On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (12 page)

SO FUCKING WHAT

The evening was called
SFW
, which are Stephanie’s initials, but for the purpose of the show, they stood for
So Fucking What
. It was a punk-rock-meets-sexy-piano-girl-in-a-cabaret-setting kind of evening. Stephanie had been working on her album in the Bronx and had a slew of new songs ready to perform.

We booked the cabaret space above Rose’s Turn, a piano bar on Christopher Street in the West Village, and were going to keep it simple—just Stephanie on the piano with Lolly and Bobby singing back-up on a few songs.

We rehearsed in Stephanie’s Bronx apartment, where her boyfriend, Jared, had a recording studio. Several times a week, we took the 1 train to the end of the line, then walked up 240 steps to her building at the top of the hill. I’d met Jared a few times. One-hundred-percent rapper, he used street language and had a street attitude. Their apartment décor consisted of expensive leather couches, half-burnt blunts, an aggressive pit-bull, and enough electronic equipment to launch the space shuttle. Walking into their world was like walking into a movie.

“
Sometimes, his friends will come over to help us record, and I’ll have to tell them to leave their guns in the kitchen,” Stephanie told us one day. “I don’t sing as well when there are guns in the studio. I can’t relax or something.”

The idea that someone could, at any moment, enter the apartment with a gun simultaneously thrilled and terrified me.

The show sounded great, and Jared decided to arrange a live recording, which I foolishly green-lighted. He pulled me out of rehearsal one evening to discuss it.

“
So Randy,” he began. “I’m gonna need some cash to get some things for this recording.”

“
What do you mean? I thought you already had all the equipment.”

The more I produced, the more I got used to people asking for money. It’s part of the job. But this was the first time someone without a budget had asked me for money—not to mention someone who was probably packing heat.

“
I ain’t hauling it all down there. Shit’s too big. I have to get me some portable…” Everything I hear after this is blah-blah-blah-technical-technical-blah-blah.

“
I don’t know what to tell you. I wasn’t anticipating any recording costs. We’ve got a $300 budget for this show, and we already spent that on the space and postcards.”

“
Well, you’re gonna have to find me some money because I need cable and…blah-blah-technical-technical-blah-blah.”

Still very calm, he was inching closer to me, and while he wasn’t as tall as I, he was much wider and, gun or not, I was certain he could fuck my shit up pretty quick.

“
Look,” I said. “If you can’t record the show, you can’t record it. I don’t have any more money to spend on this project.”

Jared backed up, looked away for a moment, and then stepped in even closer.

“
Listen up, Randy. Stephanie really wants me to record the show. I’m donatin’ my time and my expertise to this show. And now you’re expectin’ me to give my money, too? That’s fucked up.”

It might have been my overactive imagination, but I thought I heard the dog in the other room sharpening his teeth against the floorboards.

“
Jared, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m producing the show, not the recording. That’s your department. If you can’t get all the equipment you need down there, I guess you can’t record the show.”

“
Is that the way it’s going to be?” he asked.

I paused. And then, I pulled the courage that hides behind my bellybutton up through my throat.

“
No, that’s the way it is, and the way it’s always been. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to rehearsal.”

I turned my back and left the room, imagining I could hear the sound of a gun hammer being pulled back. That was the last time Jared and I spoke about money.

Really finding my stride as a producer, I was organized, efficient, and unemotional—three essential characteristics for the job.

Unfortunately, these are not the most ideal characteristics for a relationship.

One night after rehearsal, I headed down to C.J.’s place for take-out and some desperately needed sleep.

“
Randy, I want to talk to you,” he said, as we sat cross-legged on his living room floor, laying out our Indian food.

“
OK, let’s talk!” I dipped my naan into curry sauce.

“
I need us to be more involved in each other’s lives.” My spine straightened as I realized the nature of the talk. “I mean, I was at G last night, and everyone was asking me where you were. I had to tell them you were at home. Sleeping!”

“
I was tired. I didn’t feel like going out. Besides, I hate G.” Pretentious boy bars are not my thing.

“
Well, that’s where my friends like to go,” C.J. replied defensively.

“
It’s pretentious, C.J.!”

“
I know, but Randy, we’re 24, and you’re going to sleep at 9 o’clock on a Saturday night,” he said, as if it were a crime.

“
I’m sorry, but I was tired. I’ve been working on this show for the past two weeks—which means I go to sleep at two and wake up at seven. Saturday is my night off. I’m tired, so I sleep.”

I didn’t understand why he was getting so bent out of shape when I just didn’t want to go drinking that night. Even I gave my liver a break every now and then.

“
You’re always working on shows.”

“
Well, that’s what I like to do.”

“
You’re taking this wrong. This isn’t… what I’m trying to communicate to you is…that I need more access to you. You need to let me in more.”

“
What do you mean? I don’t know what you mean.” I studied his body language for signs of distancing, which I could detect in every appendage.

“
I mean, you’re not letting me into your life. I need someone who understands me. I mean…”

His head dropped down, almost as if he were looking for clarity in the saag panir.

“
I mean, you spend all this time with your theater company, which is great, and I’m bragging to all my friends about what you’re doing, but when I bring them to the shows…”

He paused. I knew what he was about to say. While he’s never said it, I’ve always suspected.

“
They’re not good. Your shows are bad… and it’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed to bring my friends to your shows.”

