On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (13 page)

Then, C.J. turned the corner. I saw him before he saw me, and I turned and walked toward the booth, pretending I had something to tell the technician.

“
You want a beer?” I asked him, hoping he’d say no.

“
That’d be great! Get me a Bud.”

Not the answer I was looking for, but going to the bar would give me something to do. And I could use another beer anyway. C.J. spotted me on my way back from the bar.

“
Randy, hey!” he said standing up.

“
C.J., I’m glad you made it. I’d give you a proper greeting but…” I held up the drinks in my hand.

“
You better slow down. The night is young.”

“
One of these is for the technician.”

“
I know. It was a joke.”

“
I know. Um, I better get this to him. We’re going to start soon. See you downstairs at the bar after?” I asked, as I awkwardly stepped through the mess of people and chairs.

“
Um, sure, OK,” he replied.

It was forced. He had no intention of staying after, and now he was going to feel obligated. I thought about going back and telling him I wouldn’t be downstairs later after all, that I had an appointment I’d forgotten. But by the time I dropped off the Bud, C.J. was already in deep conversation with the people at his table. I stood around uncomfortably until the lights went down and the show began.

For the next hour, Stephanie sang her heart out and hammered on that baby grand. Lolly and Bobby ooh-ed and aah-ed in the background, and everyone seemed to be into the music. After the curtain call, Stephanie invited everyone to join us downstairs, and I quickly cleared the three empty beer bottles I had downed during the show and stumbled downstairs to secure a section for our party.

I commandeered a section at the back of the bar by laying my body across four chairs, but our party was already filling the space themselves. So, I got up, chatted briefly with some guests and, feeling very good about the evening, went to get another drink at the bar, where I noticed one of C.J.’s snobby friends standing next to me.

“
That was a good show,” he said. “How do you know her?”

I really didn’t want to engage in a conversation with him. This particularly pretentious, obnoxious friend had accused me of trying to hit on him, confusing an animated conversation with a sexual advance.

“
Glad you liked it. From college. Can I have Corona please?” I quickly turned my back to him in search of a friendly face. When I looked back to the bar, I saw the bartender pour my Corona into a plastic cup.

“
You don’t have to do that. I can drink it from the bottle.”

“
Yes I do, and no you can’t,” the bartender replied.

I was oddly amused and confused by the meaning of this. I brushed it off and started toward our group only to be intercepted by C.J.

“
Hey, Randy, only one drink this time? Can I get that proper greeting now?” He smiled, holding his arms open.

“
How can you be so happy?” I asked, ignoring the invitation to hug.

“
I’m happy to see you. I’m proud of you. I miss you.” The kind words took me off guard. “I mean, our breaking up was for the best, but I’m glad we can still be friends.”

I listened intently as I drank my beer, which because of that plastic cup poured into my gullet much faster. While I was the one who left, I had suspected he wanted out and now that suspicion was confirmed.

“
I don’t want to be your friend, C.J. I want to be your boyfriend.” I tried to keep my voice lower than the volume of the room.

“
Randy,” he started, and I knew by his tone where he was going. “I cried for hours after you left. Hours. But we’re not…it wasn’t working.” His friend had retrieved his drink and joined us.

“
Why not?” My volume increased. “I LOVE YOU! Doesn’t that count for something? Do you love me or not?”

C.J.’s friend tried to change the subject as Stephanie walked by.

“
Good job!” he said. And Stephanie turned to me.

“
Are you OK?” she asked.

“
I’m fine,” I replied, not taking my eyes off C.J.

“
So, what did you think of the show?”

“
I’m in the middle of something right now,” I said, trying to remain calm. “Can we talk about it later?”

“
No,” she insisted. “Tell me now.”

I unlocked my gaze on C.J. and looked directly at Stephanie.

“
It wasn’t my favorite. You could have done better. Now, please excuse me.”

Stephanie turned and walked away taking C.J.’s friend with her.

“
Randy,” C.J. said. “You’ve got to calm down.”

“
Why should I calm down? You broke my heart, C.J.!”

“
You broke up with
me
!”

“
Only because that’s what you wanted me to do. But I love you. Don’t you see that? I FUCKING LOVE YOU!”

My head was spinning. I was flushed and had lost control of my volume. People were watching us as if we were some after-show.

“
I loved you, too, Randy, but not anymore.”

“
Right. Because I embarrass you.”

“
Well, you’re embarrassing me now, that’s for sure.”

I didn’t know how to respond. I realized I was embarrassing him. And I also realized I was embarrassing myself, but I was so mad and so heartbroken, I didn’t care.

“
I HATE YOU FOR BREAKING MY HEART!”

And I emptied the rest of my beer right in his face. We stood there in silence, both of us in shock over what had just happened—his face soaked and my face, for the moment, dry.

Suddenly, two hands on my back began pushing me toward the door. I could see, from my periphery, everyone in the bar was staring at me, but I kept my gaze forward. I let the hands push me all the way to the door, which the bouncer gladly opened. By the time we got into the street, tears were sliding off my chin. As my hands reached up to wipe them away, I broke into a full sob. Bobby threw his arms around me and guided me down the street toward the subway.

“
OK, buddy, we’re going to take you home,” he said, his voice soft and comforting. “It’s OK. You’re going to be OK. Oh my God, you’re so drunk!” He was having some difficulty steering me in a straight line. “I’m glad you’re finally letting something out. I was beginning to wonder if you were human.”

“
I love him, Bobby. I love him,” was all I could say between the sobs.

I cannot remember a time in my life when I cried that hard. Twenty-four years old, and I had yet to experience a significant loss. And any loss I had suffered, I’d suppressed to the point of not experiencing it. We got to the subway platform and sat on the bench. My wails of emotional torment
continued. Overdramatic cries emanated from my gut and poured out relentless tears. I was still embarrassing myself, but Bobby didn’t mind. With his arm over my shoulders, he made sure everyone knew I was in good hands.

