On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (22 page)

“
Witches or rat poop,” I said, as my calculations passed into quadruple digits.

“
It was the witches, I’m telling you,” Lolly repeated.

“
Do you think they specifically targeted me, or am I collateral damage?” Nick asked. He was an improv guy after all.

“
I don’t know. Where were your parents in the ’70s?” asked Lolly.

And they launched into a dialogue about Nick’s fictional relations in the ’70s. A corrupt politician, a prostitute, and a greedy accountant all made the short list of possible suspects who could have wronged the coven. This took our minds off the fact that half of Nick’s torso was paralyzed until Lolly, laughing hysterically, threw her hand up to him for a high five. Nick looked at her hand, then at me, and thanked us for coming down. I promised him I would contact our insurance company, and we stepped out into the dewy spring air. It was now officially morning.

“
We have to charge for the show,” I said as we got into a cab.

“
What? We can’t. It’s too late, Randy, we’ve been telling everyone it’s free for weeks now,” said Lolly, very sternly.

Several weeks back, Lolly and I made the very risky decision to not charge for tickets. We would forgo the traditional “buy your ticket, see a show” model and embrace the busker approach. Gather everyone around, do a show, and then ask for money. We were taking a gamble to get more butts in seats. And we were The Beggars Group after all; so begging for money seemed appropriate. Somewhere in San Francisco, Aunt Phyllis was shaking her head. “I told you to call it The Emperors Group.”

“
This Nick thing could end up costing us a lot of money, and I’m not so sure we’re going to make enough begging for tips.”

Naturally, I was worried about killing the financial health of the company with this show. A feeling I’m sure every theater producer has on a daily basis.

“
Well, we can’t do anything about that any more,” Lolly said. “It’s done. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“
God, I wish we hadn’t made that decision.”

“
It’s done, Randy. We can’t do anything about it now,” Lolly said. I slumped into the seat and stared out the window. “What are we going to do, Randy?”

“
About what?”

“
About Nick! We open in two days!” I was silent for almost a minute. Lolly kept staring at me. “Randy, say something.”

“
Fucking witches,” was all I could muster. It was their fault this happened. I hate witches.

When I got home, I showered, got dressed, and went to work. I picked up the phone and dialed.

“
Noj, it’s Randy.”

“
Hi, Randy,” Noj replied.

“
We have a bit of an issue.”

“
Oh, yeah, what’s that?”

“
Well, Nick hurt his arm, and we’re going to need someone to step in for him.”

“
We open in two days!” he replied. I’d had this conversation before, only on the other side.

“
Two days. That’s right. Can you memorize lines quickly?”

“
Yeah, lines shouldn’t be a problem. Two days? That’s fast…”

“
Yeah,” I said. Somehow, I knew he could do this. “I’m at work now, but Fannie, Lolly, and Dickey will be at my apartment all day. They’ll teach you everything, and we have one more rehearsal in the theater, so you’ll get a feel for everything.”

“
OK, I’m heading over there now,” he said.

I hung up the phone and took a deep breath.

Nine hours later, when I arrived home, my apartment was buzzing with activity. Dickey was finishing props, Lolly and Fannie were synchronizing some dance steps I didn’t recognize, and Noj was out on the fire escape screaming Nick’s lines. Since he’d been running lights, he had a working knowledge of the staging. He only needed to tackle his lines.

“
Anyone hear from Nick?” I asked, setting down my bag.

“
He’s gonna be fine,” Lolly answered. “He’s slowly starting to regain movement in his arm, and he should be 100 percent by next week.”

What a relief. One week. We can make it through one week. Hell, the week will be easy if we could get through the next day.

“
Why is he shouting?” I asked.

“
He says it helps him to remember the lines,” Fannie replied. “That’s why we made him go outside. He was driving us all crazy in here. He’s totally jacked up on Ritalin too. Do you want some?”

Everyone laughed except me. I didn’t understand what was funny about being jacked up on Ritalin. I didn’t even know what Ritalin was. I’d been to the doctor three times in the past 10 years. I didn’t get sick and had, as of yet, no need for the pharmaceutical world. I just looked at them. I was too tired to even conjure a smile.

It was a very playful atmosphere that I truly wished I could enjoy, but I had a to-do list continually growing longer and more urgent, and I couldn’t muster the strength for fun. I’d slept a total of six hours in the past 72, and our final rehearsal was the next day, followed by our opening that night. So, I calmly and quietly slipped into my bedroom, crawled into bed, and got to the business of sleep—the one thing on my to-do list that couldn’t wait another moment.

GENTRIFUCKERS

Opening weekend came and went in a blur. We generated a great buzz, which resulted in mostly full houses. Reviewers were in and out, right along with the random folks we’d pulled from the street. By the time the second weekend rolled around, good reviews were in print, Nick was back in the show, and we were riding the wave of a hit. We were seeing the financial benefits as well. Each night, after the show, we’d give our speech to the audience.

“
Thank you all for coming to see The Beggars Group’s production of
Do It!
We hope you enjoyed yourselves. As a theater company, we strive to create a theatrical experience that inspires self-reflection, much as you might experience when passing a beggar on the street. But as we have a stage, lights, and costumes, we can do so in a far more entertaining fashion, hence the name The Beggars Group.”

“
Now, I’m sure you all noticed that you didn’t pay anything when you came into the theater. That’s because, as the Yippies would say, everyone should have free access to the theater. Actually, the Yippies would say that everyone should have free access to everything. But we’ll only go so far as to let you into the show for free. But we do need your support. So, if you liked the show, on your way out, please drop some money into the hat. Shows like this usually cost between $10 and $20. If you really loved the show, by all means drop us a hundred. But, if you did not like the production and wish not to give any money, we only ask that you come up and tell one of us why. We won’t bite. We want to learn. And if we’re doing something that people don’t enjoy, we want to know so we can do a better job next time. Thank you, and have a great night.”

