Little Did I Know: A Novel (37 page)

Then I called Mr. Foster’s office at Dupont and left a personal request that he call me at any time. After the call, I met Secunda and we headed to the gym for a long workout. We sparred three rounds in which I didn’t land a punch. Something had to be done.

We returned to the compound. I showered and set off for the dinning hall to have breakfast. Whatever tensions, resentments, or distance I had felt earlier in the week were nowhere to be found. In fact, the energy on that Friday morning was like the lovefest at Woodstock. Bottle it and you were rich.

Marc Seconds’s article was on the front page of the
Patriot Ledger
. It was the buzz of the morning. His reporting was honest as it told of the tensions and problems he had witnessed, yet it also addressed with great appreciation and admiration the talents assembled at PBT. He mentioned several actors by name including Feston. Additionally, he wrote highly of everyone’s work ethic and ability to put their squabbles, confrontations, and distractions aside to deliver a better performance the following night than the previous one he had attended. There were numerous photos and mini-interviews with members of the company.

Everyone was ecstatic; they all had the start of a scrapbook. Marc even had kind words for me, saying I was “a young man to be reckoned with” and that I would make my name in the professional theater more quickly than anyone could imagine. He urged his readers to scoop up any remaining tickets because this was a “special group spending time with us during the summer of ’76.” He never once mentioned how terrific it must have been to play with Carol’s now world-famous breasts.

I walked to the theater to begin my day.

F
unny Girl
was our third production and we had all learned much from the previous two. Most shows don’t rehearse for a mere nine days and then go before an audience. Yet that is the experience of summer stock. We had done fine with
Cabaret
, when everyone was fresh and on their best behavior. We hit a small speed bump with
Anything Goes
because of fatigue and time lost preparing and performing at the parade. Now we had a formula, a paradigm within which to work, and I felt more confident about what we needed to accomplish before our upcoming day off. It also didn’t hurt that we had the wind at our back from the news story this morning, which would certainly help us navigate through the next two days.

There are five primary areas in putting on a show.

The songs.
The learning and preparation of all the musical numbers for both the principal performers and the chorus players, whose background vocals are often more complicated because they deal with harmonies and complex choral arrangements. Often the chorus members are also dancing while singing; so for those of us who find it difficult to walk and chew gum at the same time, we can appreciate the challenge.

The production numbers, specifically the choreography.
The entire company often performs in the former, and even those who are not great on the beat or with their feet have to find a way through. The dancers need to learn their steps for as many as five or six numbers at PBT, all within days.

The staging and blocking of the show.
The entrances and exits, where everyone stands once they are on stage, and how to focus the audience’s attention. When the entire company is on stage, the spacing and the placement of actors is important so the visual for the audience is always exciting and a continual surprise. Then there are the small scenes; how, when, and where do the actors cross, sit, stand, turn. As important, how to manipulate even the most subtle movements; the turn of a head or the touch of a shoulder, and more, can influence a scene.

The technical elements.
The lighting, the costumes, the scenery, and props all have to be added and become part of the actors’ performance. There are times when a performer has ten seconds to change costume, stripping out of one while his or her dresser is putting on the new one. There are set changes that are like a magic act: scenery is flying in from above or being trafficked in from the wings, actors are changing clothes or running to their next entrance, and if something goes awry people get hurt and it all goes downhill from there. These quick changes have to be planned like clockwork; orchestrated and scripted in advance. The lighting designer has to see all of the above days before his tech so he knows what part of the stage needs color or specials or projections to highlight the scenes and dances, and to help cover the myriad set changes so they go unnoticed.

The sound design.
The sound designer has to blend the voices in big numbers so the lyrics are heard in balance with the orchestra and the larger number of people in the chorus do not overpower the lead performers. The sound must be natural, enhanced yet still coming from the mouths of the performers not to seem robotic, detached, or inhuman.

At PBT all this and more needed to happen in nine days. That’s the fun of it all. That’s the challenge. That’s the work.

I had set Friday’s rehearsal as a work-through. We’d start at the top and plow through with the intention of getting the entire show set by the end of the afternoon. If things were sloppy we’d stop and work on them. If they needed adjustment we’d give notes. So that on Saturday we could run the sucker without stopping; show the designers what it looked like; orchestrate in principal all the technical ins and outs; get the actors set on their marks and actions in the scenes; have the dancers know their steps and hit their “five six seven eights.” All the while using the stage as a blank canvas on which to paint an arresting visual, one where the audience was almost forced to look, use their imagination or miss something important in the telling of the story. We had to control the audience’s eye, keeping them surprised and eager for more.

If Friday was a workday, Saturday was like being on a roller coaster that only went down. If you screamed no one would hear you or pay attention; they were having their own problems holding on. We were flying without a net, and it was fantastic! By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around, we would have done the impossible, mounting a major musical, and even in its rawest form it played. We would be breathless and exhilarated, wanting to polish and lock in everything we had accomplished that day. We would be like the reader of a great novel who can’t wait to finish the page so they can turn to the next one to see what happens before racing to see the next one and the next and the next . . .

Believe it or not, it was a hell of a ride, one where the moment it ends you want to get right back on because you simply can’t believe it was that much fun. It’s like your first kiss, a walk-off home run, or a buzzer beater for the championship. It’s your kid’s first word or first step. It’s sex for the first time or your wedding night. It’s making your first million, connecting with God, or making a child smile. It was my work, and it all started in ten minutes.

