Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres Part 4

The Starbucks that Victor prefers is very small, and to get there you have to make several right turns in a row, in relatively rapid succession; even when you arrive, you walk in the front door and you have to turn a corner to the right before you even get to the front register. The seat Victor prefers is beyond that, around another corner to the right, tucked back into a little nook at the far back right corner of the room. You don't really see it when you walk in, because of the dark wood surrounding it. The way the room is shaped, you notice the hallway to the restrooms on the left, but not the dark nook tucked back away on the right. It's almost always empty, and when it's not, Victor is usually the sole occupant. He calls it his office, and getting there feels rather a bit like a journey to the center of the Labyrinth.

When I arrive, he gestures for me to sit down, an enthusiastic yet curt gesture which seems to imply that we are slightly behind schedule for the running of Planet Earth. It's immediately energizing. Sans preamble, Victor speaks:

Victor: A tearful phone call from Fat Sister after I left. You are, if I remember rightly, a Tyrant, a Neophyte, a Parasite, Judas Iscariot and Adolph Hitler rolled into one. Surprised?

Edward: No.

Victor: So. How'd it go?

Edward: She stomped out to the lobby after you left.

Victor (laughing): She had the courtesy to call me from the office phone.

Edward (a chuckle): A point in her favor.

Victor: I'm sure Charles will appreciate funding her rant.

Edward: There's got to be a discretionary Dissonant Diva fund in every theatre's budget.

Victor: Amen, my brother. Amen.

Edward: How was your first company meeting?

Victor picks up his coffee and sips it, tilting his head to the side and tasting it like wine. A thoughtful but brief pause.

Victor: Well, it's cold now. But when I arrived it was hot and dark and steaming.

Victor takes a second sip of his coffee.

Edward: Steaming like the Christmas Pudding you've ignited between Fat Sister's legs.

Victor spit-takes to his left, misting the wall perfectly with a fragrant spray of coffee. I'm telling you, his command of physical comedy is unparalleled. I'm laughing, possibly howling, at this; I take a look over my left shoulder to see if anyone else in the room is disturbed by our presence. The room is fairly full, nearing packed. The music, whatever it is, sounds like Louis Armstrong playing Saint-Saens' The Aquarium. Some of the other patrons are looking around, confused, trying to figure out who is laughing so loudly. It feels like we're invisible in the center of this labyrinth.

Victor: What are you going to do at the next rehearsal?

Edward: Run the show. Backwards.

Victor: Vagina my through poop I.

This slays me. I have this braying wounded-asthmatic-hyena laugh, sometimes. It can be a little off-putting. A lady two tables down slams her book of Feminist Thought Form Poetry closed, grabs her woven hemp bag and stomps her Birkenstocky feet right out of that Starbucks. Perhaps she is in search of a pumice stone and some toenail clippers. For the sake of the other riders on local public transport, let us pray.

Victor leads the way through an alarmed back exit that isn't terribly alarmed at all. We're on West 47th. I have no idea how. We walk over to 8th Avenue and down many several blocks until we reach the bar at which we had agreed to get a drink. Just as we cross the street, Victor's cell phone rings.

Victor: This is Victor. Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... Yes. ... I see. ... No.

Victor ends the call.

Edward: Am I drinking alone?

Victor leads the way into the bar. Late afternoon light angles around buildings to flash from passing cars.

Victor: Heaven forfend. As I remember it, you are partial to Manhattans, no?

We are inside, heaving ourselves onto backed bar stools.

Edward: O indeed, Mighty Mister Maog.

Victor: You've penetrated my alliterative anus.

Edward: Mercy me.

Victor: ... Perplexed playwright purloins purpose.

Edward: Derelict director ditches duty.

Victor: Ha! Yes. ... effervescent Edward eases egress.

Edward: That was particularly well done.

Victor: Thank you.

Bartender: Order a drink, fancy fucks.

Slight pause.

Edward: Manhattan, up, Jack is fine.

Victor: Lemon Drop.

I turn to look at him, but he's regarding the bartender with calm, even eyes.

Bartender: You got it.

The bartender turns and makes our drinks in what feels like three seconds.

Edward: Lemon Drop?

Victor: I'll explain later.

Just as our drinks hit the bar, Charles appears next to us.

