How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater (22 page)

“Or medication,” she says, frowning.

I switch trains and start the long ride uptown to Lincoln Center. At this point, there's no way I can be on time. I'm doomed. They're going to think I'm a complete fuckup. My hair is greasy and matted, I haven't shaved, I smell of sweat and stale smoke. My only chance of being accepted is if Juilliard wants actors who look like strung-out junkies.

I get lost at Lincoln Center (Why, why, why didn't I plan this ahead of time?) and go dashing around the complex looking for the right entrance, my overcoat flailing behind me in the wind. I finally find it and go banging through the double doors into the lobby of the theater building. The clock on the wall says 10:30.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I see Paula across the lobby. She bounds across the room, waving her arms. “My
God,
what the fuck happened to you last night? I was
petrified.
I thought for sure . . .”

I push past her and head straight to the checkin table, where a woman gives me a look like I'm some street person who wandered in by mistake. “I'm Edward Zanni,” I gasp.

She glances down at her list. “You missed your time.”

“I know . . .”

“You'll have to wait until we can fit you in.”

“That's fine,” I say. “I'm really, really sorry, I . . .”

“Fill out this card and sit down over there,” she says, waving to a group of young actors mumbling their monologues to themselves like patients in an insane asylum.

Paula puts her arm around me and leads me away. “You're going to be
fine,”
she says, opening up her purse. “Let me put some drops in your eyes.” She's just squirted Visine at me when I hear the woman behind the desk shout “Edward Zanni!”

I stumble across the room, half blind like Oedipus.

“We've had another no-show,” she says. “You're next.”

“But I haven't even filled out my . . .”

“Go down that hallway and the monitor will let you know when they're ready for you.” Dazed, my overcoat hanging halfway off my shoulder, I sleepwalk down the hall. This can't be happening. I see a bored-looking student with a clipboard.

“You Walter Mancus?” he says.

“Actually, I'm . . .”

He thrusts the door open. “You're on.”

I can't fucking believe it. After all my hard work, after sacrificing everything, it comes to this. I stagger into a low-ceilinged room with acoustic tile and fluorescent lights. I'd expected a darkened theater; instead I'm facing a firing squad just a few feet away. Sitting in front are a middle-aged man with a magnificent mass of hair that swoops across his head like a crashing wave, an older tweedy-looking guy with a walnut face, and, in the middle, tall and erect as a dowager empress, a woman who appears to have been carved from stone. I don't know who the others are, but I'm certain that the woman is Marian Seldes, the grande dame of the American theater and the Juilliard Drama Division.

“Walter Mancus?” she asks.

“No, I'm Edward Zanni,” I hear myself say in a phlegmy voice. The room is frigid—the heat's probably been off during vacation—and my sweat feels cold and clammy against my skin.

Marian Seldes scowls and shuffles her papers like she's annoyed at me for not being Walter Mancus. The man with the wave of hair folds his arms and sighs. The tweedy old guy smiles a kindly shopkeeper smile and says, “And what have you prepared for us today, Walter?”

“I'm not, uh . . . you see . . .”

The wave man rolls his eyes. “Your monologue? What is it?” he says impatiently.

I flinch and hear myself say, “Haemon from
Antigone.”

Why did I say that? I'm supposed to do “Bottom's Dream.” Take it back. Take it back, Edward, before it's too late.

The wave man gives me a look like, “Well, what are you waiting for?” and I hear myself say, “Father, you must not think that your word and no other must be so. For if any man thinks that he alone is wise . . .”

But I can't remember the next fucking line.

In an instant my face is blazing hot and my crotch gets sweaty. My feet begin to itch and burn so badly I want to bite them off and smack them against my head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Marian Seldes is still shuffling through her papers, the wave man is staring out the window, and the tweedy man just blinks at me through his thick glasses. Think of something, Edward, anything, anything.

“. . . for if any man thinks he alone is wise,” I say swallowing hard, “then that man is totally fucked up.”

Marian Seldes and the wave man both look up.

“Yeah,” I say, “that man is totally fucked in the head. 'Cuz you might think because you're my father you can just roll right over me and tell me what to do, but I am here to tell you, old man, that I am fed up to HERE with taking your shit.”

I feel snot drip out of my nose and I make a horrible hocking noise as I suck it back in. “I'm sick of you judging me, I'm sick of you lording your money over me, I'm sick of . . . sick of . . .”

I feel a churning inside my stomach, like a volcano about to explode and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. I think I'm going to throw up. Or have a heart attack. Or shit my pants.

“I'm sick of not being good enough for you,” I howl. “Why can't you . . . why can't you . . . oh,
God . . .”
I shove my fists against my eyes, trying to push the feelings back inside of me, trying to get a grip on myself and remember something from the goddamned monologue. This isn't acting. This is a nervous breakdown.
Promising Young Actor Goes Mental at Audition, Film at Eleven.

“Why can't you just love me the way I am? Why can't you accept me the way I am?” I scream. My vision clouds over. Everything goes blurry and the room begins to spin. My face crumbles into tiny pieces and I begin to choke on my phlegm. I can't stand being inside myself and I start beating my head with my fists as if it were a punching bag. “I hate you, don't you see? I hate you for what you've done to me, I hate you for how you've made me feel. I hate, hate, haaaaaaaate you, you goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad!”