I was exhausted just thinking about it, yet itching to begin. I guess I just didn’t know where to scratch first. Wherever I chose, it was sure to feel so very delicious.

I
spent the entire day inside the theater. So much for a job near the beach. It was a good day. Solid work and no off-stage drama, just what was in the script. Most of the stops had to do with music and dance and not within the scene work. It was interesting to watch Ellie work with the dancers, running and rerunning their routines. She would do the steps downstage and as they mirrored her, the numbers came together with confidence and verve. I wondered how she did it, how she held up after the night that had ended just hours ago. We all have demons—and strengths that allow us to overcome them. Ellie was a much more complicated woman than I had ever imagined.

When I finally left the building for our six o’clock dinner break, I saw Gary smoking a cigarette at the redwood table that had become the epicenter of the compound. He was relaxed and waved me a friendly hello, then stood and gave me a macho hug.

“We have to finish our talk about Veronica and Lizzy,” he said. “Don’t want to leave you hanging or wondering where the story goes.”

“Okay,” I said with trepidation. “When?”

“I’m taking Ellie out for supper. How about after the show? I’m coming to see it tonight. I already paid for my tickets—fourth time. I’ll check in with you at intermission.”

“You are a great man, Gary Golden,” I said, then moved away so he could greet Ellie as she approached wearing a wide grin of ease and contentment. It said more than words could ever hope to convey. I headed back to my room. Rest was what I needed most, and to achieve it I needed to make sure I had no encounters along the way.

Veronica was sitting on the bed wearing a towel and brushing her freshly washed blond hair. “Hey, big boy,” she said. “Got a minute for your honey?”

I answered by turning my hug into a long, lingering kiss. Before it went any further, though, I was fast asleep.

An urgent knock on my door startled me awake as the clock read 7:46 p.m. JB shouted that Mr. Foster was on the phone. I sprinted to the office, picked the phone off the cradle, and pressed the blinking light on line one. “Hello,” I said breathlessly.

“Please hold for Mr. Foster,” said a flat nondescript female voice.

I held for a full ten minutes before Ellie’s father got on. “Bob Foster, here. Who do I have?” His voice was brusque and to the point.

“Sir, this is Sam August. You were kind enough to return my call.”

“Right, Sam.” He had no idea who I was. He may have vaguely recognized the name from somewhere. “How can I help you, Sam?”

“Well, sir, do you know who I am?”

“Of course,” he lied.

“I’m working with your daughter up here on the Cape, and I just wanted to let you know how she was doing and how grateful I am for her work and how proud you—”

He interrupted. “She’s my girl, of course she’s doing well. I got a letter from her just last week.” He sounded as if I was some worthless underling to be placated instead of listened to. He was rich and powerful and his phone rang every sixty seconds. He could write a check for tuition or a house or a hospital wing or . . . As I listened to his bullshit I thanked God he wasn’t my father.

Then I interrupted, with enough force to be heard. “Sir, I think you should find the time to come up and see what your daughter is doing here. It’s important, sir.” I let that linger for as long as possible, then continued. “You’re busy, sir, I know that, yet I can only stress that Ellie has to see you here even for just one night or it will really damage her.”

He cut me off as if we were in a negotiation. “Young man, that’s a rather inflammatory comment, a bit presumptuous to say the least.”

“No, sir, it is not presumptuous. It is profound. I suggest with all respect that you find a way to come up and see your daughter. That’s it. That’s all.”

“Goodbye, son,” he said, and the phone went dead.

My face flushed with embarrassment, but it only took a moment for me to realize that it was he who should feel ashamed. Then I had two quick thoughts. One was that part of becoming an adult was having the wisdom to trust when bad behavior was just that and not a reflection on me . . . to learn to trust in my character, my intent, and my decency. The other was an affirmation, a reinterpretation of my dad’s comment about never being too rich or too thin. He was wrong. It was better to be surrounded by those who loved you and remembered your name.

It was nearly curtain time, and I raced across the compound to see the evening’s performance. Through the grace of God, Bobby Stevens, and Marc Seconds’s article there was not an open seat to be had. I stood at the back of the house next to JB’s Officer Tommy and his partner, the blue-eyed Cutler, who had almost hauled us away some weeks ago.

“Hey, Sam, I hear we’re all going to P-Town on Sunday. Supposed to be hotter than a half-fucked fox in a forest fire.”

“Nice image, Tommy,” I replied. “I guess I’m the last to know, but it sounds fun.”

Cutler chimed in. “So is that dancer going to be naked tonight?”

Schmuck
, I said inside my head. With all decorum, I replied, “Walter, it’s live theater. You never know.”

Then I settled into a corner to take notes. Little did I know as the overture began that Carol’s bare breasts of last evening would be considered tame compared to what awaited us tonight.

Heigh-ho the glamorous life.

T
he building was buzzing with the energy of great expectation. The soldout crowd had come ready to have a terrific time. The orchestra played the overture. The music was crisp and snappy. The tunes were hummable and danceable, and they set different expectations and promises as to the fun evening about to begin.

The curtain rose on the first number, which was a silly choral ditty in which all the characters sang about the joy of the Atlantic crossing they were embarking on. The number was contained madness, sort of where the joke holds its breath on the verge of turning blue, then goes
bam
and the show gets shot out of a cannon. Sixteen bars before the lighting of the fuse to an explosive and wild beginning, the door off stage right opened with a loud jolt. There was split focus among the actors as they wanted to remain in the scene but the distraction in the wings was hard to ignore.