On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (3 page)

Reaching the fourth floor out of breath, I cursed the three cigarettes I inhaled on my walk from 57
^th
Street and noticed the lights on in the apartment. I hadn’t seen Bobby in several days. He didn’t have a job yet, and he was getting lost on his adventures quite frequently. I opened the door and heard a conversation in the bathroom.

“
Lobert! You have the debil in your eye! I see it! The debil is inside you.” This, said in a thick Korean accent, was followed by an accent-free, “I love you so much. Why do you treat me like this? You’re so smooth and wet. Can you stop being so wet? Of course, you can’t. I keep turning you on.”

Then, I heard the faucet switch on, a short burst of laughter, then tears, then laughter. The Korean accent continued. “Lobert! Stop it! You hurting me! Stop hurting me!” I considered leaving for a moment but glanced at the time and decided to engage.

I recognized the Korean voice instantly as a manifestation of his mother, a devout Christian who had an epic struggle with Bobby’s homosexuality. It was hysterical to hear him imitate her in college, but what was happening in the bathroom wasn’t imitation. This was possession. I closed the front door behind me and turned the lock. Across the living room, the bathroom door was open, and Bobby stood in his pajamas, talking directly to the sink.

“
Bobby, are you OK? Who are you talking to?”

“
I’m talking to… the sink,” he replied.

“
OK. Is everything OK?” I asked, very aware of his delicate state.

“
No! Everything is
not
OK! I’m a fucking cokehead, OK? There is nothing OK with that!” And then he jumped back into the Korean accent. “It’s the debil! Lobert is a junkie!”

Due to an undiagnosed allergy, Bobby couldn’t drink, but he was prone to trying just about every other drug on the planet. For most people, this would be cause for concern, but Bobby’s short attention span kept him from sticking to any one thing for long. This was both a blessing and a curse.

“
OK,” I said. “Wait, are you a cokehead or a junkie?”

“
What do you mean?” Bobby said, looking up at me for the first time.

“
Isn’t a junkie a heroin addict? I mean, are you on coke or heroin?”

“
Who gives a fuck what I’m called?” Bobby said adamantly. “I’ve been doing coke for four days straight! I’m a four-day-old crack-whore-bitch-ass.”

Trying not to appear alarmed, I walked closer.

“
Did you really have sex for crack or are you just being colorful?” I asked delicately.

“
I’m being colorful. And it wasn’t crack, it was coke! I’m a mess, I can’t sleep, and I just want to go to sleep.”

“
I don’t want to alarm you, but you might have some difficulty getting a job at a bank.”

“
What? Who the fuck cares!” he screamed. “I’m a cokehead, Randy. Don’t you get it? I’m a COKEHEAD!”

“
Yeah, I get it. I get it. Where did you get cocaine anyway?”

“
I met this guy. We went to his house.” The Korean accent jumped back in. “He’s a homosexual. He has a da sex wit my boy.” The fact that he was channeling his mother was creepy enough, but that she was now addressing me was over the top. He took a breath and continued in his own voice. “He was really hot. I went over to his house.”

“
So you did have sex for coke?” I asked.

“
No. I had sex for sex. I did coke for coke. I hate myself.” He returned his attention back to the sink. “Come back to Jebus. Jebus loves you. Stop being homosexual. No more coke with debil men. Come back to Jebus.”

This was clearly going to be a very long night for Bobby and his mother.

“
If you’re gonna be up for a while, can you shut the door? I have to work in the morning,” I said and began preparing for bed.

Without looking in my direction, he shut the door and, after several hours, I finally fell asleep to the sounds of a self-deprecating cokehead working out 20-some-odd years of issues with his mother.

That was the end of Bobby’s coke days. He emerged from his bender largely unscathed. But every so often, when he went to the bathroom late at night, I would hear him curse at the sink. Like his mother, that smooth, wet menace would always haunt him.

I awoke the next morning and tumbled down the stairwell to push through another day. I’d already learned the most important lesson any new city dweller learns. New Yorkers work hard. This town is built on greed, power, and initiative, all of which take tremendous amounts of energy. I had fully subscribed to the adrenaline-fueled march toward…well, I guess it’s called success.

The routine was the same every day. Up early. On the train. Coffee and a 30-second conversation with a man in a silver cart. Building pass, elevator, cubicle, phones, computers, paperwork, meetings, conference rooms, elevator, lunch sitting next to a fountain, reading news from a ticker, elevator, more work, elevator, street, done. This was the routine. Sleep, bathe, repeat.

I was quickly losing my lateral thinking skills, my “artistic sensibilities,” if you will. I could feel my identity shifting to a different kind of person. And while I wouldn’t mind being this person, it was not the person I truly wanted to be. That is not a subtle difference. Either I was tired or I identified with Bobby’s desire for a change of direction, but the next day, something I saw moved me off the path toward a nice life and back on the path toward a full life.

After work, I headed down to the Village to meet some friends at a bar for beer and baseball. I didn’t watch much baseball before moving to New York. But there’s something about the teams and the fans in New York that makes it irresistible.

The subway moved slower than usual, and I preoccupied myself with how mad I was at the F train for making me late. Being mad at a late train is a futile exercise at which I excelled. New Yorkers alternate between Zen Buddhists and five-year-old brats when it comes to stalled or slow trains. On this particular day, I was a five-year-old. The train finally arrived at my station and I rushed to the exit. As I passed through the turnstile and headed up the stairs, I fell back from the putrid-sweet smell of stale pee on the platform. You smell a lot more pee in New York. You smell a lot more of everything in New York. I hurried to the surface and let the fresh air clean my nostrils.

