On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (7 page)

I took a sip of beer. It was the only way to shut myself up.

“
That’s some heavy shit.”

“
I know. Confucius heavy. And in that spirit, the point is not to know the answers but to ask the questions and contemplate. Because once you think you’ve arrived at the answer, the question has already changed, which is really what the play is going to end up asking you to do. Contemplate, I mean. It will be a contemplative play.”

“
Well, when are we going to see it?” he asked, as if I already had a plan.

“
Ha!” I laughed. “When I finish writing it and someone decides to produce it.”

“
Why don’t you just produce it yourself?” he suggested simply, as he sipped his beer and checked out a girl on her way to the bathroom. For Chris, New York was a savanna, and he was always on safari.

“
Could you imagine?” I replied softly, ready to move on with the conversation.

“
Why not?”

“
I don’t have any money,” I said, as if he should know. “That’s why not.”

“
You don’t need that much money. You’d be surprised. I’m not saying it’ll be cheap, but you won’t lose your shirt. You’ll still be able to eat. You know what I mean? You should look into it.”

Chris was in full scout mode now. He’d traced the origin of the bathroom-bound coed and discovered a whole flock of girls at a table by the door.

“
How much does it cost to rent a theater?” I asked him.

“
We rented this space called the Red Room last month. That was really cheap. It’s right down the street, above the KGB bar. You should talk to them. I bet they’d work with you. Hold the fort. I’ll be right back.”

Chris grabbed his beer and moved into the flock of girls he’d been eyeing. He was a flirt, not a slut, so I knew he’d return, glowing with girl giggles, and we could finish our conversation.

I went up to the bar to order another beer. Could I really produce the play myself? The thought filled me with an excitement I hadn’t felt in years. This play felt special to me, and regardless of what direction my career was going, I truly wanted to work on something that felt special. Before the bartender could take my order, I grabbed my jacket and headed toward the door. I passed Chris, who was already deep in conversation with the ladies.

“
I’m going to see a man about a theater,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll be right back.”

“
Cool, man! I’ll be here.”

And the sounds of the bustling bar turned to an expansive, quiet cold. The low autumn light cast a magical hue on the buildings. I took a deep breath and smiled at the smell of crisp air and the visual stimulation. The East Village is the picture of downtown cool. Aisles of tenement houses, adorned with fire escapes frame the sky. Funky bars, boutique shops, and performance spaces decorate the street level. Looking west, I see hordes of NYU students darting through the streets. I cross Bowery and look up toward Astor Place, with its rotating black square sculpture propped up on one corner. If you get a few people around it, you can make that thing spin pretty fast, which was a popular 3 a.m. activity on a Saturday night.

My gaze shot forward as I continued down East Fourth Street. This block, between Bowery and Second Avenue, already held so many memories for me. Even before I moved to New York, my short visits brought me to this exact block. I remember standing in line for two hours outside the New York Theater Workshop, hoping that, by some small miracle, we’d get tickets to see the original company of
Rent
, its gritty legend already well-established. I didn’t actually get to see it until a few years later, when I was terribly disappointed by the flashy touring cast.

Then, there’s the beautiful skinny townhouse that holds the LaMama Experimental Café. I visited my friend Andrea at this townhouse one evening. She’d met LaMama founder Ellen Stewart at a conference in San Diego and was invited to stay at the theater when she visited. We explored the building’s every nook and cranny and met crazy Hungarian circus performers. Andrea’s room was literally a closet, large enough for a single bed and a nightstand. And short on cash, we passed the evening sipping tea by the large windows, talking about our dreams, and watching the snowfall.

Across the street, at 85 East Fourth, a small neon sign illuminated the dark-blue afternoon with three very recognizable red letters: K-G-B. I walked up the steep stoop steps, opened the big red doors, and entered a small, rundown lobby with unpolished floors and paint peeling off the high tin ceilings. A very steep staircase ascended two flights in one stretch toward the back of the building. On the other side of the little lobby were two doors. One said “The Kraine Theater,” the other said “Office.” I knocked on the door marked “Office.”

“
Who is it?” a voice asked.

“
Hi. My name is Randy Anderson. I’d like to talk to someone about renting a theater.” The door opened, and an unshaven man peered out at me.

“
Which theater?”

“
I don’t know. You have more than one?”

“
Yeah, we have three: the Kraine, the Red Room, and Under St. Marks. Which one are you interested in?”

The man still hadn’t fully opened the door, and I heard someone giggling. Was there a girl in there? Was she dressed?

“
If I’m interrupting something, I can come back later,” I said, stepping back.

“
Which theater did you want to look at? Somebody’s in the Kraine right now, but the Red Room is open. You can go up and take a look, if you want.” The hidden person was laughing now, which made me a bit insecure. “Just go all the way up to the top of those stairs and make a right, first door on your left. If you have any questions, give us a knock on your way out.” And he began to close the door.

“
Great. Thanks. And your name is?”

“
Russell.”

“
Super. Thanks, Russell.” And he closed the door to the sounds of even more laughter. Chris told me these people were laid-back, but this Russell guy struck me as a little cagey.

I started up the marble stairs. Halfway up was a landing and, to the right, the entrance to the KGB bar. A quick glance showed a dark room with candlelit tables, windows covered with heavy red drapes, and walls adorned with old communist propaganda. A few couples sat around in quiet conversations, and I couldn’t help but fantasize they were real communists, plotting something. What that something was I couldn’t imagine, since I’d only been conditioned, as a child, to believe communists plotted. No one ever said what about. The bartender looked up at me, and I responded with a smile and a wave, which felt silly. Communist don’t wave and smile, right? They’re serious people. The bartender acknowledged me with a nod, and I continued up the stairs.

