On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (5 page)

The lights shift, and I take my place on the stool next to my fellow actors. This scene takes place at a male strip club, and we’re the eager patrons, a sort of “on-stage audience.” The music gets louder, and Jeff appears center stage in a white toga. The audience bursts into applause. Jeff walks a few steps forward and rips off his toga in one quick and seamless motion. The audience resumes their applause, which quickly deteriorates. Some people need their hands to cover their eyes; others, to stop their mouths from making an audible gasp; and others still simply throw them up into the air.

Jeff is naked. That comes as no surprise. That was what they paid for. What nobody expects to see is Jeff’s fully erect penis. You don’t become a world-famous porn star with seven inches. Jeff has an impressive organ. Even the cheap seats have a great view.

Jeff pauses through the initial surprise because he knows they’ll settle into more applause, and it’s up to us on stage to give them their cue. We start clapping and shouting. The real audience follows suit. Jeff slowly removes the rubber band–like cock ring encircling the base of his member and shoots it into the audience. It flies into the seventh row, followed by a comet-like spray of body oil.

Jeff prances around the stage, shaking every bit of what God gave him, and then he turns to us. Usually, he would start downstage left, shake a little for the actor downstage from me, and then breeze past me putting a finger on my chin. It was a sweet gesture he had incorporated in after my first few days with the show. And, despite the fact he was erect and glistening head to toe with baby oil, I would still find it charming.

However, this time he doesn’t wander down left. He walks purposefully upstage toward me. Fast. I have no idea what his plan is, but from the shouts around me, I could tell the other actors do. He stops two feet in front of me. A safe distance, I think, as he puts his hand on top of my head. My instinct is to lean back, but he’s putting too much pressure on my head.

Suddenly, I realize we’re in an improv moment. The first rule of improv is to always say “yes.” When someone offers a situation, you accept it. Then, there is the “and,” which is where you add to the situation. Yes. And. Accept the situation, and add to it. This is the golden rule, but can that really apply to onstage fellatio? I mean, even if I wanted to, I’m not sure I’d be able to. And if I did, what would my “and” be? Yes, I’ll accept your cock into my mouth. And…I’m going to tickle your balls? Woefully few options appeared acceptable to my palate.

After a couple of lewd hip gestures, Jeff releases my head and turns around. That is it. That is all they had planned. I begin to laugh in relief, and the guys around me point and laugh. That is it, an innocent joke. A mock blowjob gesture. The actor behind me gives me the “gotcha” push on my shoulder, and I collapse forward in laughter just as Jeff begins to twirl.

As I’m sitting up, I see it coming. Jeff is in a fast twirl, and as any twirling 10-year-old will tell you, twirlers tend to wander. I have just enough time to close my eyes before I hear the loud clap of flesh-on-flesh. His penis slaps me right on my left cheek. Luckily, he has softened up a bit during the dance so it’s more like being hit by a water balloon than a frozen sausage. I look up to see Jeff react in horror as I bring my hand to my now oily face. Clearly, he didn’t intend to dick-slap me, but there we are, on stage in front of 200 people.

Wiping the oil from my face, I assess the situation. Aside from the slapping noise, it appears the audience didn’t notice the beating. We all resume our actions, and the show proceeds as usual. As the final curtain falls, I rehearse an explanation for the black eye I imagine forming on my face.

Backstage, Jeff found me nursing my reddened cheek. “Randy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“
Don’t worry about it,” I said, smiling. “It was an accident.”

“
Some accident too!” Jeff said, laughing. “But, really, I’m sorry. Are you OK?”

“
I’m fine. I just didn’t expect to get bitten by the one-eyed snake.” And Jeff kissed my cheek.

“
You’re a sweet man,” he said.

I watched him walk away and thought about how fond I’d grown of him and how I was going to miss seeing him every day. I kept staring as he placed himself, in his bathrobe, at the exit of the theater so he could shake the hand of every departing audience member. I watched for a few minutes. Some people refused to take his hand. They’d seen him grab his penis with that hand.