Charles: Scotch, cheap, neat.

Charles turns to us.

Charles: Fat Sister is crazier than a gay Republican.

Victor: Charles. What a coincidence. Tell us, we're all agog.

Charles: She is at a pay phone near my apartment, calling the office and calling my answering machine, waiting for me to get home.

Edward: How did you avoid her?

Charles: Iain saw her as he left to walk Stockard. He's sipping espresso at the cafe down the street --

Victor [sim.]: The one with the chocolate eclairs?
Charles [sim.]: The one with the chocolate eclairs -- pretending to read Proust.

Edward: Does anyone ever actually read Proust, anyway?

Charles turns to look at me, I can't tell if he's offended or thoughtful.

Victor: A gay man in a sidewalk cafe with espresso and a Pomeranian, pretending to read Proust. It would be better if he were eating madeleines.

Charles: They're baking a fresh batch. He's having the time of his life. Meanwhile, I'm being stalked by this crazy bitch -- all because of your little stunt, Victor.

Victor: Sadly, I think that the one most likely to be affected by this turn of events is Edward.

They are looking at me; I raise my glass to them. We clink, and the music in the background resolves itself into Louis Armstrong, A Kiss To Build A Dream On. We leave after one drink, scattering to three winds on the corner outside the bar. 

When I get home, my girlfriend is complaining that she did the dishes. I try to make her laugh. It does not work. We have nothing to do, very little money to spend. Well, she has money: wealthy upstate family, a full-time job at Godiva on 5th Ave., but I don't make as much. So I don't propose what I would have back in Boston: rent a movie, see a film, do something fun. We live in Corona, Queens: there is nothing to do when the Lemon Ice King of Corona is closed. I retreat to my room, where, when I hear her footsteps outside and the door quietly open, I pretend to be asleep.

Down With Dogs, I: Very Small Theatres Part 3

A week later, we're gathered for rehearsal in the cozy little third-floor blackbox in which I was beginning to feel very comfortable. Victor has asked us to have a seat before rehearsal begins, we're running the show today and the late October crispness outside has everyone in a generally festive mood. We're sitting and Victor is standing on the stage, looking at us, making eye contact with all of us. It's an awesome technique, this silent eye contact thing. Like emotional Epsom salts, it draws to the surface whatever needs to be extracted. I've been meaning to use it for years, now. It goes on for about three minutes, and then he looks down at the floor. One wonders if one has done something wrong. Then there's a somewhat sheepish glance up at us, like he's got a secret or maybe he's going to tell us that the whole soulful eye-searching thing he just did was a joke (which it may have been). But no! He gives a little jump as his pocket makes a noise, takes out his cell phone (Victor always seemed to have a cell phone, even before they were easily-obtainable) and, glancing at the number, his eyes widen. He looks at all of us, uncertainty writ large in his expressive face, then makes a decision, saying, "Excuse me," before heading the eighteen feet or so to the lobby. We hear him say, "Hello?" as he reaches it, and his mellow voice working its magic as we breathe a collective sigh of release. Even though I know his tricks and techniques, I can attest to their power: Victor is like a master stage magician, one who explains the illusion even as he performs it -- and somehow never fails to amaze.

Fat Sister: The eyes on that man. I'm steaming like a Christmas Pudding.

[Momentary silence as the rest of us shudder inwardly.]

Ballerina: That phone call looked important.

Professor's Wife: Christ, I forgot to call my agent. Do you guys think there's time?

Ballerina: Time for ... ?

Professor: Probably not. 

Victor [still on his phone in the lobby]: Hah! Really.

[Silence in the theatre.]

Victor (cont.): Oh. Well, no. I understand perfectly.

Fat Sister: Mmm-hmm, I'll bet you do.

[Sound of everyone's eyes widening in discomfort.]

Ballerina: I wonder if it's the playwright. 

Edward: Unlikely. His schedule has altered drastically. He is never available when this play is rehearsing, and if we tailored our rehearsal to his availability, we suspect he'd off himself just to avoid being here.

Fat Sister: Pshh. Wow.

[Weird little silence. Ballerina has turned to look at Fat Sister and keeps looking at her.]

Professor's Wife: Did he really change his schedule?

