My Days on Stage

When I was a child, one of the surest indications that someone was an adult was if he or she smiled back at you when you made eye contact with them.  Those my own age either just kept staring blankly at you or looked away nervously.  Adults, however, tended to catch your gaze and project a warm smile.  Of course my young concept of adulthood was a nebulously defined stage in life in which you knew more than I did but weren’t yet an old person.  Old people did not smile; they scowled.  Unless they were my grandparents, who did smile back and let me eat more dessert than my parents (they specialized in pies)

The smiling epiphany came to me as I sat waiting in a room full of children who were all auditioning for various plays (or was it for television this time?).  I was walking through a bright green hallway in search of either a water fountain (I had to sing for the audition) or a bathroom (I had to pee from all the water I was drinking).  As I headed back to the waiting room, the door whose handle I was about to push opened before me, and an improbably tall blonde woman (everyone was improbably tall) peered down at me and smiled as she walked the opposite way.

That’s what grown up people do when they see children, I thought for the first time, and would continue thinking for the remaining years of elementary school.  Thinking back, she was probably only in her teens.

I am not certain as to how my mother knew of and got me to these various auditions.  I remember the stakes seeming somewhat higher after my first audition, which took place in a brightly lit multi-purpose room somewhere in Windsor, Connecticut.  It was, all in all, an enjoyable experience.  I was auditioning for the part of Jerome in South Pacific.  To a first or second grader (I cannot recall exactly how old I was), the empty room with its very high ceilings and linoleum floors seemed huge.  The only things in the room were the brown upright piano, and the folding table behind which sat three grown ups, one of whom had a mustache and glasses.

I remember being amazed that the piano player could play the music for the song I had brought without ever having practiced it.  I had just been a chorus member for the Roaring Brook Elementary School’s production of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown earlier in the year, and while singing the title song, I couldn’t help but be amazed that the stranger behind the keys was producing a near exact rendition of the tempo and dynamics that I had heard for many rehearsals and a performance in the school’s cafeteria.

During the audition, I marched in circles as I sang, in the same manner as I had done for the school performance, which didn’t seem to offend the casting crew.  And when they laughed at the end and applauded, I beamed, and rushed off to tell my mother and father how it went.

I ended up getting the part.  My least favorite aspect of the role was that I had to appear shirtless, wearing only what I perceived to be a skirt.  My favorite aspect of the role was that during the live performances, in the final scene, in which Emile walks triumphantly onto stage, the soup that I was sipping was actually root beer.

The cast parties mid-week facilitated half-days at my elementary school, as my parents allowed me to sleep-in.  There would be quite the reversal in attitude following high school chorus concerts, to my teenaged bewilderment.

As noted, this role in South Pacific did inspire a new round of auditions in significantly more sophisticated venues.  And the waiting room where the teenage adult smiled at the elementary school version of me was, for a brief while, a trend.

In these settings, there always seemed to be a sea of children and parents preparing themselves for their test performance, and then long expanses of empty corridors.  Lines being recited, notes being sung, a maternal reminder to strike the pose they had been practicing earlier that day at the end of the song.  And then an echoing silence walking down the hall, either to the bathroom or to a studio or a room where I would sing.

One particular audition comes to mind, if only because I have no idea why I was auditioning for it.  I don’t recall it interesting me all that much, but the idea of being able to travel overseas (to Russia, was it?) to perform was enough of a draw, either to myself or to my mother.

I think it was in West Hartford, in one of the high schools, but I have little evidence to back up that feeling.  It was on the second floor of the building, where I was called into a room that was oddly shaped (the wall was curved) and somewhat dark (the shades were drawn).  Unlike my audition for South Pacific, I do not recall any details of who was in charge of casting.  What I do recall was being caught unawares that there was to be a dance component to this audition.  I had never danced before, short of sock-footed jump-around romps in the family room to a video of Raffi.  This was uncharted territory.

I answered honestly, and not without shame that I had never danced on stage before, in a group or solo performance.  When asked if I would dance for them (the anonymous, faceless individuals conducting this audition), I said yes.

They asked me if I had brought a song along to which I would dance.  Given that I was not expecting to have to dance in the first place, I did not.

They then asked what I might like to dance to, then.  What kind of music did I listen to at home?

“The Beach Boys,” I responded.

I imagine that they nodded, or looked at each other, conferred with their eyes that this was a no-go, and then turned back to smile at me.

I asked them if they had “Kokomo,” on cassette tape.  They did not have the particular song, but they did have a Beach Boys tape on hand.  There were several clicks on the cassette player (opening the tape deck, closing it, pushing the play button), and then the music came on.