Touching my face, I smiled. I had developed a little crush on this porn star. And it had nothing to do with his chiseled torso and magnificent penis. No, I’m not that kind of gay. I liked his eyes.

WE’RE ALL IMMIGRANTS

After its skyscrapers, New York City is probably best known for its immigrants. Being a major point of entry for people from all over the world gives New York its unique diversity. People come here in search of a better life. Some find it. Others do not. But the people who come here have a dream, a vision of the life they’d like to call reality. I don’t mean just international immigrants. U.S. citizens also immigrate to this city in search of a better life. That’s certainly what brought me here. I had a vision for how my life was going to be, and day-by-day I was making that a reality.

When our sublet expired, Bobby and I found a large two-bedroom apartment on 109
^th
Street and Columbus Avenue. It had a giant living room, two ample bedrooms, and 10 windows on three exposures. Easily three times the size of our Upper East Side place, this new apartment provided lots of room to shelter future immigrants—our friends, who were lining up to take a crack at the Big Apple.

Stephanie arrived first. Having recently graduated from our alma mater, she came to pursue a singing career. The day of her arrival, Bobby and I met her at the Port Authority bus station. We were certain Stephanie, a magnificent actress and a talented singer/songwriter, would adapt to the city in a New York minute. Standing among the crowds, we saw her bounce into the station with her bleached-blond hair framing her ear-to-ear smile. She was so excited to be in New York that when she waved to us, she dropped one of her bags and hit the person next to her on the head.

“
Oops, sorry!” she said as she laughed.

“
Damn, girl,” Bobby said under his breath. “This is going to take some work.”

Perhaps it would take her an L.A. minute. We walked over to help with her bags. Boy, did she have an aura around her. Was it peppiness? Maybe cheerfulness? Then, I recognized it. It was happiness. I’m not saying New Yorkers aren’t happy. I hadn’t stopped being happy since I got here. We just don’t wear our happiness on our heads like big summer hats.

“
Girl, we’ve got to tone you down!” Bobby said as he embraced her.

“
What’s wrong?” Stephanie asked, slapping his back. “I’m happy to be here.”

“
This is New York, honey. Nobody cares. Keep your happiness hidden, or somebody’s gonna steal it.” And he let out an infectious laugh as we walked out of the station scanning the crowd for potential happiness-snatchers.

Stephanie settled into our apartment, where she’d live until she found her own place. But with the extra money she paid us, we secretly hoped she’d stay for a while. Our own need for money was turning us into sofa slumlords.

Bobby helped her get a temp job in his office at the World Trade Center. Once he flushed the cocaine from his system, he had buckled down and found a respectable job—a job he truly hated. So, he was glad to bring in a familiar face.

I was glad for him, too. A week before, he had thrown himself against his 67
^th
floor window in an attempt to “escape it all.” His 140-pound body, no match for the industrial-strength windows, bounced right off. After multiple attempts, he resigned himself to finish his work, clock out, and live another day. Maybe Stephanie could share some of her happiness with him and keep him from smudging any more windows.

Stephanie attacked the city with an absolute fearlessness. She met people left and right and went to every audition she could find. One afternoon, she joined me on an audition for a European tour of
Hair
. They were looking for male tribe members, specifically for Berger, a role I’d played in college. Confident with the music, I thought I’d give it a shot.

“
I’m just going to tag along like a little sister!” said Stephanie, bouncing around me.

“
They’re not seeing girls you know,” I said, as we took the elevator up to the midtown studios.

“
I know,” she replied. “I want to meet James Rado.” He was one of the play’s authors.

“
I highly doubt James Rado will be there, but you never know.”

He wouldn’t be there. Casting directors, not authors, run auditions like these. The directors aren’t even there, for that matter.

