On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (8 page)

Retreating into my mind, I searched for ideas. But the idea wasn’t hidden deep in the clefts of my brain. It was all over my face, head, and clothes: self-reflection taking the form of a white dust cast onto me by a beggar.

“
The Beggars Group,” I replied with certainty.

It was in my head and out of my mouth in an instant. Usually, that kind of spontaneity gets me into trouble, but this time, it had a positive effect. The Beggars Group was the name of the theater company and the kind of theater the company would produce—theater that makes people look at themselves a little closer, as contemplative entertainment.

“
To The Beggars Group!” Chris said, raising his glass once more.

“
To The Beggars Group!” we all responded as we knocked glasses and drank. I’d found my direction, and it was no different from when I was 10. It’s funny how we can find our direction, lose it, and then find it again. I suppose one’s direction in life, like success, is a fluid concept. We settled into our stools and exchanged ideas as twilight faded and East Fourth Street darkened, turning the glow of the pub into a beacon for dreamers and drunks.

TESTING AVERAGE

Twenty-five minutes before show time, the audience was so far pretty light. We’d only just opened the house, and I was petrified nobody would show up. The past six months had been at once thrilling and exhausting, but I had done it. I’d managed to write, direct, and produce my first show in New York.

Chris didn’t exactly lie about the show not costing me an arm and a leg, but it did cost more than I had budgeted. Foolishly, I assumed renting the theater would be my largest expense, but I hadn’t anticipated the other piece of real estate I’d need: rehearsal space. A rehearsal room large enough for a cast of 10 cost $20 to $25 an hour, which could easily add up to more than $1,000. Since I didn’t have that kind of money, I booked the few hours I could afford, and we headed to Central Park for the rest of rehearsals.

Rehearsing in New York parks is not that uncommon. Walk through Central Park on a nice day, and you’ll see all kinds of artists practicing their crafts privately in a public space. Shakespeare, Chekhov, juggling, dance…it’s all there for your enjoyment. The actors were a little hesitant at first. Sure, it’s not the ideal rehearsal venue, but producing theater on a shoestring is sadly familiar territory for most thespians—at least all the thespians in my cast. Everyone in
Testing Average
was a personal friend. Bobby, Chris, Deborah, Andrea, and a few other acquaintances were all now safely in the dressing room, preparing to dazzle our audience.

“
Hello, my love!” said a beautiful Jamaican woman as she fought through the heavy metal doors. It was my friend Donna accompanied by two other co-workers from Blah-Blah Big Bank.

“
Donna, I’m so glad you made it!”

“
Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Here…” she said handing me 40 dollars. “This is for the three of us.”

“
Let me get you some change,” I said as I plunged into my strongbox.

“
Nonsense, you keep the change. Where do we go? Is it right here?” She pointed to the first-floor theater.

“
No, you actually have to go up those stairs.”

“
All the way up? Oh, you’re kidding me. Good thing I skipped the gym today.”

“
Yes, but you can stop at the bar half way up and get a drink.”

“
Excellent! That will give us some incentive!” she laughed and exchanged jokes with her two partners-in-crime as they ascended the stairs. While she wasn’t a theater person, she had, in a way, collaborated with me on the show’s set.

One Tuesday afternoon at Blah-Blah Big Bank, Donna and I went out to lunch. I loved lunching with Donna because her stories—especially the recent ones about her and her husband’s adventures with a group of swingers—made for an entertaining hour. As we finished our bento boxes and plum wine, I told her about my set issues. Contractually, we couldn’t create a permanent set. Throughout the week, a multitude of productions used the venue. A weekend night could have a show at 8, one at 10:30, and yet another at midnight. That gave us little time to load-in and load-out—and limited space for storage. Thankfully,
Testing Average
required only two main sets: six
classroom desks and chairs and a dining-room table.

I explained all this to Donna, hoping a brilliant solution would appear from our empty plum-wine glasses. After we paid the check, Donna grabbed me by the hand.

“
Come on,” she began in her thick Jamaican accent. “I know just the thing for you. Have you been to Odd Lots?”

“
Odd Lots? Never heard of it. Is it some kind of swingers’ club for misfits?” I asked, smiling as she dragged me through the busy midtown streets.

“
Don’t be fresh with me, Mr. Anderson. Come on, you’re gonna love this.”

Donna was persistent, direct, and a little pushy. I loved it. If I had liked the ladies, and she actually
did
swing, our relationship could have been quite different. But I was content to be the gay sidekick following her magnificent figure through the aisles of what appeared to be a dollar store.

“
Get that horrified expression off your face. I know what you’re thinking, but you can find really good deals here.”

Surrounded by cheap lawn ornaments, plastic barrels of generic cheese puffs, and children-sized underwear with “Foxy Girl” written in glitter on the crotch, I let her confidence assuage my cynicism.

“
Here we are,” said Donna, taking off her jacket and placing it over a clothes rack full of tiger pajamas with plush tails. “First, you need six of these.” She pulled out six folding TV dinner trays. “Open them up! Don’t just stand there like a lost child.”

I sprung into action.

“
And six of these,” she continued, as she took out six small folding stools. Within a minute, Donna had set up the tables and chairs in a row. “See? You can make rows of desks like this for a classroom.”

Then, she pushed the TV trays together, three and three, and threw a tablecloth she had grabbed from somewhere over them.

“
Now, you have a dinner table!” It was brilliant in its simplicity.

“
That’s perfect, Donna! How much does all this cost?” I asked, still skeptical.

“
The TV trays are three dollars each, and the stools are four. So, we’ll say 45 bucks with tax.”