My suspicion is that things went horribly.  I can vaguely see myself waving my arms slowly, contorting in a way that I thought might please the adults watching.  I cringe a little bit looking back, much like one might when at a magic show where none of the magician’s tricks go as planned.  I was not called back, and would, as a result, not end up dancing or performing in Russia, or wherever it was that this particular company was heading.

Musical performances would thus remain out of the picture until summer theatre after I graduated from the eighth grade, where I played Rooster Hannigan in Annie, and watched on tragically as my friend who played Daddy Warbucks tried without success to court the girl who played Grace Farrell, who, I should note, sang quite well and, owing to a history of gymnastics, revealed herself to be quite flexible at one of the cast parties to the gawking amazement of almost every boy there.

While still in grade school, however, I did manage to appear on stage as Augustus Gloop for a small theater company in New Britain, Connecticut.  I was likely the darkest, least Germanic boy ever the play the part in the history of any production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Certain details stick out more than the actual production process.  The chocolate river into which I fell was a bunch of sheets, painted brown and stitched together, shaken by the tech crew on either side of the stage.  And, I suppose it should be admitted that I did not so much fall as gingerly step over the shaking sheets, at which point I had to lie down on my back on a skateboard, which was attached to a rope.  I would kick and flail and scream as someone offstage pulled me towards the edge of the set closest to exit and to the concession stand, where I would with my father’s money, purchase Airheads after most rehearsals.

The strangest part of the production was the fact that, instead of singing, the oompa loompas rapped.

The young woman who played my mother began playing around with a German accent halfway through our series of rehearsals which I found gravely disorienting.  She announced either to me or the group that she was trying it out, and it made me nervous.  I asked her and the director if that meant that I should put on an accent, too.  They said that I did not need to, which was a great relief, if only because I had no idea how to alter my voice at that point in my life, unless, of course, it was to sing.

On the last run of the show, the young woman who played my mother was quite sick; I don’t recall if we had an understudy.  We made it through both acts, if in fact there were two.  After I got whisked away on the tethered skateboard for the last time, however, and she made her final protest to Willy Wonka that something had to be done to save my life, the two of us were backstage with the stage manager, discussing the fact that she was truly not feeling well, and had to leave.

The stage manager was quite understanding, which, given how sharp-tongued and short-tempered she had been at certain times throughout the production, surprised me.

And so the young woman who played my mother, turned to me, in tears that she had to abandon me on this final performance.  She asked if I would be comfortable bowing alone; she said that she hated to leave me like this, but she simply couldn’t take it, whatever it was.

My biggest concern was that I had historically just followed her onto stage to bow.  I did not have a working knowledge of who had preceded us.  I expressed as much to her, not sure if I was supposed to be crying with her.  She assured me that the stage manager, who was still present, would wave at me from across the stage when it was my turn to bow; the stage manager indicated that this was true.

In that case, I said, it should be okay.  “Feel better,” I said.

She was on her knees, so as to be speaking at the same height as me.  Or if not at the same height, then at least not towering over me.  She was still teary, smiling, and I asked her to say my name, Augustus Gloop, one more time in her German accent, since I wouldn’t be hearing it again if she was leaving.

She did so, and hugged me before she left, putting on a coat that I vaguely recall as being too big for her.

I loitered quietly backstage with the oompa loompas until the end of the show (one of them was drawing a cartoon rat), and then waited for the stage manager’s cue.

Again, an Accident

Ding, Ding.  Ding, ding.

At one point, there had been a bus station that ran through Middlebury, Vermont.  Due to lack of demand, however, service was terminated by the time I was a senior in College, and Burlington or Rutland, an hour north or south, respectively, became the closest places to retrieve visiting friends.

To use the word station, however, is to give the reader an inflated idea of what greeted weary travelers as they stepped off the bus.  It was more accurately a stop, not a station, that happened to be located on Route 7 at the Mobil gas station right before the gnarly roundabout that so often confuses out-of-towners, sending them into slow moving, oncoming traffic, to the sighing disappointment of locals who condescendingly wave them along.  That particular gas station seemed to be a hotspot for cross-marketing; after bus service there ceased, Dunkin Donuts was stapled onto the side of the adjoining convenience store.

At the time, the gas station was full service (and might still be), and rubber tubes ran along the ground at right angles to the pumps, triggering a bell each time a car drove over them to alert the attendant on duty.

Ding, ding.  Ding, ding.

