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Story No. 9 |
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each other's eyes the whole time." |
What happens there may be special,
but not always so enchanting...
of TheColumnists.com
In the spring of 1984, I took my girlfriend's teenage
daughter to see A Chorus Line, a show she had begged me
for years to see. Much as I liked the show, I had seen it four
times and felt no need ever to go again, but on Stacy's 16th
birthday I gave in and took her.
As we stood in the lobby before the show, watching everyone arrive,
Stacy could scarcely contain herself. Like me, she loved all
the pre-curtain hubbub, one of my favorite moments in theatergoing
(indeed, in life). We shared whatever it is that links playgoers
of all ages, genres and generations.
Stacy had been in her high school production of My Fair Lady--an
unlikely Italian Eliza Doolittle with freckles and bangs--and
after surprising everyone with her talent,
she had begun to harbor secret ambitions to study acting when
she got to college the following year. One hit will do that to
a kid of 16, whether it happens to be Richard Burton in his debut
in an Emlyn Williams play on the outskirts of London or Stacy
Zimmer in the Lowell High Auditorium.
Since her theatrical triumph, she has increased her requests
for free tickets to shows in the city, and I was eager to call
for them, sensing a young theater nut in the making. When I told
her I had come up with a pair of orchestra seats for a Saturday
matinee of A Chorus Line, she began counting the hours.
Now, as we stood in the chilly lobby of the Curran Theatre, trading
snide comments about some of the matinee ladies milling about,
Stacy wondered if if we might go backstage afterwards. "With
your vast connections as a critic," she teased, it
should be possible. I mumbled something, hoping to dismiss the
idea with indifference, but she sounded insistent. I never feel
comfortable backstage, I told her, yet I hated to deny her the
chance to see real actors close up. I had other reasons for never
going backstage, too complex to explain then.
"Just say 'maybe,'" she said, staring at me with imploring
brown eyes and giving me and elbow. "Don't be chicken. It'll
be fun!"
"Maybe you can go back by yourself and I'll wait outside,"
I told her. "I always feel sort of weird back there, even
if I'm not reviewing."
She seemed to understand and let it drop as the lobby lights
blinked and we wandered inside. The show turned out to be better
than I'd ever seen it--a sharp, fast road company with a cast
that did more than step through the dances and turned the often-whiney
speeches into honest vignettes.
Mostly, of course, I enjoyed it all over again through Stacy's
eyes, watching her newly acquired theatrical skepticism give
way to genuine wonder. She had heard about the show all her life
and it had taken on a mystique, like Show Boat had in
my own life. For a stagestruck girl, it wasn't just a musical,
it was a historical event.
Stacy was delighted by everything. She laughed and wept and gasped
and gaped in all the expected places--grabbing my wrist when
one of the chorus boys falls and breaks his ankle, applauding
wildly when Zack finally chooses Cassie in the callbacks, and
out of her mind withe delight when the dancers reappear in the
fabled finale in their gold lame tuxes and gilded top
hats. I had never liked the show--or any show--more than I liked
this little production that afternoon. Watching Stacy fall for
the show made me fal1 in love with musicals all over again.
On the way out, she tugged at my arm and said, "C'mon, can't
we go backstage--just for a sec?" I made a face,
sighed and saw it was hopeless to put the idea out of her
head. In her current euphoria, it would have been cruel to forbid
her from paying this peculiar homage granted certain privileged
playgoers permitted access to the sanctum of the theatrical gods,
where long narrow corridors lead to cubbyhole dressing rooms
with doorways tantalizingly ajar and lit from within by an intense
light like the stark neon brightness of an operating table.
As I gave my name at the door, we could hear the cries of actors
freed from their characters, giddy whoops as unnatural as the
glow from their dressing-room mirrors. When the guard looked
dubious, I flashed my press card and dropped the name of the
company's publicist. He waved us in quickly. As we slipped past
a small circle of fans waiting outside the stage door for a glimpse
of the cast, I sensed their eyes fastening on us with newfound
reverence.
Once inside, stacy gave me a wide-eyed little girl look, like
the country mouse who had just glimpsed the skyline of the big
city. She kept close to me as we slithered along the
narrow hallways of the backstage honeycomb and, every so often,
glanced up with a little conspiratorial smile. We felt like two
spies infiltrating the enemy camp and, so as not to be discovered,
hugged the wall.
"Where are they?" she whispered. All we had seen were
tech people toting wigs and props and costumes. Even that thrilled
Stacy, who had never been backstage in a real theater; she didn't
even try to seem cool.
To duck out of the way, we backed into a green room with crunched
paper cups on the floor and half-finished cans of soda left behind
on a torn couch. Presently, two of the women in the cast, and
the man who had played Zack, walked in, laughing loudly, wearing
ragged jeans and sneakers and T-shirts embossed with the show's
logo. They flopped down on the ratty orange sofa, gulped diet
Cokes and talked as if we : weren't there.
"So, I just told the asshole to fuck off," one of the
actresses said, the one who had sung' 'Everything Is Beautiful
at the Ballet" and had made Stacy wipe tears from her eyes.
"He wouldn't listen, so what the shit was I supposed to
do?" Her friend, who had played Morales and sings "Nothing"
in the show, said, "Jesus, he sounds like a first-class
prick to me." The man said, "Honey, you sure can pick
'em!'
A man with a thin mustache,
wearing a three-piece suit, poked his head in the doorway and
"Zack" leaped up and embraced him. "Billy! How
are you, baby? Girls, this is
Billy, my ex from L.A. Doesn't he look absolutely yummy?"
Billy threw an arm around him and they walked out, saying, "I'll
get dressed and then we can go somewhere close by and dish between
shows. I'll give you all the dirt!"
Billy said, "Josh,
you were so fabulous. It's a part you were born to play--the
perfect bitch."
"Yes, I am terrible, aren't I?" Josh grinned
mischievously. "Well, doll, you should know!"
They walked away, arm in arm.
Stacy and I tried to resemble flies on the wall, avoiding each
other's eyes the whole time. "Let's wander around some more,
OK?" I said. "Maybe we'll see Cassie."
"Maybe we should leave," she said, taking my hand.
"I've probably seen enough." As we walked down the
hall toward the stage door, Stacy said, "I felt sort of
sick in there."
"It's their world."
Once we got outside, Stacy exhaled deeply, and said, "It's
so different backstage. It isn't what you think it's going to
be--after the show and all."
As we strolled across Mason street to Lori's Diner for a milkshake
I'd promised, I said, "That's just it, Stace. It's--well,
it's a show, and when it's over, it's over. It's better to leave
it onstage. I'm glad we went back anyway, so you could see what
it's all about."
"I suppose so," she said, "but I almost wish we
hadn't."
© 2002 by Gerald Nachman. The Nachman caricature is ©
2000 by Jim Hummel. The other illustrations are from IMSI's
Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. East, San Rafael,
CA 94901-5506, USA.
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fiction has always played a major role in his writing. This never-before-published story was inspired by his real-life experiences as a writer and critic who has been in and around some of the most popular theaters in the U.S. and abroad, some of them playing shows he authored or co-authored. |
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