“
Perfect!” I exclaimed. “You’re brilliant. I’m gonna come back on Friday when I get paid and pick these up.”

I was beginning to walk out, but Donna grabbed my arm.

“
What, are you crazy? You can’t wait until Friday. These won’t be here on Friday. Dear, this is Odd Lots. Things sell out quickly.”

“
You mean to tell me these tiger pajamas with the plush tails will be gone by the end of the week?”

“
No, those will be here, but these trays and stools won’t. I promise you. Here, let me buy them. You can pay me back on Friday.”

That was her last word on the subject. I protested, she insisted, and I had a set.

Fifteen minutes before show time, a slow-but-steady parade of patrons marched up the stairs. Most were the performers’ friends, dressed for a Friday night and far too nice for this dirty little theater. A woman, who must have been about 70, managed to pull the red doors open just enough to slide her thin frame through.

“
Is this the Red Room Theater?” she asked in a shockingly loud voice.

“
Yes, it is,” I replied. “Are you here to see
Testing Average
?”

“
Is that the play Justin is in?”

She pulled out a crumpled square of paper that instantly embarrassed me when I recognized it as our postcard. I didn’t know this woman, but I didn’t want her first impression of the company to be this pitiful postcard.

Not terribly strong with publicity, I had no idea how to effectively promote a super-short run of a new play by an unknown playwright produced by a brand new theater company. And while postcards are remarkably cheap to print if you want five thousand of them, I only had three performances. So, a four-digit print job seemed like overkill. Instead, Bobby and I mocked up a design on his computer and color-copied the postcards at our local photocopy place
.
The quality was terrible. And here was Grandma, unfolding this crookedly cut piece of cardstock and pointing to Justin’s name.

“
I’m in an acting class with him,” she said, which explained the tremendous voice. “Do I get a discount?”

“
I’m sorry, ma'am. There are no discounts.”

I wasn’t sure if she felt she deserved a discount because she was a friend or because she was old, but she’ll get Social Security, which probably won’t exist by the time I retire. She scowled a little, handed me a 10-dollar bill, and looked up the stairs.

“
I have to go up there?”

“
Yes, ma'am, I’m afraid there is no elevator.”

“
Jesus fucking Christ! First you make me pay full price, then you make me climb these stairs. What kind of crappy operation is this?” She began her slow climb, muttering to herself. “Now, where are my tissues?”

We now had more than 20 people in the theater, and I had 300 dollars in my strongbox. I relaxed a little. Two more nights like this, and I’d break even. C.J. came in next with two friends but no flowers. Considering how these two friends felt about me, I was surprised to see the friends; and considering how C.J. felt about me, I was surprised to see no flowers.

“
So, are you excited?” he asked, flashing his crooked grin that sent his lower lip toward his chin. I was so taken by this lopsided smile.

“
Yeah! Here you go!” I handed them their programs. C.J.’s friends begrudgingly handed me their money and headed up the stairs. C.J. looked uncomfortable.

“
Are you OK?” I asked. “You seem nervous.”

“
I am! This is your big debut! Aren’t
you
nervous?”

“
Are you kidding me? I’m freaking out! But it’s gonna be good, so I’m excited, too. I hope you like it.”

I hadn’t shared any of the play with him. He only knew what it was about, nothing more. He’d asked me, on several occasions, to include him in the writing process, but I didn’t allow it. Like the adage, “don’t shit where you eat,” mine was, “don’t create where you copulate.”

“
I was going to bring you flowers,” he said, “but I thought you wouldn’t like to have to carry them around all night.”

He was terribly wrong and even more wrong for saying that. I think it was because
he
didn’t want to carry them around all night. I suppose a boy giving another boy flowers is still somehow awkward in our society, but I love flowers and wished I had some for my opening night.

“
Don’t worry about it. And stop being nervous. It’s out of our hands. Let the actors be nervous.” I sent him upstairs to join his friends.

“
We’re at five!” shouted Lolly from upstairs. “Hi, C.J.!”

I didn’t see her greet my boyfriend, but I knew it was our stage manager.

Finding technical staff was far more difficult than I first thought. Luckily, the four moveable lights in the Red Room reduced our lighting design from a “job” to a “favor,” which Big Rob gladly granted. But I was hard-pressed to find a stage manager, the cornerstone position for any production. My several attempts to bring in an experienced stage manager at a salary of zero brought me no takers. Nor did any friends volunteer, so I recruited a friend of a friend, who had no idea what the job entailed. Thankfully, the flawed idea that a warm body was better than no body would never be tested. Lolly arrived just in time.

One week before the show, as we began technical rehearsals, I was gleefully burning the candle at both ends. My schedule included nine hours at Blah-Blah Big Bank, four hours in rehearsal, and three hours at the bar. I certainly could have cut those days shorter by skipping the bar, but that was actually the most productive part of my day. A great deal of business would happen in those dark-wooden dens. Talking through issues with the show, drumming up an audience, brainstorming future projects, or simply blowing off steam all happened in the magical hours just before and after midnight. But even at 24 years young, this schedule exhausted me.

As the rest of the group made their transition to performers, I recognized I was going to be left in the house without a stage manager. Thankfully, three days before opening, Lolly walked through the door.

“
What the fuck, dudes?” shouted the tall radiant woman in no particular direction. “Let’s make some theater!”

“
Lolly!” I exclaimed, leaping out of my chair.

“
Oh, there you are. I heard you were putting on a show. Let’s make some theater! What do you need?”

Lolly was a good friend of mine from college. A fantastic actress with an offbeat artistic sensibility, she was easily the wildest, most adventurous redhead I knew. She had just moved to the city after spending the last three years in a graduate acting program in the middle of nowhere America.