She was taking the bus home to Connecticut.  I had driven her to Vermont, and she was to get herself home.  Such were the conditions behind her visiting me.  And that I had driven from Vermont to pick her up in Connecticut was to remain a secret among our high school friends.

*

It would be difficult to provide an exact date of our breakup.  After one fight in June or July after we had graduated from high school (boys wearing blue, girls wearing white), she made it known, on the couch where we so frequently had sex with the television on, that she did not intend to stay with me after we went off to college.  Upon receiving the news, I got quiet, and thought about pretending to cry.

Despite the announcement, we remained together until I dropped her off at her house the night before she left for college.  It had been a scheduling challenge to see her much during the week prior to her departure.  I had friends visiting from Spain, and entertaining took up a good part of my time.

I did let the trans-Atlantic visitors know that I needed at least a little bit with her that night.  They had little problem with it, and she had done her best to let me know that she wouldn’t have much time, anyway.  She still had packing to do, wanted to spend some time with her parents.  I picked her up.  We drove down the street.  We parked in the McDonald’s parking lot, turned off the car, and sat silently.

“Don’t,” she said, as I sniffled.  So I didn’t.

Instead, we talked about how we’d miss each other, how we’d keep in touch.  We made reference to my penis, and she sang a song from Winnie the Pooh.  Eventually, it was known that I should drive her back.

It was the first time since my driver’s test that I drove the speed limit.  Then we were at her house.  There was a kiss, maybe a promise, and she got out of the car.  The headlights shined on her, eyes angled towards the ground.  She was walking quickly, and I think I remember a hand over her mouth, but I cannot be sure.  The bridge of my nose and my hands, all wet, slid back and forth across the steering wheel as my diaphragm convulsed.

I drove home, eyes clear by the first traffic light.

My friends from Spain hugged me before they said a word.

*

College began.  She and I spoke on occasion, mainly thanks to the wonders of an internet connection.  I did call her once, in tears, after seeing a movie that had nothing to do with love, and in fact had little to recommend it at all.  She consoled me, but did not indulge my implicit request that she tell me that she missed me.

It was revealed during one of our conversations that she did miss certain things about us, though.  In fact, one time, she made it a point to inquire if I knew what she missed the most about being in a relationship.  I asked her what it was, if it was the trips we took to Boston or something more general, such as knowing someone as well as we did or something along those lines.

“A good fuck,” was her answer.

I saw her over Thanksgiving break at a friend’s place for the first time since August.  I was wearing a green short sleeve shirt amid the dropping temperatures, to prove that months in Vermont had hardened me.  We shared our stories about college, all of us eager to hear what life was like beyond the confines of our suburban upbringing, all of us secretly trying to one-up the others on who was having the most fun, getting the most out of their time away.

And then again, over winter break, we were all in the same friend’s basement, laughing, drinking and playing Jenga.  Angered at losing, or for no other reason than the alcohol, she flung one of the wooden pieces at the hostess’s forehead.  The alcohol also influenced her to drive home, which, to all other members present, even in a state of juvenile buzz, was somewhat alarming.

I stood behind her car as a deterrent while others pleaded that she wait until morning.  She put the car into reverse.  I stood, arms spread out, watching the rear bumper inch closer to me, her headlights shining on my other friends who had given up and watched in miffed disappointment.

In this game of chicken, I lost.  She drove off, and was scolded by the hostess in short order, who made a call from the kitchen.  We stood under the bright fluorescent as our heads cleared and the hostess’s parents awoke amid the flurry of activity.

*

“It’s totally a booty call,” said an attractive resident of my dorm who was rumored to be from Fiji.  “Even if neither of you know it.”  I felt the need to disagree, to feign innocence, to cover up how much I hoped that that statement had merit.

A group of us were sprawled about on the various pieces of furniture in the lounge on the not-quite-a-basement-not-quite-a-first-floor of our freshman dorm, discussing weekend plans, and I revealed that my ex-girlfriend was coming to see me for the weekend.  I withheld from the record that I was to retrieve her from Connecticut, for some reason feeling the need to withhold that fact not only from my high school friends, but from my college ones as well.

So I rose early on a Thursday to commit the entire day to driving.  As I entered my hometown, I was on the lookout both for high school friends who were under the impression that my ex was taking the bus up to see me, and, more importantly, for my mother, who I truly feared crossing.  Were she to see me driving around town while I was supposed to be four hours north studying, the measures that she might have taken to repair the security breach could well have been without bound.  My mother’s office was located on the main road off of which my ex lived.  So, until I made a left turn at the video store, I was nervous.

