She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (18 page)

With eyes burning, I shot back with his line, “Ladies, be the first on your block to poison your man with Perry Ellis.”

Not realizing what I had said, or that it made no sense, I repeated it over and over just to taunt Mr. Eric. A small group started to assemble in my area as I grew more animated, raising my voice to shout even more inappropriate slogans. Finally Mr. Eric tried to subtly correct me. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I just sauntered away from him with a runway turn, and announced to the crowd as their jaws dropped, “Try Perry Ellis, the man is gone but his fragrance lingers.” That definitely didn’t come out right.

A few audible gasps, a “Well, I never,” and that was the end of my modeling career. Lorna, shaking her finger and head at the same time in a gesture far too physically complex to describe, moaned, “You were good, Brybubee, ya didn’t know any better, a babe in the woods, there are sharks out there, tootsie, sharks that will cut you down and serve you for hors d’oeuvres. But one word of advice—make that several—never degrade deceased designers, I know it was not your intention, you are a pussycat, but just the same I’ve got three Ellis brass fuming in the rest area behind Chloe, and one wants to see you outside, so my suggestion is go out the door you came in, sweetie, take some samples, and good luck in your playacting. Go!”

And so I did. I walked north back to my lonely abode away from the Bloomingdale’s palace, questioning everything in my life. How could it have come to this? How
could I let that guy get to me? What will I do for a job? I would not call my mom for money. Only the fresh green stupidity of youth kept my stride from faltering. At home I threw myself onto my eternally unmade single bed, only to see the message light flashing. Maybe the Ellis estate was taking legal action, maybe Betsy Bloomingdale was on her way to chew me out herself; I’d read in
W
that she could be brutal. I wearily reached over and pressed the button, the relentlessly blinking button. Danger.

Beep
. “… No, Oralea dawlin’, that goes in the attic … hello Bryan … Dawlin’ … are you there … Pick up if you are theeeere … Oh I Sewanee, I’ll never get used to these things. Anyhoo pumpkin-eater boy, how’d your audition go for
Evita
, I know you would love to play that part of Shay or Che-Che, I never can remember the name of that character, and I know how much you want it, you’d be perfect … By the bye, sweetie, are you still taking your voice lessons regularly and going to Alice’s acting class, you’ve got to keep on studying, well, give me a call … Oralea sends her love … and can’t wait to see you on Broadway again … Oralea, this show is for dinner theatre in Ohio, not Broadway … Oralea says she still can’t wait to see you on Broadway again … neither can I, but I’ll come to Akron just the same, love you my heart.”

Beep
. “Bryan, it’s Barbara Sanders calling from Honey Sanders’s office … your agent, sorry it’s been so long, but … NO … tell them no … no … over my dead body will he go back into
Cats
FOR LESS MONEY, AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN! SHUT UP TELL ANDREW LLOYD WEBHEAD HE CAN CALL ME COLLECT … Doll, it’s some good
news. You got it! Che in
Evita
, you’ll have to grow a beard, but hey. Good cast. Sue Cella, who covered Patti on Broadway, will be Eva, and David Brummell, who did the tour, a dead ringer for Peron. The money is not Broadway, but it’s a lead, you are young, and it’s a great opportunity, so you’ll do it. I already did the deal. Come sign your contract before you leave for Akron, Ohio, day after tomorrow, now I did get you star billing, star housing, though that ain’t saying much. So way to go, remember one thing, kiddo, and I know I don’t need to tell you this, be on time, keep your nose clean, don’t make waves, that’s what I’m here for, and try not to fish off the company pier, if you get my drift, it’s always a bitch when you get back to the real world.”

Salvation!

The next day two great college friends took me out for a birthday bon voyage dinner. Leslie Castay, who had moved to New York at the same time to become an actress, and David Pons, my fraternity little brother/young Elvis lookalike, marched me into the ever-thrifty Second Avenue Sezchuan Hunan Cottage II. It was the home of General Ching’s chicken, prepared the very same way for Chairman Mao, and all the cheap rotgut box wine one could drink! Heaven. We laughed as we stumbled home and my unsuspecting friends chided that perhaps I’d meet Miss Right in Akron, crazier things have happened. All I knew was that I had to keep my secret safe; otherwise I would lose these dear friends as well as all my childhood, high school, and college friends whom I adored, not to mention my family. Too much to risk, so I bottled it up, with the bottle.