Edward: It's a mystery. But whenever we ask him to come in, he's got eye surgery or goiters or Dengue Fever --

Fat Sister (overlapping): Okay, am I the only one here who feels like you're the millstone dragging us all down?

Ballerina: Um ...

[Silence.]

Edward: I'm sorry -- was that for me, I didn't catch everything ...

Fat Sister: Jeezus. You're like a whirlpool of negativity.

Edward: I'm actually a portable Kenmore, but my rinse cycle is worth the price.

[Professor, Professor's Wife and Ballerina laugh. Which is very kind of them.]

Fat Sister: You're talking about a man's life's work. You're talking about his goals, his dreams.

Edward: I'm talking about his schedule.

Fat Sister: What the fuck is wrong with you --

Victor walks back in and Fat Sister's eyes are on him like worship on a Christ-y, all aglow with the stained-glass certainty that this man will finally see her talent and make her famous. Also, cock. I see all this in an instant and realize that Victor needs to carefully tailor his final chat with the cast tomorrow, perhaps even set aside some time for her personally. She's going to be heartbroken, even without three extra soliloquies, one diatribe and a Balcony Scene. I'm writing a note to myself (warn Victor) when he speaks:

"I have some news. I've just been hired as a last-minute replacement at Second Stage, and I need to go in today. Now, in fact -- I'm late, considering that the other guy flaked on a Company Meeting they've already started. I've spoken to Charles about it, and he agrees: a job at Second Stage is too good to pass up. So. Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, let me introduce your director: Mr. Edward Hightower."

Ballerina (overlapping): Awesome!

Professor (overlapping): Nice!

Professor's Wife (overlapping): Oh, that's good. That's so good for you, Edward.

[Short silence.]

Fat Sister: Hm.

Victor is smiling his I-know-a-secret smile. For all his acting ability, he has a massive tell when he's being clever: he loves how clever he is. It's all over his face. But nobody would ever believe such an obvious tell is a tell, they read all sorts of other meaning into it. Again, a master magician. His face says, "I'm lying to you," his words say, "I'm sincere," and your mind automatically wraps these into a justified lumpia of alternate meaning, easily gobbled and satisfying because it fits your need and fills the space left open by that part of your mind which perceives truth. His lie is nourishing. Perhaps because he's not lying, or not trying not to lie. The kernel of honesty is better than loaves and fishes.

"I need to leave, right now, but I'll be back in a few days to see how things are going," Victor is saying, shouldering his bag -- his coat, somehow, already on. "Edward, they're all yours. What are you going to do first?"

"Run the show," I say, outwardly calm.

Fat Sister pshaws loudly. Victor's eyes narrow, he glances in her direction and then shakes his head as if to say, "No, that's kooky, I can't have heard what I think I just heard." He launches himself toward the door, smacking a folded scrap of paper into my hand as he goes.

"Excellent plan. See you all soon!" Victor is gone. The foyer door opens, closes. Distant NYC sounds fill a moment of deep silence and it's very cozy for that long moment. I don't want to move. Feels like the sounds from the courtyard in Rear Window. Then I breathe and catch a waft of the crisp air outside from the open windows in the two front offices. I sit up and say, "Well, then. Places for the top of the show, please."

All of the actors move to their spots. Except Fat Sister. She's reading her script. 

Professor: Fat Sister? It's places.

Fat Sister continues to read her script. The intensity! As though her script was a donut.

Edward: That's places, everyone. 

Fat Sister is deeper into that script than the wrighter will ever go.

Edward: And ... begin.

The actors pause a moment, glancing from her angry intensity to my pleasant, beaming face. I can tell that she wants to start a fight, and that this is the way she plans to do it: refuse to go on, get me angry, start yelling, get me off balance so that I yell things that might get me fired, and then Victor will come back and she'll have her mellifluous-voiced Daddy back. Truly, glancing at her, I see a deeply troubled eight year old girl whose father just walked out. My heart breaks a little. Am I right? Who knows? But why push it? I nod to the actors who are in places and they begin.

They're doing their stuff there, she's fuming and rocking over there, and I'm here pretending to be totally focused on them, pretending that this is all perfectly normal. I sip my coffee. Actually, at that time it would have been a Venti Quadruple-shot Peppermint Mocha, because I didn't know that those could make me fat, yet. So I sip it and yum yum yum it's delicious and -- whoops -- Fat Sister has just stormed stompy-like out to the lobby. Slight hesitation from the actors onstage, but I nod at them and waft-waft with my left hand as if to say, "Everything's all right. This is exactly as planned. Fat Sister is following my instructions to the letter."