I picked her up; we might have hugged as a greeting, but this would surprise me.  She got in the car, and somehow, four hours passed without incident.

“Okay, don’t go above seventy, please, that’s all,” she said as soon as I had made it onto I-91 North.  We must have talked about something, since I don’t know myself to stay silent over the course of four hours, but who’s to say what we discussed.

Immediately, among my college friends, she was an abrasive presence; there was discussion on Judaism which riled up one of them, and a sloppy judgment that a Sprite shouldn’t be wasted on a sober person which offended another.  Among them, she quickly earned the nickname the Ice Queen, which wasn’t revealed to me until long after she had taken the bus back to Connecticut.

As it was, I struggled to please.  I didn’t want my new friends to take offense at this girl who I had quietly accepted as somewhat racist, and more than somewhat anti-Semitic; on the other hand, I wanted my ex to regard me highly, whatever that meant.

“God, do you know everyone?” was the closest she came to complimenting me all weekend.  I took it.

The offending Sprite conversation happened on a Friday evening.  I managed to smooth things over with the receiving friend, explaining that when she got this way that she did not mean them, and, quite probably did not remember them (I recounted the tale of the hurled Jenga piece to him).

Details are hazy.  I was in the dorm room next to mine.  Sprite was one of many mixers.  Vodka, I believe, was the base, but I could be wrong; knowing who inhabited this particular room though, and our future sophomore history together, it was likely vodka.

No freshman can explain how he or she knows where there is to be dancing on campus.  It is one of those beautifully messy things that is somehow known, and revealed during the course of taking shots behind closed doors.  Predictions are of course made as to how shitty the free beer is going to taste, which often inspires another round of shots.  In short order, the vodka has gone from bottle to numerous bodies, swimming around and inspiring all to dance.

And there would be dancing.  But before there could be dancing, she demanded a cigarette, which she knew I had.  She had also assumed that, since I was in Vermont, I smoked marijuana, which was not yet true.  I did, however, know where to ask and would do so the next evening.

The closest place to smoke was the loading dock outside the dorm, which is where we found ourselves.  I gave her a cigarette from a pack and took one myself.  We lit, exhilarated by the January chill, and inhaled, feeling the joyous mixing of substance abuse taking over our bodies and then our minds.  We smoked, elated at the unseen rebellion we were launching against our parents.  I moved toward her.

“Don’t,” she said.  But I did.

I’m not certain we had even finished our cigarettes, but we soon fell into a pattern of me pinning her against the cement wall of the loading dock, of her pushing me away, of her grabbing me and pulling me closer again, of me pushing my pelvis into hers, of the pushing away, the pulling in, over and over, until somehow we were back inside for more to drink, and then outside for more to smoke, and then down the hill to dance at the accurately rumored party hosted by upper classmen that freshman somehow knew about.

At the dance, we teetered about exclusively attached to one another.  The buzz fluctuated, enhanced by the mathematical probability that my night would likely end in close proximity to genitals not my own, and inhibited by the fact that I knew my college friends had accompanied me to this basement that smelled like beer and sounded like amplified base and that they were watching with great interest.

She would kiss me and then push me away, only to find that I had hooked my fingers around the belt loops of her purple pants, and would not without a fight let go; through some miracle she acknowledged this and would return to kissing me, our mouths sometimes finding one another, as we woozily tried to find the beat.

Then, per the prediction of the fellow resident of my freshman dorm, there was an incident involving me, my ex-girlfriend, and unprotected sex.

*

Ding, ding.  Ding, ding.

“Don’t,” she said, as we waited at the bus stop.

“Sorry,” I said, sniffling.  “Can’t help it,” I said.

“Just don’t.  I won’t want to come visit you again if this is what happens.”  She said it as though there were a chance that she would be back.  It seemed an unlikely prospect, but regardless, I stopped.  I apologized again.

We stood there, shivering, trying to make the good-bye tender.  A bus appeared, and she got on, bound for Hartford, Connecticut.  I watched her move towards the back, not looking towards me.  I watched the bus’s door close, listened to its engine hiss to life, and then lingered in place as it modestly made its way south.  I waved to the tinted windows, hoping that she might see.

She would write me later that week, apologizing for being such a bitch, telling me that she had enjoyed her time up north.  She chose not to reveal that earlier that fall and repeatedly since, someone named Joe had entered her and her life in a manner similar to the weekend that had just transpired.

But before I could learn about him, before anything else, in fact, I returned to my dorm room, where I found myself alone.  Where hours before she had slept beside me, and where with great abandon I did what both at the bus station and outside her house the August prior she had told me not to do.