A passing woman handed Bobby a fistful of tissues. Obviously concerned, she was cautious not to get too close to my convulsing. The train ride home was long and painful. And once there, I climbed right into bed. Finally alone, I could, for the first time, hear myself cry. The sound was absolutely terrifying…which made me feel more alone…which made me cry harder. This didn’t stop until my body had felt enough and completely shut down for the night.

The days following were stark and difficult. Through an epic 48-hour hangover, I had a number of phone calls to make, apologies to issue, and forgiveness to beg for. In representing The Beggars Group that night, I had totally broken character in front of our patrons. But the people I called were very gracious. Everyone, it seemed, had been heartbroken and drunk before. And while they were just trying to be sympathetic and nice, it only served to make me feel sophomoric. And then I’d make another call. How could I be the only person who’d never been heartbroken? I longed to commiserate with a “fellow” teenager.

A week later, I quit my job. Not only was I helplessly lovesick, I had discovered I could see into C.J.’s office from our conference room—and my boss had binoculars. It just became too much to go into the office day after day. I couldn’t bear to talk to people and do the job. Instead, I spent my days sitting in my room listening to Rufus Wainwright bang out my emotions on his piano. Inconsolable, I wandered the streets for exercise and smoked cigarettes for nourishment.

One day, before a Beggars Group meeting, Lolly found me sitting in the gutter outside the Hungarian Pastry Shop. She sat down next to me. “You look so pathetic sitting in the gutter like this.”

“
It’s the perfect manifestation of how I feel.”

“
Oh!” She tenderly put her arm around me. “Well, are you going to come in and be a Beggar, or are you gonna stay out here and be a bum?”

“
In a minute. I didn’t realize you’d started.”

“
We haven’t yet, but it’d be great if you were there when we did.”

“
Yeah, OK.”

“
We’re not going to keep doing this without you, Randy. I realize you’re depressed and all, but you have to keep moving forward. You’ve put too much work into this company to let it fall apart because of fucking C.J.”

I liked the sound of her calling him that. It was childish but made me feel good.

“
Did I tell you he hated
Testing Average
? He and his friends thought it was awful. He was embarrassed by it.”

“
So, he’s a dick. So what? Didn’t one of your co-workers describe it as one of her favorite theatrical experiences? Didn’t she talk to you about it for weeks? Just because you were in love with the guy doesn’t mean he knows jackshit about theater. And even if he did, who cares if he didn’t like it? Lots of people are going to hate the work we do. And lots of others are going to love it. Now, if everyone starts coming out of our shows saying it was ‘all right,’ then we have a problem. But man, let’s be bold! Like you, right now, sitting in this gutter. It’s bold and dramatic. Lots of people are walking by thinking you’re a real idiot.”

“
Yeah?”

“
Yeah! But so fucking what, Randy. We’ve got to be true to ourselves. You have to be true to
you
. And making theater is what we’re doing right now, so let’s concentrate, stay focused, and just do that for now.”

“
So fucking what,” I repeated, laughing a little.

“
It’s gonna take time for you to get over C.J., but don’t let everything else get fucked-up in the process. Now come on, The Girls are waiting! Don’t make me go in there and face them alone.”

She stood up and offered her hand. Real life as metaphor: Here was Lolly, literally pulling me out of the gutter.

And that was the moment I decided to stop spending every waking moment on my failed relationship. I would take a full-time job at Blah-Blah Big Bank to resurrect my cash flow and spend the rest of my hours diligently focused on building this theater company and doing what I loved. Because I knew I loved making theater, and I knew I didn’t love being sad.

“
Have you talked to Stephanie?” Lolly asked.

“
Not since the night of the show. She’s not returning my calls. I’m pretty sure she hates me.”

“
Yeah, I’m pretty sure she does, too,” Lolly agreed, as we walked toward the tantalizing aroma of coffee and baked goods.

I’d found my direction, and life had thrown some obstacles. But somehow, I managed to stay the course and continue refining my definition of success.

PART III

THE EXPATRIATES

X MARKS THE SPOT

Bobby dropped his cigarette butt between the rusted slats of the fire escape, and we watched it fall six stories to the ground. It was cold out here, but things were getting a little too hot inside. So, we were taking the fire escape at its word.

“
Do you think it’s safe to go back in?” Bobby asked.

“
Probably not,” I replied. “But I think we have no choice. Break’s over.”

I lifted the windowsill and rolled off the fire escape back into the studio. We’d rented a Chelsea studio to take publicity photos for
The Expatriates
, and so far, things weren’t going so well.

The play itself was progressing nicely. As the head writer, I collected and compiled the submissions from the other five writers. And while no one had submitted much actual dialogue yet, we were throwing around a bounty of ideas. Collaborative writing is a tricky business, but I was doing my diplomatic best to ensure everyone’s ideas were heard and to keep things moving forward.

The photo-shoot idea came from The Girls, who were fascinated with the expatriates’ fascination with Dadaism. So, we decided to do a Dada-inspired photo shoot with Dorothy Parker, Zelda Fitzgerald, Sara Murphy, and a little-known composer named George Antheil.

Lolly, our fearless director, had been reading Antheil’s autobiography and insisted I play the part of George. I hesitated at first. I wasn’t sure the character fit into the play, and I didn’t want to act in the show. With my dual roles as producer and head writer, the last thing I wanted was to wear another hat. But the very persuasive Lolly knew how to get me excited about something. The night before the photo shoot, after two hours of gushing about George Antheil’s life, she threw out an image that excited my imagination and my interest.