On Making Off: Misadventures Off-Off Broadway (17 page)

Thankfully, during the last 10 minutes, we return to the story—that story we started telling before Fire-Food and her lapping flames interrupted us. But by this point in our arc, the fruit is rotten. We return to reality just in time to see our characters bear the brunt of life’s cruelties. Sara Murphy’s children die. Scott can’t control his alcoholism. Dorothy Parker battles her howling horrors, and Ernest Hemingway blows his head off. The death montage does its best to wipe away any memories of the chaotic middle section, and maybe we win back a few audience members who dig the macabre, but we’d already asked quite a lot from them, and most would just shake their heads.

Afterward, at the bar, the cast worked at forgetting the show one pint at a time, but Fire-Food was all anyone talked about. Zelda who? Hemingway what? The only thing you could hear above the clatter of glasses and conversation was, “What the fuck was with that Fire-Food chick?”

Oddly, nobody hates the show. Everyone was entertained, and it might have been due to that fascinating puzzle known as Fire-Food. People couldn’t tell if they loved her or hated her, but one thing was certain, she had stolen the show. She was just a concept after all. But she managed to upstage even the best writers of the century.

The festival seemed to end almost as soon as it started. Ten days of nonstop theater-going, theater-making, and theater parties can fly by in the blink of an eye. And we enjoyed it as much as we could, knowing that a sobering reality awaited us on the other side. Two days after we moved the coffin-shaped piano facade (now in the role of a coffee table) into my living room, we assembled at Andrea’s downtown apartment for
The Expatriates
post-mortem.

In my mind, Lolly and I would walk into Andrea’s apartment, sit down, and listen to The Girls rip us apart, limb from limb, with a sundry of verbal torture devices. Lolly and I, armed with leather straps in our mouths, would wince and whine but take our licks without protestation. We’d ask a few questions, the answers of which we already knew, and leave. It was sick, but we’d prepared for this, expected it, and kind of needed it to bring the experience to a conclusion.

Instead, The Girls greeted us with smiles, offered some wine, and treated us to a casual yet spirited conversation about wheels.

During the course of that first year, we’d had many conversations about wheels, more specifically, how we didn’t wish to re-invent them. Whenever we struggled with something, we would call for outreach and research. Someone, somewhere, had done that particular task, and we needed to learn from this person and do it that way too. No need to re-invent.

I’m confident this is a common theme with any new organization. When starting something new, you deal with a great number of strikingly similar variables to the ones faced by your peers and predecessors as well as variables unique to your organization. Sometimes, it pays to take someone else’s wheel. But sometimes, another’s wheel won’t fit, and so you invent a new wheel.

“
That’s not the point!” Andrea said in a calm but direct voice. “A wheel is a wheel. When I say we shouldn’t re-invent the wheel, I mean we shouldn’t spend our time trying to work out something that has already been worked out. We should be building from what other people have already done. Why don’t you get that?”

Lolly was writing fiercely in her notebook. We’d told each other that taking notes during this meeting would be a good idea. Although we wanted to remember the conversation for future reference, we also wanted to demonstrate we were taking this conversation seriously. But, most importantly, this pen and pad created a physical barrier between us and them. It was our leather strap. We could be grounded firmly behind our paper, frantically writing their answers to the questions we would alternately ask. When Andrea talked, I wrote, “Andrea is right. So why does that make me so angry? I like inventing wheels. I like inventing wheels. I like inventing wheels.”

“
So, what did you enjoy the most about this project?” Lolly asked. She and I had strategically designed this question to bring levity into the room. “I really enjoyed the writing process,” Deborah said. Kathy and Andrea quickly agreed. “It was the first time I’ve attempted to write dialogue, and I’m proud of what we did.”

“
That was a great process,” I added. This launched the conversation into how much people learned about writing styles, writing in groups, and their own individual desires to continue writing. It was safe territory because it was the only part of the process in which Lolly did not play a major role. She remained quiet until the conversation died down.

“
So, what can I, as the director, do to improve?” Lolly asked.

“
Don’t direct,” Deborah said quickly. This was followed by an overwhelming silence, a silence that shouted in agreement. I had told her not to ask the question. While being tortured, it’s foolish to expose your most sensitive bits. But I was wrong. It was as if they were anticipating this question and had nominated Deborah to deliver the two-word directive from the group.

“
Is there anything else I should know?” Lolly asked, disappointed she hadn’t received the bludgeoning she was expecting.

“
Nope,” Deborah said. “You just shouldn’t do it.”

“
Randy, do you have anything to add to that?” Lolly asked, hoping someone would relieve her of this aching need for abuse.

“
I think you had a hard time finding your voice with this group and you failed to overcome that.”

I’ll admit, I’m lousy at torture.

“
How do you mean exactly?”

“
Well, look around you. Nobody liked working with you, everyone had a miserable experience, and the play wasn’t genius. In my opinion, the only time it’s OK for a director to be an asshole is when her work is genius.” I was finding my stride.

“
Well, next time, it will be genius.”

“
Yeah, right! In that case, I amend my statement. It is never acceptable for a director to be an asshole. Nobody should be an asshole, ever.”

I realized everyone was staring at me hard. Was it irony, or just attention? I couldn’t tell, so I changed the subject.

“
Now, before we continue, we need to address the future. As you all know, we’ve booked Under St. Marks for three weeks in October to produce the second incarnation of
The Expatriates
. We have a lot of work to do in the next month, and we need to know now who will be joining us for this production. Let’s go around the room and see who is committed to the next production. Lolly, we’ll start with you.”

“
I’m in,” said Lolly.

After that came a round of seven “no’s” and then one “yes”—from me.