We got to the reception area and saw about 20 cookie-cutter hippy dudes, all with scraggly long hair and chiseled jowls.

“
Well, at least you’ll stand out,” said Stephanie, referring to my clean-cut banker hair parted to the side and my button-up shirt tucked neatly into my pleated pants. “Here, change into this.” She handed me a bag.

“
What’s this?” I asked.

“
Just go change,” she ordered. “I’ll sign you in.”

“
You brought me a change of clothes?”

“
Yes! Bobby and I pulled these out of your closet last night. Now, go change.”

I looked in the bag and saw the patched jeans I had worn in our college production.

“
I can’t believe you brought these.” My fashion failures are legendary among those who know me.

“
We knew you’d show up to the audition looking too preppy! Now, go change. You’ve got to warm up.”

In her instantaneous transformation from little sister to stage mom, Stephanie pushed me toward the bathroom. By the time my hippie-self emerged, she had befriended all the other hippie dudes. Being the only girl in the lobby made her quite popular.

“
Yeah! You look so much better,” Stephanie shouted across the lobby. “That’s my best friend. Don’t those jeans look great?”

Mildly embarrassed, I found a corner and quietly warmed up my voice.

When they called my name, I headed toward the audition room, realizing that, despite the hippie pants, I still looked too preppy for this part. This show occupied a different time in my life, and I started to question why I was even there. But there I was, so I might as well sing them a song. I walked into the room to find a long table filled with a bunch of kids around my age and one very hippie man, who looked to be in his 60s, sitting right in the middle.

“
Hi, Randy,” he said, looking down at my headshot. “I’m James Rado, and these are some members of the tribe that will be going on tour with us. Nice pants! Hey, Joanne, look at his pants! They’re far out!”

“
Thanks,” I said, stunned to be in the presence of the writer. Big brother know-it-all doesn’t know it all after all. “They belonged to one of my college professors. He wore them when he ushered for the production in San Francisco back in the ’70s.”

“
Way back then, huh? That’s far out! I dig it.” He was so incredibly hippie. “What are you going to sing for us today?”

I paused, mentally thanking my friends for packing the jeans, and then sang the show’s title song. When I finished, James thanked me. We talked a bit about the show and how it had woven itself into the fabric of my life. He countered that the show continued to
be
his life. Then, I remembered a question I had when I first did the show.

“
James, when you were writing
Hair
, did you feel like you were writing something special?”

I’ve always been fascinated with the levels of artistic self-awareness. He paused, and looked me dead in the eye.

“
Yes, of course. We all did. Why would you ever want to do something you didn’t feel was special?”

I realized instantly I already knew that answer. Anyone who’s seen a therapist for five minutes knew that answer. But that really wasn’t the way I’d intended the question to be heard, which actually gave me some insight into this man’s self-image. And suddenly, in my mind, the conversation turned into a kind of verbal Rorschach test, which is dangerous when dealing with a 60-something hippie, so I thanked him and walked out the door. The second I entered the reception area, I locked eyes with Stephanie and mouthed the name
James Rado
. She jumped up and bolted past me into the studio.

“
Hi, Mr. Rado. My name is Stephanie,” I heard her say as she entered the room. “I know you’re not seeing women…” I intentionally got in the monitor’s way and let the door close.

“
She’s a friend of James,” I lied, as I headed for the bathroom to peel the jeans from my legs. A full 20 minutes later, Stephanie emerged, beaming with excitement. They’d had quite a conversation, and he even had her sing a song. It was a magical afternoon for both of us.

We spent the rest of the day skipping through the caverns of midtown, singing our favorite songs from the show, and talking about our dreams. Stephanie, intent on getting a record deal, wanted to record an album so badly she could taste it.

I was less focused. I knew I wanted to make theater. But in what capacity? I’m an actor, yes. But so far, the auditioning thing, while mildly productive, wasn’t nourishing me. And the shows I was auditioning for were, well… they didn’t feel special. Something was still missing.