Her first scene is coming up and everyone seems scared or uncertain at the prospect of whatever she will do next. I realize this, it hits me: she's so angry that we're all off-balance. This is not how it should be. I start to get a little riled up at this. One person is behaving badly, and this is negatively affecting the entire show. We've had so much to contend with in our little temporary family that to have this shit shoved in our faces when Victor has just left is an insult. I start to feel insulted. We're almost at her scene. I realize I should say something, take her to task, chastise her in some fashion. I take another sip of my mocha in preparation, crumpling the paper in my left hand as I do so. I gasp a little, remembering the forgotten note, snarfing the mocha and doing the best spit-take of my life to date. Mocha sprays all over the seats in front of me and I'm coughing like a poltergeist in the TB ward. I need to say something, my eyes are watering and I can't stop coughing. The actors are game -- I'm helping them prepare for an audience with all this coughing. They settle in, really starting to roll now that things are so natural. I make a mental note to try this next time I'm directing: cough constantly so they'll be prepared for the matinees. 

One final big cough and I'm putting the mocha on the far side of my bag to my right as I'm turning to get up, but where to put the paper? We're on the last couple of lines of the scene, but I unfold the paper anyway, insatiable curiosity wrapping me in her siren song. It's a note, and it reads,

"Tag! You're it. Fake phone call. At Starbucks. Let's get a drink when you're done. At the bar. Ignore Fat Sister. Or read this poem:

Maybe she's angry
Because she poops
Through her vagina

Victor"

I laugh out loud, and there's a hiccup in the scene. It's not a moment where they expected a laugh. Actors in a poor comedy are starving for laughter and feel much better when they get it, but in this case there's nothing to justify my laugh. It's a repeated line, old information, nothing needed. And it's the last line of the scene. The actors shift to their next spots, and Fat Sister is supposed to enter from UR, ready to harangue her brother for writing yet another bestselling novel instead of putting his nose to the grindstone. Silence. 

Silence.

I pick up my script and read her first line, "What?! You're writing another bestselling novel -- again?! Just because the last one was a bestseller?! What are you thinking?!"

Professor: It's my passion, I can't help it.

Fat Sister enters from the lobby, stepping into the scene and playing it like normal. She's full of smiles. The run-through is fine. The show is as good as it can get without a rewrite, and people are almost perfectly off book. We could open tomorrow, but we still have, what, two more weeks?

During my intentionally brief notes session afterwards, Fat Sister raises her hand and speaks before I point to her. "So do I enter from the Lobby now, are you changing Victor's blocking right away or something, or can we get a warning in the future if you're going to change the blocking like that without telling us?"

Edward: Um ... no, you're supposed to enter from Up Right. As Victor staged it.

Fat Sister: Then why did you have me enter from the Lobby?

Edward: I'm sorry, I must have not been clear. When I called places --

Fat Sister: I had a phone call to make. 

Edward: Great! So, the blocking hasn't changed. Great work everyone, see you in a couple of days.

They hesitate. I nod at them, smiling, and they grab their bags and go. Fat Sister lingers like she wants a fight, but I go right up to her, smiling, with the intention of hugging her. Why? No idea. I think because I sensed that she would loathe it, and I was quietly seething. So I'm walking toward her, smiling, arms opening for a hug, and she turns and sprints out of the theatre, eyes wide in alarm. It's satisfying, so I sit down and chuckle for a minute. 

Of course my first day directing a play in Manhattan is plagued with angry challenge from a difficult actor. What else did I expect? After Boston, this seems to be right on track. It hits me that I almost fell for her tactic: the stomp out to the lobby was her ace in the hole, and I managed to let it go. Anger spikes in me, followed by the suspicion that I should just ignore her behavior. This is the kind of thing I would have blown up at in Boston. I grab my stuff as the next cast is moving in to the space, confident that I've got Fat Sister all figured out and that nothing she can do will trip me up any further. In one sense, I was right.

In another sense, I couldn't have been more wrong.