“
Well…I would like to invite you all to
The Expatriates
puppet show Randy and I will be presenting in October,” said Lolly. The group laughed loudly.

The lack of future participants didn’t surprise me, but where was the angst? Where were the feelings? Where was all the crying and venting we’d experienced just weeks before?

“
There is something else we need to discuss,” Kathy started in a serious tone. Ah, here we go, they made us wait, but we were going to get ours. “I will no longer be a part of this company. I feel disrespected, unappreciated, and abused. And I no longer want to participate.”

“
OK,” I said preparing for the next defection, which came quickly from Andrea, followed by Deborah, then Bobby. They all gave their reasons for not wanting to continue with the company. With the exception of Bobby, who simply wasn’t interested in making theater anymore, all expressed disappointment with Lolly and with my handling of the company.

We sat there, Lolly and I, and listened to all the ways we erred. Everyone was very matter-of-fact about everything. There were no tears, no screaming, and no emotions. Just a series of well-prepared statements. And as much as I knew they hated Lolly and had lost respect for me, their comments focused on improving the company—a company that would not include them. It was very mature, and it burned my skin like a hot light bulb. Taking the high road turned out to be far more insidious and hurtful than any tongue-lashing they could have administered.

When they finished, we all stood in unison. It was odd, but we started as an ensemble, and it was only appropriate that we end as one. Everyone began saying their goodbyes with hugs and pleasantries. I was a little pissed off by the civil nature of the evening and was smarting from feeling like an asshole. I stopped in the entryway.

“
Kathy, I feel like we’ve missed something here. I thought we were going to express ourselves more. You know, have that talk about our feelings.”

She looked at me very calmly.

“
Randy, do you want to talk about your feelings?”

“
No, not really.”

“
Then, why would we want to talk to you about
our
feelings?”

“
I don’t know, because you had so many feelings before. Because you said you wanted to talk about them then.”

I just didn’t get it. Where was the climax? If there was no climax, there would be no catharsis. The Beggars Group’s splitting was a big fucking deal. I needed catharsis!

“
Randy, you have terrible emotional timing. Feelings don’t turn on and off like a faucet.”

I chuckled a little thinking about Bobby's faucet but quickly regained composure.

“
You have to talk about them when you’re having them. I needed to talk to you about my feelings then, when I was feeling them. Not now that I’ve already worked through them. Just like it took a full week after your boyfriend dumped you before you had a meltdown. He wanted you to talk about your feelings then, when you broke up, not a week after you left him. You’re too late, Randy. It’s over. We’re done. You missed your chance to work it out, just like you did with C.J. Now, have a good night.”

She closed the door. I felt like I’d just been punched in the face. I had the urge to spit. I just knew my mouth was filling with blood. Was I missing a few teeth? I was unprepared for the hit. With my notebook in my bag, my defenses were down. I stood there for a moment until Lolly grabbed my hand and pulled me into the hot summer night. Kathy was right. I had bad emotional timing.

“
Well,
that
was crazy,” I said to Lolly, lighting a cigarette as we exited the building.

“
Come on, we knew that was going to happen. Give me a cigarette.” Lolly didn’t even smoke. “That was a really dick thing for Kathy to say. I’m sorry.”

“
Well, yeah. I guess. But I think she was right.”

“
Still, it was a really mean thing to do, bring up your ex and all. But hey, if it’s true, you’re not going to cry about it until next week, right?”

Thank God Lolly was there to lighten the mood. It had been an intense 15 months. We spent a lot of time together, and the cinematic montage of “the good times” was playing in my head.

“
So, I totally feel like an asshole, but I don’t feel sad. Why do you suppose that is?” I asked, genuinely confused by my emotional state. Lolly was much more practical about it.

“
Do you think they’re upset? Of course not. They’re relieved. They’re glad to be rid of us.”

“
But do you think they’re glad to be rid of the company?”

In this instance, I couldn’t separate myself from the company. Sure, they were glad to be rid of us, but we took the company. Everything they worked for was now squarely in our hands. It was like a divorce. We all got married, bought a house, fixed it up, had some kids. Lolly beat them, while I stood idly by, then they left. They filed for divorce and just walked away. We got to keep the house, the kids, and everything. I didn’t understand how they could be OK with that. Were they really going to be happy? Was their happiness as intrinsically tied to making theater as mine was? The ease of their abandonment shocked me.

“
They don’t want to do this, Randy. They say they do, but they don’t really want to run a theater company.”

Maybe Lolly was right. Maybe they had had their experience and were glad to be done with it. Maybe they just wanted to be actors, not publicists, producers, fundraisers, and everything else that comes with running a theater company. This thought provided some clarity, and opened a door for a new emotion. Maybe we needed to pare down the company a bit. Maybe fewer people would give us a better focus. If Lolly and I could just synch our visions, we might actually be able to spring back from this.

“
I’m pretty excited,” I said, looking over at Lolly, who was already smiling from ear to ear.

“
Me too,” she replied. It dawned on me that we had a lot to be excited about. Despite having no cast and no producing team, we
did
have a few things going for us. We had three weeks fully paid for at Under St. Marks Theater in October, all the publicity materials printed, several thousand dollars in the bank, and another four weeks at Under St. Marks half-paid for in April. Basically, we were sitting on an entire season of infrastructure that had been laid out and mostly funded. This was the house that The Girls and Bobby left behind. And Lolly and I had the urge to redecorate.

“
So, about the next show,” I began. “You can’t direct it.”

“
I know,” she said. And we walked all the way home to West 109
^th
Street, carefully plotting the new incarnation of The Beggars Group.