Everyone contributed. Even other poor young artists like ourselves dug into their pockets and found a few dollars, but most people contributed more. And by the second week, we were averaging almost $20 per person. The Beggars Group coffers were getting replenished and, thankfully, between Nick’s insurance (that he actually did have, as it turns out) and our volunteer accident insurance, the hospital bills were paid. Everything was going our way.

The great thing about running a successful show is it creates a perpetual desire to celebrate. The show itself was a bit of a party, but afterwards we’d always find some kind of trouble to get into.

One night, we assembled at Harrison’s apartment on 103
^rd
Street to go, en masse, to a Gentrifucker party in Williamsburg. Nobody knew exactly who the Gentrifuckers were, or what they were about, but they sounded counterculture and hard-core, so we thought we’d check it out.

Our pre-party was in full force at Harrison’s house when his partner burst through the door.

“
Attention, everyone. May I have your attention?" The room quieted down. “I’m sorry to say that I won’t be able to attend the Gentrifuckers party with you all this evening.” He skipped introducing himself, as this was his house, even though he was among more strangers than friends. “But I have brought you a gift, given to me by my boss.”

He pulled from a plastic grocery bag a square of foil, which he promptly began peeling open.

“
Now, I know my boss’s style, so I warn you all to proceed with caution.”

He peeled back the last layer of foil to reveal a quarter-tray of brownies. The room erupted in shouts and applause.

I heard someone lean over to Fannie and ask, “Are those pot brownies?”

Fannie laughed. “Fuck, yeah!” And she pushed through the crowd, grabbed a square, and split it with her neighbor.

We devoured the delicacy in less than five minutes, and the room electrified with anticipation. For those of you who have never consumed marijuana in this manner, its effects take a good 45 minutes to an hour to present themselves. We all finished our beers before filing down the stairs and into the street.

While we were eager to meet the Gentrifuckers, we were primarily focused on being with each other. Tonight, the journey was the destination. Armed with postcards and freed of our inhibitions, we piled onto the subway and slowly made our way downtown, bouncing around the train car with our fast and loud conversations. We had only two topics on our minds. What is this party going to look like? And when is the brownie going to kick in?

We emerged from the subway somewhere downtown to pick up our cast member Ria. Like Fannie, Ria was another “Daddy’s little princess” whose lovability was so powerful, it managed to drag everyone miles out of our way so she wouldn’t have to take the train to Brooklyn alone. Now, this wasn’t Village downtown but Wall Street downtown—the downtown you seldom go to unless you work there, the downtown that on a Saturday night is all but deserted. We popped out of the subway hole in small groups, each moving a few feet from the stairs in different directions. We looked up at the towers around us and marveled at the empty quiet.

My gaze slowly floated down and landed on the reflection of our group in a storefront window. I was charmed by how young we appeared. We looked like children on the playground enjoying recess. And among our youthful chorus, I saw a beggar, larger in stature and much older, slowly approaching the group. I quickly turned around, but by the time I retrained my eyes from reflection onto reality, our group was all over the street in a chaotic wander and the beggar had vanished.

“
Which way do we go?” I asked Fannie, who had been to Ria’s house before. Fannie was in charge. She would be our guide.

“
Um…I think it’s this way,” she said, lighting a cigarette and leading the group down an abandoned street. The mood of the group had shifted. We’d grown a little quieter. It was too early to tell whether this was a product of the brownie or just adaptation to our new environment.

“
I don’t like this,” Dickey said. “Somebody is going to die.”

“
Don’t say that!” Harrison said.

When Dickey said that, something bad usually
did
happen. It was his sixth sense. People wouldn’t actually die, but something bad would surely happen.

“
Great! You had to fucking jinx us, didn’t you?” Lolly said. She knew. “Fannie, do you know where we’re going?”

“
It’s down this way, I think.”

“
You think? Or you know?” Harrison shouted.

“
I think. Stop worrying, you guys. We’ll find it. God, just chill out and ride the brownie.”

Ride the brownie. It was as if Fannie had thrown a match on us, and we were doused with gasoline. The laughter exploded over us like napalm. The brownie had arrived.

Other than the beggar apparition, we hadn’t come across a single person since we’d emerged from the subway, and it felt as though we were walking in circles.

“
We’re walking in circles, Fannie!” Lolly said, not in a mad way, but as if she’d prefer to walk in squares. “You’re taking us around in circles.”

We turned down a very narrow street that curved to such a degree, you couldn’t see the next intersection. This doesn’t happen very often in grid of Manhattan, and we all pranced into the unknown with great delight.

Suddenly, a woman threw her body against the inside of a shop window. The fright nearly killed half our group. Screams were sent up through the canyons, followed by more laugher. It took what felt like an hour to collect ourselves.

Our first interaction with another human being was shocking enough. Like a caged lion, hungry for flesh, she’d thrown herself against this window. It was a tailor shop with floor-to-ceiling windows. Its light poured into the street. The youthful Chinese woman inside continued pounding on the glass and speaking a mumbled language I was certain none of us would understand. We approached with caution. Harrison took the lead.

“
Are you OK?” he asked.

“
Door no open! Door no open. Help!” she shouted.

Harrison stepped back to review the situation.

“
It sounds like the door won’t open, and she needs help,” he said rubbing his head.

“
Wow, Harrison, you’re a fucking genius,” Lolly said in her most sarcastic tone.