Confessions of a Transylvanian (23 page)

Well I sure as hell could
n’
t. So instead I mumbled: “I just...thought it sounded...you know...” and this was barely audible, “kinda...cool.” The carpet, I should mention, was really fascinating at that moment. I could
n’
t tear my eyes away. It was really something else.

Mom let the moment sit for what seemed like a week or so before responding. “So
‘
Jac
k’
is cool. And
‘
Kevi
n’
is not.” She pondered this for another minute or so and then said: “All right. I think w
e’
re clear. Tha
t’
s all I needed to know.”

She walked away. And that was that.

My relief was inexpressible. I really could
n’
t believe it. No screaming, no accusations, no confining me to my room. Nothing. She asked me a straight-up question, I gave her a semi-straight-up answer and our business was concluded.

I walked away thinking that I truly did have the coolest mom on the planet.

That weekend, I learned the truth.

“Hey, your mo
m’
s really funny,” said Steve when I saw him Friday night.

“My Mom?” I answered. “You talked…to my Mom?”

“Yeah. I called your house on Wednesday but you were
n’
t there. Your mother said you were...” and he burst into laughter.

“What?” I was on the verge of panic. What did she say?

“She said...” another paroxysm of laughter. “She said you were in the backyard hanging up the sheets because you wet the bed the night before.”

Standing nearby, Tracey caught what Steve had said and about fell down laughing.

“Oh man, tha
t’
s great!” she cried between hoots of laughter. “Did she really say that?”

“She did!” Steve happily confirmed. They were loving this, the both of them. “Sh
e’
s a riot!”

And tha
t’
s the way it was from then on. My mother never got mad at me, never asked me to correct my friends or request that they ask for “Kevin” when they called the house. Not once, not ever.

But if she was home and the phone rang and the person on the other end of the line asked for Jack?

Well, Jack was never able to come to the phone. No,
I’
m sorry. Not at the moment.

So what was “Jack” doing? All sorts of things, I learned.

He was changing his own diaper.

He was taking a long, painful dump in the can.

He was trying to capture his own farts in a bag to set them on fire.

Jack was always just a little too busy doing something absolutely, horrifyingly humiliating and could never be bothered to come to the phone. And, for as long as people called the house and asked for him, Jack would never be available to talk. Not if my mother picked up the receiver. Not
ever
.

Kevin? Sure. H
e’
s right here.

Jack? Oh,
I’
m terribly sorry.

H
e’
s got his finger stuck up his ass and ca
n’
t make it to the phone right now.

Can I take a message?

10

All the Pieces Seemed to Fit Into Place

D
onny, it seemed, had had enough. And none of us was really surprised when he finally announced he was finished.

Not with the cast, of course. He was
n’
t actually going anywhere. But running the whole show? Oh boy was he done.

To be honest, Donny never really looked all that comfortable in the role of overseer. He had a natural authority, sure, but there was something about being the Big Kahuna that did
n’
t suit him. I guess when yo
u’
re a rebel, you want to be the one rebelling, not the one in charge.

So that Saturday night, only twenty-four hours after offering me Dr. Scott, Donny announced that he would be retiring as cast manager. He was straightforward about it, as he was about everything, and made it clear that there would be no changing his mind. In terms of naming a successor, he remained mute. It would be up to us.

The baffled cast looked around the room in bewilderment. No one seemed to really want the job. Certainly, Donny left big shoes to fill and not just in the literal sense. We loved Donny and he loved us. Who wants to follow a beloved leader and be judged by the light of his reflected glory? Not too damn many.

But a contender soon emerged: Tony.

Like Donny, Tony brought a certain authoritative charm. We respected him and knew he possessed an iron spirit. He would be tough but, we presumed, fair. And once it appeared that he would not kick up a fuss if he was drafted, he was in. By unanimous consent, Tony was the new cast manager.

We cheered the swift rise of our newly anointed Fearless Leader. Ton
y’
s glorious tenure would surely be remembered forever.

Because it lasted exactly one night.

The following weekend, the first and only Friday of his reign, Tony stood up to run his first cast meeting. And within minutes, all hell broke loose.