“Yeah, who knows, I love tall, wholesome blondes, and the Midwest is full of them, right?”

The next morning I was on the plane to Akron, Ohio, the Rubber Capital of the World, to play Che in
Evita
, a role I had longed to play for years. Seated next to me was a very stylish and accessorized lady who wore bright jewel tones and a large, low-slung eighties belt, tights, and ankle boots, and carried a Perry Ellis faux leopard coat. My kind of gal. Within a few moments we came to the realization that we were both in the show and she was Susan Cella, who would play Eva. She had many other credits, like the original companies of
On the Twentieth Century
and
Me and My Girl
. I was certainly impressed and somewhat intimidated.

Soon we would be settled in our temporary hotel rooms for a few days of rehearsal until the cast of Maury Yeston’s
Phantom of the Opera
closed and moved out. Later we would move to the same depressing tract housing they had occupied, four units per structure all in a row, with parking in front and snow-covered woods in back. Thank God the principal players did not have to share bedrooms as the chorus members did, just the common areas of kitchen and living room. On our first night, there was a sort of impromptu get-together at the Carousel Dinner Theater, where we were to dine and see the show, or, as it came to be known, “chew and view.” There was a lot of the noisy activity typical of theatre people arriving at a hotel, shrill screams of those who had worked together before, and lots of doors shutting and calls down the hall. I now started to understand why some hotels in the past had refused actors.
Suddenly there was a knock at my door, and when I opened it, there stood a tall, lanky young man with a very handsome face and the most beautiful crystal blue eyes I’d ever seen. I was caught off guard for a moment, and he was as well. For a split second we just stood there looking at each other, until I said, “Hi, are you in the show?”

He answered quickly, “Um, yes, I am. Tom, Tom Cianfichi. I’m in the ensemble and understudying Magaldi.”

We both reached out our hands at the same time to shake, and they remained together unnoticed by either of us throughout our conversation. As much as I tried, I could not remember how he pronounced his last name.

“Uhhh, nice to meet you, I’m playing Che. I’m Bryan, Bryan Batt.”

“That’s great, great role … Uhhh … I was looking for a James Anderson, he’s supposed to be my roommate, but I can’t seem to find him.”

“Sorry, Tom, but I’ve not met him yet.”

We then noticed our hands and pulled them away. I quickly spoke to cover the awkward moment. “Are you going to see the show tonight? Uhhh, I was going to see if Sue wants to sit together, she’s our
Eva
, been in a bunch of Broadway shows. I’ve only been in one,
Starlight Express
. You could sit with us.”

“Sure, that sounds great, I’ll find this James Anderson and get settled; see you at the van at six. Thanks.”

“Sure, see you at the van. How seventies, right? Uhhh, see you at six.”

I closed the door, and swore I could hear children singing “The Hills Are Alive with the Sound of Music” just
like the moment in the film of
The Sound of Music
when Captain Von Trapp is berating Maria for making play outfits from the old curtains for the children, then off in the distance their angelic voices are heard and his heart begins to melt. That was the feeling I was experiencing at the moment, new, wonderful, and frightening. Over the next two weeks of rehearsal we would hang out together, and finally, on opening night, April 1, 1989, after a few Casa Rosada Colada specialty drinks at the Carousel Dinner Theater’s Brass Ring Bar, as we lagged behind the crowd through the dark backstage labyrinth, we shared a kiss. The next day Tom overheard one of the female members of the ensemble saying, “I think Bryan likes me,” but he knew otherwise.

