thinning, then add the finishing touch: blazing red lips with red glitter thrown on top. Lolly had the whole routine down to 90 minutes—just enough time for us to finish the whole six-pack before heading down to the theater.

We packed our many costumes and props and headed to the train. Making downtown theater in New York demands a lot of schlepping—schlepping of sets, schlepping of costumes, schlepping of makeup, schlepping of props. Cars are expensive to own, rent, or hire, so for the off-off artists, schlepping is almost always the only option. But we didn’t care. We were young, fit, and slightly buzzed. We would carry any amount of weight to make a show happen.

Sure, we’d get some funny looks on the train. The makeup was over the top, and without the wig, I looked even more bizarre. Plus, during the 30-minute ride to the East Village, Lolly would apply my nails.

Theodora had talons like a bird of prey. We had tried the press-on variety in rehearsal, but with all the people-grabbing and constant costume changes, we needed something more permanent. Nothing kills the image of a fearsome raptor faster than a claw springing off. So, everyone on the downtown C train got a weekly whiff of nail glue from 110
^th
Street all the way to our West Fourth Street transfer.

For Lolly and I, the show had already started. We were rocking-and-rolling all the way downtown. After we got off the F train on Second Avenue, we stopped at the Mars bar on the corner. The Mars bar is a tiny dive frequented by men with bellies and beards—and not too many drag queens. But it’s the East Village. The bartender didn’t flinch when I ordered two shots of tequila and a couple of Buds.

Our earlier buzz had dissipated somewhere between Times Square and Washington Square, and we had at least 20 minutes before we needed to be at the theater. The drinks arrived. We toasted, threw back our shots, and settled into the barstools to sip our beers.

We hadn’t always drunk so heavily before the show. It sort of crept up on us. For the first few weeks, we drank coffee and warmed up our articulators. Then, beers crept in during makeup time. And now, here we were, chasing shots of tequila with Budweisers an hour before curtain.

“
Do you have any gum?” Lolly asked.

“
Of course. A smoker’s gotta carry gum.”

“
Good, ’cause this tequila’s gonna make my breath stink, and I don’t want any lectures from The Girls,” said Lolly, digging through my jacket pocket for my Winterfresh.

“
Nobody’s gonna lecture you.”

“
I don’t know, Randy. I don’t think they like me very much.”

This didn’t alarm me, as I knew all about Lolly’s strong personality.

“
That’s not true. I’m sure The Girls like you.”

“
Oh, I don’t care if they like me. I just don’t want a fucking lecture.” She polished off her beer. “Are you ready?”

“
Rock-and-roll!” I placed my empty on the bar.

We arrived at the theater just as the last show was clearing out and got into costume. The building was buzzing. At the KGB bar, folks leaving the 8 o’clock shows mingled with the patrons waiting for the 10:30 shows. A logjam of drunken commuters clogged the narrow staircase linking the two theaters and the bar. It was Saturday night at 85 East Fourth Street, and everyone was feeling good.

The pre-show music blared into the theater as people found their seats. We almost always came close to a sellout, thanks to curious acquaintances and those lured in at the last minute by the edgy title and the $9.99 ticket price.

By the time the show starts, the very vocal audience is primed for entertainment. The lights go down, voices quiet, and bodies settle. We fly through the first act seamlessly. Lolly, who plays Theodora’s psychic advisor Fata Morgana, and I swap a few knowing glances during the first act. Clearly, we aren’t the only ones who took the rock-and-roll direction to mean “get loaded backstage.” Easily half the cast is buzzing. The performances become louder…faster…and funnier. Not the best diction, mind you, but louder…faster…and funnier. We are sailing through the show. The audience is having a great time. The performers are having a great time, and everything seems to be on target.

In the middle of the third act, as I finish a speech that precedes the entrance of Fata Morgana, I find myself alone in a pool of silence. Lolly isn’t coming on stage. I repeat my line louder so she’ll hear me. No entrance. I pause, look at the audience, and begin to disparage my trusted advisor. Then, we hear a loud thud against the stage-left door. Everyone watches as the doorknob turns back and forth quickly, as if someone were attempting to break in. But the door isn’t locked. Muffled sounds fill the theater. I walk over and place my hand on the knob.

“
Who could this be?” I say to the audience, pulling the door open. And there, hanging on the knob, is Lolly, being dragged on the floor by the opening door.

“
Theodora!” she says, springing to her feet. “The fucking door’s broke.”

I walk back to center stage to continue the scene, but Lolly lunges toward me and reaches for my shoulders. I step back, as any lady would when someone is lunging toward her, and Lolly spills flat on her face. Her costume now twisting, I fear her tits might also make an unexpected entrance. Then, I notice the folks in the front row. Those brave few, whose feet are mere inches from Lolly’s logrolling body, are waving their hands in front of their noses.

“
She’s drunk!” one of them says, causing an eruption of hysterical laughter.

“
Fata, have you been drinking?” I ask, still in character.

“
You bet your twat I have,” she replies, gathering her faculties enough to stand.

Then, the smell hits me. It was as if she’d gargled Jack Daniels and rinsed out with Stoli. Only later did I learn that the cast members who didn’t appear in Act Two had made a trip down to the KGB bar for several shots before Act Three.

Thankfully, our scene consists of only five lines followed by Fata dying on stage. Lolly somehow manages to spit out her lines and die. Relieved, I await the next entrance. Big Rob, playing my husband Justinian, stumbles on and slurs something about feathers. And the parade of drunks continues. They come on, do their little scene, die loudly, and lie in peace.

By the time the whole cast has assembled around my feet in a pile of corpses, the theater smells like a fermentation plant. I complete my last monologue, stab myself, and end the show in a heap on the floor. The cast’s drunkenness is not lost on the audience, but they embrace the rock-and-roll spirit and leap to their feet in thunderous applause. As if running for office, Lolly launches into the audience and shakes the hands of each and every audience member. It couldn’t have been more successful.

After the show, a furious Chris burst into the dressing room. We quickly attempted to hide our open containers as if we were 17-year-olds boozing in the garage.

“
What the fuck are you guys thinking?” he whisper-shouted.

“
I may have overdone it during Act Two,” Lolly admitted sheepishly.

“
Me too!” said her obvious accomplice, Big Rob.

“
A little bit?” I asked with a smile “Your costume was on sideways. You can’t walk straight.”

The room burst into laughter.

“
It’s not funny!” Chris said. “That show totally sucked.”

“
Right,” Lolly countered. “That’s why they gave us a standing ovation.”

“
Come on, Chris,” I said. “They had a good time.”

“
That’s not the show I directed.”

“
You said this show was rock-and-roll!” said Lolly, exposing her open beer bottle from under her wig and brazenly taking a swig.

“
I didn’t mean get loaded. That’s disrespectful to your audience and to the stage.”

His lecture made us feel like bad kids, and we loved it. We relished our bad behavior because we felt like rock stars, and rock stars behave badly. We contemplated throwing chairs down the stairwell but decided in the end that we weren’t that hard core. We weren’t heavy metal. Just good, old-fashioned rock-and-roll.