Erasing the memory of the smell, I lit a cigarette and walked down Eighth Street. As I passed the window shoppers and summer students, I caught sight of a beggar. There wasn’t anything particularly different about this beggar. Probably 10 years older than me, he was about my height and weight. His clothes were worn-looking, but they didn’t appear soiled. He was holding out a wrinkled paper coffee cup trying to get the attention of each passerby. Something about him—his demeanor, his sincerity, maybe it was his humanity—had captured my imagination and compelled me to stop and watch.

He looked familiar to me somehow, and I continued to stare at him. I felt a little self-conscious for standing there gawking, but I couldn’t help myself. The longer I observed, the more I realized nobody was making eye contact with him. Most people acted as if they hadn’t seen him at all.

But they had.

And that was where the magic happened. I took note of everyone’s reactions. Guilt and disgust were common. Sometimes, people would smile, not maliciously, but as if they were rejoicing in what they had. I saw relief, but I couldn’t tell if it was relief they had made it past yet another beggar unscathed, or relief that
they
were not the ones begging. Everyone reacted. Even if their reaction was
not
to react, they had to expend some energy to do so. I watched them try to suppress their emotions. But the most fascinating aspect was that their reactions were never about the beggar but about themselves. Hate, fear, guilt, sorrow, pain, joy—all these emotions were sparked by the sight of the beggar, but the fuel was contained in the hearts of the viewers. And as they passed, they were changed. It was as if they walked into a cloud, only to emerge with white dust clinging to their hair, faces, and clothes, cloaking them in some new truth. Right then, I knew: I want to make theater that does that!

Looking for my own truth, I walked over and dropped five dollars into his cup.

“
Thank you!” I said, imagining I was being cloaked in a beggar’s fairy dust. I continued walking, peeking back, thinking he was some apparition that would magically disappear. But he didn’t. He never disappeared. When I turned the corner, he was still there. Five innings and four beers later, I could still see him. That beggar was etched into my mind’s eye, and that fairy dust was for real. His presence had clarified my desire. I wanted to create the beggar’s effect. That was the kind of theater I wanted to do. That was the kind of impact I wanted my art to have. That was the kind of life I wanted to live.

NOT
THAT
KIND OF GAY

In less than two months, I landed my first New York acting gig. Scanning the trade papers for auditions, something I did once a week, I noticed a casting call for the touring production of a play called
Making Porn
. I had seen
Making Porn
, a very entertaining sex comedy about the gay porn industry, in Los Angeles. While the play focuses on beefy porn stars and a bounty of gratuitous nudity, the sympathetic boyfriend role didn’t require hunkiness or nudity—a perfect part for me. Not that I’m shy about getting naked on stage, I’d done
Hair
in college. But there is a very big difference between hippie-naked and sexy-naked. Anyone can be hippie-naked, but sexy-naked requires countless hours in the gym and a kiss from the genetic gods.

After my audition, both the producer and the playwright immediately told me I was exactly what they were looking for. Two days later, at 7 a.m., my phone rang.

“
Randy, it’s Karen, the producer from the
Making Porn
audition.”

“
Hi, Karen! I wasn’t expecting you to call so soon.”

“
Well, we really loved your audition and want to put you in the next show. We’re working on a Boston run, but that’s probably not going to happen for a while. In the meantime, we have a bit of an issue. Have you seen
Peepshow
?”

Although the auditions had taken place in the theater where
All Male Peepshow
was currently running, I didn’t have 50 spare dollars for new shoes, let alone an off-Broadway play.

“
No. I haven’t seen it, but I’m sure it’s good.” I really
wasn’t
sure, but it never hurts to suck up.

“
Well, we have a cast member who is leaving, and we need someone to take his place pretty soon.”

“
How soon is pretty soon?”

“
In three days,” she responded with urgency and conviction. “We’ll need you to come down and see the show tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll put you backstage to shadow the actor you’ll be replacing, and then you’ll go on the next night. Can you memorize lines quickly?”

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

“
We’ll pay you 200 dollars a week,” Karen interrupted. “Stop by as soon as you can and pick up a script.”

She wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Of course, I could have said no. But it was an off-Broadway show—albeit a non-union show with producers that seemed a bit shady. But I could use the 200 bucks, and I really wanted to get on the boards. So, of course, I agreed and berated myself for even entertaining the idea of saying no.

“
I have to go to work, but bring the script to the show, and I’ll pick it up when I see you.” I hung up and did a little victory dance on my bed. This move was paying off.

That night, Bobby and I met Karen in front of the subterranean Actors Playhouse on Seventh Avenue in the West Village. A heavyset woman in her mid-30s, Karen seemed nice but a bit pushy.

“
Randy, glad you made it. Jonathan, take these programs to the booth. Let me get your script.”

Leaving no space for me to talk, she kept barking orders to the cadre of young employees hovering all around her.

“
Beth, can you run down to my house and get Randy his script? It’s in a red binder on the dining-room table.”

“
I can pick it up after the show,” I offered, taking my cue from the disgusted look on Beth’s face.

“
Don’t worry, Beth will get it for you. Hurry up, Beth, I need you to take over the box office when you get back.” And with that, Beth sped out into the West Village crowds. “Here are your tickets. Take notes. You’ll be playing the role of Shane. Don’t worry about learning everything. Concentrate on the entrances and the exits. You can make the part your own once we get you into the piece.”

A shot of fear suddenly flew through my gut. I recognized the feeling immediately. A few years earlier, I was playing a plebeian in Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
, and the Soothsayer’s car broke down on his way back from Vegas. I had exactly one hour to learn the part…one miserable, torturous hour. Sure, it was only a few lines and hardly any stage business, but the very idea of forgetting something had me in a panic. Yes, it’s “Beware the ides of March,” one of the Bard’s most recognizable lines. But fuck that up, even a little bit, and everyone will think you’re an idiot. A misplaced breath could easily transform it into “Beware the hides of March.”