Over the next weeks and months of the run, we took walks, made each other dinners and breakfasts, and enjoyed the fun part of a burgeoning relationship, the discovery. The only problem was that I was still completely closeted and was terrified by the idea of anyone knowing my secret. I don’t know how he put up with me through this period, which lasted a good year and a half, but amazingly he did. As the snow-covered land gave way to the greens of spring, and bright yellow forsythia blossomed, we grew closer together, and often covert clandestine trysts were arranged due to our spring fever. One day my housemate, Gibb Twitchell, who played Magaldi, was off to search antique malls in the surrounding area for his beloved Roseville pottery, an excursion that would take at least several hours. So quickly I called Tom over to visit. Just after the games had begun, I heard the front door
open. Gibb had come back, and he called out, “Bryan, are you here? I decided not to go after all.”

Tom froze as a look of unadulterated panic came over my heated face.

“I’ll be right out, Gibb, just getting dressed.”

Barely whispering I handed Tom his clothes and hurried him into the closet, whispering to him that I would let him know when the coast was clear to make an exit. I quickly jumped into my jeans and shoes, buttoning my oxford shirt as I nonchalantly sauntered out of my bedroom, “Gibb, I think I’ll take a little walk, it’s so beautiful out today,” I said ever so casually as I made my way to the door, trying not to look back into my bedroom for traces of Tom. I quickly flew down the front plank stairs, and when I reached the parking lot which was our front yard, the idea came. I looked over my shoulder at the wooded area directly behind the row of housing and walked toward it, then suddenly let out a bloodcurdling scream.

“Oh my God, oh my God, look at that snake, I’ve never seen a snake that huge! Everyone come see, oh my God … Gibb! Sue! Everyone! What kind of snake is that?”

One by one the cast rushed to my side, looking for the serpent, some of the over-actors actually claiming to see the snake. When nearly everyone was in the back looking for the figment of my reptilian imagination, I noticed Tom coming down my steps to join the fray, and with a wink all was fine. We would encounter far more trying events and adversity, but an irrevocable bond had formed that would not be undone.

F
ROM DECEMBER OF
1990 until December of 1992 I was the biggest pussy on Broadway. For six months on the road plus a year and a half on Broadway, I was in the cast of
Cats
. Whatever cartilage I had left in my knees after my year roller-skating in
Starlight Express
was completely destroyed after this stint. And although my joints are shot and I can predict the weather with my left knee, I would not trade the thrill of having appeared in either of those Broadway extravaganzas for anything.

The Broadway company of
Cats
was approaching its ninth year when I eagerly and happily joined the troupe. Some of the original members or early replacements were still dancing in the litter box, and there were quite a number of bitter cast members who seriously needed attitude adjusting. Some of the more jaded leotard-clad felines actually felt as if they were doing management a favor by showing up to work. This bitchy attitude was completely lost on me. Yes, we were in a huge, long-running hit.

Yes, we were unrecognizable at the stage door. And yes, at this point our audiences were predominantly drowsy non-English-speaking tourists. (I am convinced they were shuttled directly from JFK airport to the Winter Garden Theater. When the lights dimmed they fell fast asleep, and it gave me great mischievous pleasure to startle them awake as I crawled through the audience reciting T. S. Eliot’s “The Naming of Cats.”) But I knew that the number of actors who would kill for this job would stretch around 51st Street, and so I acted accordingly—professionally and gratefully.

I looked to the late, great Laurie Beechman as an example. I had been a fan of Laurie’s since I first saw her as the narrator in
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat
. She was a pint-sized dynamo with a huge, spine-tingling voice and a kind, loving heart. She quickly became a dear friend and confidante to me as well as to Tom. When we met she was battling stage three ovarian cancer, which she would continue to fight for eight years. She simply amazed me with her strength, talent, and grace.

About nine months into my Broadway run, while Laurie brilliantly belted out the show’s trademark song, “Memory,” my eyes wandered into the audience. My gaze fell upon a grandmother, mother, and son, seated in the very same box seat that Mom, Moozie, and I shared at my first Broadway show some fifteen years before. I felt a warmth I’d never felt before, and as the months progressed, I would often look at that box and think of that magical, life-changing night so many years ago and of the storied history of this landmark theatre.
West Side Story
,
Mame
, and
Funny Girl
all played in this beautiful temple to the gods of Comedy and Tragedy, which was now transformed into an oversized junkyard.