Now out of breath, I finally arrived at the top. It was poorly lit, but I managed to find the unmarked theater. I opened the door and looked into complete darkness. I reached my hand inside and felt along the wall for a light switch without success. The little bit of light spilling in from the hallway revealed rows of chairs sloping up. Behind the last row, I made out a square hole, cut into the wall. The technical booth! I was sure to find a way to illuminate the theater there.

After propping the door open with a nearby garbage can, I slowly walked into the room and up the aisle toward the booth. I made it halfway up when I heard the garbage can fall over and the door close, immediately leaving me enveloped in darkness. Not even an illuminated exit sign offered its dim glow. Pausing for a moment to determine whether to continue to the booth or go back and re-prop the door, I got on all fours and crawled forward on the dusty floor. Messy jeans and dirty hands beat tripping on the unknown.

Finally, at the top of the risers, I followed some cables to the booth. Once inside, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my lighter. One flick lit up the booth. The small flame provided just enough light for me to read the masking-tape labels identifying the various controls. I passed the lighter over the controls systematically from left to right and located a circular dimmer labeled “house.” I cranked the knob to the right, and the house lights came on.

Considering the amount of dust in the air, I was lucky the place didn’t blow up when I lit my lighter. I stepped onto the stage and felt an immediate thrill. It was a black-box theater, cozy, small, and in decent condition. The lights hung from a grid just below the tin ceilings, and I immediately noticed the lack of air conditioning. I spent a good 20 minutes wandering around the small room. There wasn’t that much to see, but I’ve always loved being alone in a theater. It feeds my creativity.

Standing in the audience staring at the stage, I see a son throw his fists down on the kitchen counter while his mother sobs about his unexpected news. I see a passionate kiss between a couple who have just discovered their love for each other and know they’ll soon be separated forever. I see a drunken punch, the final spin of a dance, the maniacal laugh of a tormented clown. I see the lights go down then come up for the cast’s final bow. The events that transpire on the stage, even in my imagination, are immediate and in the moment. No place else on earth gives me such imaginative powers as an empty theater. And imagining myself covered in a beggar’s fairy dust, I sprinted down the stairs to the office.

I knocked on the office door. “Russell, it’s Randy.” I waited a moment but didn’t hear anything. “I looked at the space and I want to talk to you about some dates.”

Finally, Russell opened the door and a billow of marijuana smoke curled itself into the fresh lobby air. Suddenly, all the giggling and caginess made sense.

“
Come on in!” Russell said with a big grin as he shook my hand and pulled me into the tiny office, where we worked out the details of a three-day rental in June. Russell had only recently started renting out the theaters. He and a few other guys had started this company called Horse Trade, and he spoke at great length about how they were going to improve the spaces and, most importantly, bring them up to code. We went over the one-page contract, which stipulated a $500 deposit. When I pulled out my credit card, Russell stared at me.

“
You don’t have cash?” he asked. Since moving to New York, I’d grown accustomed to using cash more often, but 500 dollars seemed a ridiculous request.

“
No, I don’t even have 500 dollars in my bank account. I was hoping I could put this on my credit card.”

In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to disclose the fact I didn’t have any money, but Russell didn’t seem to mind. We talked about how I was going to finance the project, and he agreed to let me pay in installments.

“
Here, let’s seal the deal,” Russell said, offering me his pipe.

I walked back out into the street, where the fall air smelled better than ever.

When I got back to the bar, Chris was sitting at our earlier table with our friends, Andrea and Deborah.

“
Hi, gang!” I said. “Andrea, I was just thinking about you when I walked passed LaMama. I’m going to grab a drink. Does anyone need anything?”

There was a slight wobble in my step and a silly half-grin on my face.

“
We’re good,” Chris said. “So what happened? You look stoned. Are you stoned?”

Being a stoner, Chris was very perceptive about these things.

“
No man. I’m fine. Hold on a moment, let me get a drink.”

I swerved to the bar and ordered a Brooklyn Lager, feeling particularly good—and not just because of the pot. Reserving the theater had emboldened my confidence and tapped a reservoir of ambition that was awaiting direction. I’m the kind of person who always capitalizes on moments of confidence, so by the time I carried my beer back to the table, my three-night play grew into something much, much larger.

“
Andrea, Deborah, what’s going on?” I asked as I set my beer down and took my seat.

“
Nothing much going on with us,” said Deborah, staring at me.

“
Is there something going on with you?” Andrea asked.

They were all looking at me with such intensity, I couldn’t tell if I was paranoid or pretty.

“
There
is
something going on with me,” I baited. “I’ve just started working on a project.”

“
What project?” Andrea inquired.

“
Did you book the space?” Chris asked impatiently.

“
Yes. I’ve booked the space.” I raised my glass, and everyone else followed suit. “And I’m starting a theater company,” I said triumphantly.

“
What!” Chris exclaimed.

“
Awesome!” Deborah said.

“
I just booked the Red Room Theater for three nights in June for the world premier of my new play,
Testing Average
.”

It was a very grand way of saying, “I’m doing a little play in a little theater.” But we write who we are by the words we use, and at that moment, I was starting a theater company that would be mounting a world-premier play!

“
That is so fucking exciting!” Andrea exclaimed. “Here’s to a new theater company.”

We touched glasses, drank, and immediately started getting lost in the possibilities. Then, Chris put his beer on the table.

“
What’s this company going to be called?” he asked.

I hadn’t thought about a company name. For the contract, I had signed only my own name.