It seemed that Tony was a little fed up with the whole loosey-goosey attitude that had been predominant in the Donny era, particularly when it came to enforcing
rules
. People showing up late had been tolerated. People showing up
stoned
had been tolerated. People ducking out to their cars to get laid during the show had not only been tolerated, but was actually
encouraged
. (It was rumored to “improve morale,” or something.)

Well, Tony made it clear right away that the
laissez-faire
attitude of the former regime was now over. The iron fist was swiftly descending. There would be, under the new management, an equally new set of rules to be imposed, starting immediately. The new sheriff was flexing his muscles and he were
n’
t gonna put up with no shenanigans.

Following this brief introduction, Tony started running through the list of policies and procedures to be enforced and by the time h
e’
d gotten to...oh,
I’
d say number three or so, Andrea was on her feet.

“Just what in the living fuck do you think yo
u’
re doing?” Her strong, commanding voice rang out and effectively silenced the room.

Tony was not amused. He looked up from his checklist with a cocked eyebrow and said, “Sit down, Andy. You do not have the floor.”

Her eyes practically bugged out. “I do
n’
t have the
what
? Did you just say I do
n’
t have the fucking
floor
?
Seriously
?”

Tony lowered the clipboard and appraised this challenge to his authority. He was clearly in danger of losing control of a meeting he had barely begun. “Look, when
I’
m finished, yo
u’
ll be welcome to express your opinion...”

“Oh,
really
?” Her contempt now permeated the room like a fog. “And what if I
do
n’
t
wait until yo
u’
re done? What if I just tell you what my opinion is
right motherfucking now
? What are you going to do then? Huh? Tell me. What are you
going to do
?”

It was at this moment that I learned a little something about authority. Here it is: When you are a leader, you possess
exactly
as much authority over a group of people as they have chosen to
give to you
. If a clear majority of that group of people decides to
withdraw
that authority, lemme tell you buddy, yo
u’
re shit out of luck. Respect cannot be taken forcibly. It must be earned.

Tony had, unfortunately, attempted to take—nay
command
—respect and this tactic was now backfiring horribly.

So what did he do in the face of this unexpected rebellion? What choice did he make to quell the mutiny?

Tony decided to double down.

He squared his shoulders, looked Andrea dead in the eye, gave his voice a dangerous-sounding growl and said: “I do
n’
t answer to you, Andrea, goddamn it. You answer to
me
. Now. Sit. Down.”

It was an interesting approach. Suicidal, but interesting.

You see, in attempting to try to assert his absolute power as Emperor (and decimate the Rebel forces), Tony was now performing the argumentative equivalent of pouring gasoline on a fire. He was not, in other words, making things any better.

Andrea, to no on
e’
s surprise, hit the ceiling.

“What did you say to me, you fucki
n’
cocksucker?” she bellowed at him. It must have blown his hair back, it was so explosive. “Did you just tell me to
sit down
, you fucking arrogant piece of shit?”

Perhaps sensing that this was
n’
t going well, Tony softened his tone. “Andrea, now wait a minute...”

But Andrea smelled weakness and she pressed her advantage. “
Wait a minute
, huh? Just how many of your orders am I supposed to obey tonight? You gonna run my life? You gonna be my mommy now, is that it? Is that what you want? To be my fucking mother? You gonna tell me how to
wipe my ass
, Tony? Are you?”

Tony had finally had about enough. “I do
n’
t have to put up with this shit from you, Andrea! You think I wanted this job, huh?
I’
m doing you a fucking favor runni
n’
this show.
I’
m doing
all
of you a favor.”

“You want to do me a favor?” Andrea shot back. “Then go
fuck
yourself. That would do me a
big
favor.”

“Tha
t’
s it,” Tony announced. He took his clipboard with his shiny new rules attached and flung it to the ground. “
I’
m done with all this bullshit. You can run it yourself, Andrea. Go ahead. I
t’
s all yours.”

And he walked out. Tom, to no on
e’
s surprise, was close behind and looked just about as pissed as Tony was.