I stop and cover my face with my hands to stop myself from falling over. My hair hurts again. My kneecaps are going to pop off. And someone please, please tell me that I didn't just say “goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad” at my Juilliard audition. I look up and see the entire panel staring at me, their mouths open and their heads tilted, like I'm some kind of abstract painting they're trying to figure out.

“Which translation of
Antigone
is that, exactly?” Marian Seldes asks.

Say anything, Edward. Any name. Say Ted Lucas. Say Doug Grabowski. Just say something, Edward, and save your goddamned life.

“I dunno,” I say.

Marian Seldes turns to each of the men next to her. “Well,” she says, “I think we've seen all we need to see. Thank you.”

That's it. They're not going to ask to see a second monologue. Why would they? I wouldn't be surprised if they got security to escort me out. My only consolation is perhaps they'll think I was Walter Mancus and they'll never know who I was. I don't say a word, but just turn, my overcoat dragging on the ground, and stagger out of the room. It's over. I've failed. I'm going to live in New Jersey and work at Chicken Lickin' the rest of my life.

I limp zombielike across the lobby of the theater building, where I see Paula waiting for me. I push past her, bang out the double doors, and in full view of her, the people at the desk, and all the other actors, proceed to throw up all over Lincoln Center.

I spend the whole next week in bed.
I don't have any particular ailment, just a sort of generalized frailty, like the consumptive heroine of a nineteenth-century novel. I sleep most of the day, and Kelly and Kathleen kind of tiptoe around me like I'm the cryent they're trying not to disturb. I can tell from the worried looks on their faces that I must be in bad shape. The only plus is that I have an excuse not to fool around with Kelly. There's no way I could handle the pressure.

Paula leaves a number of messages, as does Natie, who finally admits, somewhat apologetically, that he's been accepted to Georgetown early decision. I don't call anyone back but instead spend my few waking hours watching children's television. Mr. Rogers likes me just the way I am.

I rally a bit on my birthday, even though there's still no word from my mom. You'd think she'd at least have sent a card. I try to comfort myself with the thought that maybe she mailed it to Al's house and Dagmar threw it away out of spite, but no matter how I look at the situation, there's no denying that my life sucks. But still, it's my day and I'm determined to wring some joy out of it. The fifth of January always has a bleak, dead-Christmas-tree-by-the-curb kind of atmosphere, not to mention the whole this-is-for-Christmas
-and-
your-birthday thing, but I like the symmetry of being one age for practically the entire year. That way, the year takes on the character of that age, instead of being split awkwardly like if you were born in May or October. It's simpler. The year I was ten: 1976. The year I was fourteen: 1980. The year I'm eighteen, a legal adult at last: 1984.

It's Independence Day.

The morning of my birthday I arise shortly before the crack of noon, and as I stumble out of bed I catch sight of myself in the mirror. What I see surprises me. I haven't shaved in over a week and, since I've inherited Al's lycanthropic genes, I find I've practically grown a full beard.

I'm not sure if it looks any good, but I like it. It makes me feel like a man, even though I'm wearing Kelly's sister's tartan flannel nightgown.

I open my bedroom door to find an envelope lying on the floor. On the outside it says, “For all the years we've missed having you in our home. Love from Kathleen and Kelly.” I open it and see that it's a birthday card for a one-year-old:

Son. I've been adopted. A few steps away lies another card, this one for a two-year-old, followed by a card “For a big boy who's 3,” and, at the top of the stairs, another one that says, “Wow! You're 4!,” and so on through the years and down the stairs and into the kitchen until finally there's a card for an eighteen-year-old on the table. Next to it is a present: Uta Hagen's
Respect for Acting.
I'm going to assume they bought it because it's the best book on acting as opposed to being some kind of comment on my failed audition.

I hope.

The doorbell rings, making the cats scatter. I wander into the entryway, open the front door, and there he is in front of me, wearing a party hat and holding a balloon.

The Buddha.

For the first time in 1984 I laugh out loud.

“Happy Birthday,” a voice says, and I turn to see Doug leaning against the house, a Cheshire cat smile on his lips.

I immediately feel my spirits lift. It may not be a love offering, but it's at least a peace offering, and it means Doug's ready to be friends again. We move the Buddha to a place of honor in the garden and then go out to lunch.

They keep the interior of Mamma's
as dark during the day as they do at night; in some ways it seems even darker because of the bright winter light outside. The large overstuffed banquettes provide a good hiding place for guys with Mob connections and truant high-school students. Doug and I both order chicken scaloppine.

“Youz kids want anything to drink?” the waiter asks, emphasis on the kids. No wine for us, I guess. Maybe once the beard grows all the way in.

“I'll have a Coke,” Doug says.

I click my tongue. “Actually, we'll both have 7Ups.”

“Why?” Doug asks. “I don't even like 7Up.”

“Because you only drink Coke or Pepsi with meat and pork,” I explain quietly, trying not to embarrass him in front of the waiter. “With chicken or fish you drink 7Up or Sprite.”

He still has a lot to learn.

Doug's just starting to fill me in on what's been happening at school when he stops cold and says, “Don't turn around.”

Now it's a funny thing about people telling you not to turn around, because that's precisely the first thing you do when they say it. It's almost an invitation, really, as if they were tempting you to turn into a pillar of salt. So, naturally, like a stupe, I turn and who do I see coming through the door? My evil stepmonster.

Happy fucking birthday.