I’d always felt he was less than impressed with my work, but embarrassed? That felt too harsh. While I didn’t care what his friends thought of me,
he
did. Of course, he cared. They were his friends. The conversation continued, but I was no longer present. My walls were already 10 feet high and three feet thick. He talked about my unwillingness to bring him into my creative process and his desire to participate more in the “Chelsea scene,” even though he’d tell me he didn’t like it. Communication, openness, his need to be understood—all were put on the table, all the typical relationship issues that, at this point in my life, didn’t really interest me. I made a good show of listening and responding, but I couldn’t get beyond the fact that my plays embarrassed him. I took great offence to that. And the fucker didn’t even have the decency to bring me flowers.

“
Well, I guess that’s it then,” I said as I stood up.

“
What’s
it
?” C.J. replied, following me up.

“
I guess we’re done.” I stepped over the food on the floor, took a garbage bag from the kitchen, and headed to the bedroom.

“
What are you doing?” asked C.J., following me.

“
I’m getting my stuff and going home. I don’t want to be an embarrassment to you.” I filled the bag with socks and underwear.

“
That’s not what I meant, Randy, and you know it. I didn’t… You’re not an embarrassment. Come on, let’s talk about this.”

“
I don’t think there’s anything else to talk about. You’ve pretty much said it all.” I was surprised at the amount of clothing I had transported to his apartment.

“
So you’re going to leave. Just like that?”

“
Yes.”

I was amazingly calm. It was as if we were engaged in a business transaction. And despite his lame protestations to the contrary, I knew this was what he wanted.

“
It’s clear this is not working. Good-bye, C.J.”

I opened the door. He stepped in to give me a hug, and I let the bag fall to the floor and embraced him. It was neat and clean and devoid of feelings.

“
Can I still come to the show next week?”

“
Of course, you can. And bring some friends. Stephanie’s good. You won’t be embarrassed.”

I turned around, walked down the hall of his building, and stepped out onto the street. I’m sure this scene plays out hundreds of times a week in New York City. A man or woman, holding a bag of belongings, steps out onto the street fresh from a breakup. I paused on the West Village stoop and contemplated the unoriginality of my situation—and how strange and original it felt to me. I dragged the garbage bag to Eighth Avenue and hailed a cab.

When I got home, Lolly and Bobby were watching a movie. I announced C.J. and I had broken up, and they immediately jumped from the sofa and followed me into my bedroom, where I began unpacking my Hefty bag. They drilled me with a million questions and offered words of comfort, most of which I didn’t want. As far as I was concerned, the less fuss, the better. We had shows to work on, flyers to make, and grant proposals to write. It seemed a terrible waste of energy to wax on about the end of my 11-month relationship. I did what I was best at: suppress and press on.

On the night of the show, I arrived at Rose’s Turn early. We were the first act, and I wanted to set up the stage. Our contract had strictly forbidden any kind of set—only the piano and mike stands were allowed. So, when I told the manager I wanted to get in a half-hour early, she looked at me suspiciously. I finally convinced her I wasn’t going to break any rules and got into the space to…well…break the rules by hanging some paintings. We wanted to create a comfortable feeling on stage, so we took some of Stephanie’s personal paintings and hung them from the grid with fishing line. The effect was magical—floating paintings around a baby grand.

The bartender arrived and began setting up. I ordered a Corona and hovered around, looking for anyone who needed help. Lolly and Bobby were going over their music in the dressing room. When Stephanie and Jared showed up, I polished off my Corona and went out to help them load in the recording equipment.

Jared, wanting nothing to do with me, had recruited a friend to help him, so I followed Stephanie back into the theater. I bought another Corona on my way past the bar and joined the crew in the dressing room, which was too small for four people. So, I went back out into the house and saw our technician. Eager to have something to do, I immediately went over the light cues with him. Since there were only three cues repeated over and over, this took only five minutes. We still had more than a half-hour before people would start arriving, and I was listless. I ordered another Corona and sat in the back of the audience watching Jared and his friend construct their recording table.

I was terribly nervous about this show and wanted desperately to be doing something. Yet I had no reason to be so antsy. I wasn’t performing, we had plenty of reservations, and we were sure to make back our tiny investment. But still, my stomach fluttered like mad. I finished my beer and headed out to the street for a cigarette.

The sun had gone down, and the city was cast in twilight. The West Village streets were beginning to fill with people looking at dinner menus and meeting friends in front of bars. I walked to the corner of Seventh Avenue and looked down to the Actor’s Playhouse, the site of my New York debut. Looking north, I could see the apartment C.J. lived in when I first met him. He had since moved to a quieter West Village street, away from the nightlife and his roommate. And then I realized why I was so nervous. I lit a fresh cigarette with the butt of the one I just smoked and walked back to the entrance of Rose’s Turn.

The manager was outside smoking a cigarette and I joined her. “You expecting a big house?” she asked

“
About 40 people…which means 30 will show up.”

“
Thirty’s pretty good,” she said. “We can open the house whenever you want.”

“
Let’s do it.”

I stamped out my butt in the sand-filled bucket and headed upstairs. I got another beer on my way backstage and stepped over a nest of cables Jared had created on stage left.

“
Are you gonna move those?” I asked, not breaking my stride.

“
To the side a little,” Jared replied without looking up. “We got no place else to put them.”

“
As long as nobody can trip on them.” I poked my head into the dressing room. “We’re opening the house, gang. Break a leg!”

Stephanie, Bobby, and Lolly were laughing and singing. They all looked pretty relaxed. Stephanie seemed a little jumpy, but she’d calm down after the first song. The house music came on—which was actually House music, thanks to Jared—and I stood by the door to greet guests as they entered. I’d been talking up Stephanie for months, so a lot of my friends were curious to see what all the fuss was about. Since I knew almost everyone, the greetings part was easy.