Andrea hollered after him, “Fine! Take a walk! See if I care. Just do
n’
t tell me when to show up to my own fucking show, Tony! You
asshole
!”

But he was already gone. The reign of terror was over. The Death Star had exploded. And the Ewoks danced.

Following the short and volatile rule of Tony the First, two things of great significance occurred:

1. Russ was swiftly and unanimously elected cast manager.

2. Tony and Andrea started dating the following week.

Now come on. You had to see
that
coming.

All due respect to Donny and all that, but it must be said: Russ was the greatest cast manager any of us had ever seen. He was, put simply,
perfect
for the job.

Personable. Organized. Impossible to bullshit. Crafty. Charismatic. Tough. Whatever quality you wanted in a Team Leader, Russ had it in spades.

Russ was the motivator, the showman, the man behind the curtain pulling all the strings. He made things happen and, when properly motivated, had the ability to charm the pants off of anyone (a talent he employed as often as possible). Better than that, he was approachable. Where Donny, through no fault of his own, had been intimidating simply due to his imposing physical presence, Russ was a walking welcome wagon. His entire persona seemed to say, “Wha
t’
s on your mind?” Russ was always open for a talk or a smoke or a hard-luck story and he had a smile, a sympathetic ear and a hearty handshake for anyone and everyone.

Not that he did
n’
t have his faults. He did. But even his faults were endearing.

For example, of all the people I have ever known, Russ was the most literal. He brooked no sarcasm and had little truck with subtext or obliqueness. Russ said what he meant and, by God, he meant what he said. And he expected the same from you.

Generally speaking, this trait of taking
everything
at face value was
n’
t much of a problem once you got used to it, but it did prove at times to be an impediment in my exchanges with him. This was due,
I’
m quite sure, to my deeply entrenched and utterly addictive sarcastic streak.

For instance: Russ was concerned about cast finances one day and announced, to no one in particular, “W
e’
ve got to figure out a way to come up with more money.”

And smartass me said, “Hey,
I’
ve got an idea: We could sell the women. That might work.”

Russ did
n’
t laugh. Did
n’
t even crack a smile. You could actually see him take in what I had said, contemplate it and then reply, in all seriousness, “White slavery is illegal, Jack.
C’
mon, we have to think more practically.”

And I loved that about him. It was
n’
t that my suggestion was ludicrous. It just was
n’
t
practical
. Selling the young ladies in the show, while very likely to raise some much-needed funds, just was
n’
t a viable option. Sure, we could auction them off to the highest bidder, but at the end of the day, where would we be with no females? Who would play Janet? And Magenta? I just was
n’
t thinking
long term
.

Good thing we had Russ around to straighten me out.

Another thing that made him a cast manager
par excellence
: When Russ said he was going to do something, it got
done
, by hook or by crook.

One time he decided that the previews just were
n’
t revving up the crowd enough before the show and he was determined to shake things up.

So one night, he arrived at the theater with a devilish look on his face and a huge canvas bag under his arm. We tried to get him to talk but he would
n’
t budge.

“Yo
u’
ll see soon enough.” And he snuck his secret package up to the projection booth.

That night, after the usual “Animal House” and “Blues Brothers” previews had come and gone, the screen went momentarily black and then, to our utter shock and surprise, there appeared on the screen the beloved visage of Tim Curry, Rocky Horro
r’
s legendary Frank-N-Furter, in all his rock-and-roll glory, without his RHPS makeup and singing his fool head off.

Russ had somehow gotten his hands on an actual 35mm
film
of two of Curr
y’
s music videos: “Paradise Garage” and “I Do the Rock.” He had given it to the projectionist and arranged to have it tacked on to the previews.

From the moment we saw Tim and heard the first few notes, the cast, predictably, went positively and completely bonkers. If yo
u’
ve ever found yourself among a group of people who simultaneously experienced a moment of pure and undiluted joy, you know just what I mean. We danced around, singing along with Tim and almost forgot to get ready for the damned show.

From that night forward, these videos became a staple of the pre-show festivities. The ritual went: previews first, then Ti
m’
s videos, then the movie. Russ had hit the Rocky trifecta.