Sixteen
Ruby
Time for New York
It’s amazing how quickly you can find yourself adopted. But then, I did have a strategy. Before I even finished unpacking. I began hunting down obscure little theater groups, with the object of finagling my way into receptions and cast parties. Which was easy, because I knew the key. There is nothing more life-draining than investing large portions of yourself into a production, only to be faced with some turd at the reception who says, “You know, I’m an actor, too!” And to be forced to be nice to them, because either 1) they’re friends with someone in the company, or 2) they actually paid money to see you.
The road to popularity, then, was to engage theater folk without once mentioning your status as a fellow traveler. Also, of course, I was one hot little chick. Garnering invitations from men was a cinch – even gay men, who seemed to invest me with a sort of Judy Garland vibe.
Two weeks after my arrival, I journeyed to this little hole-in-the wall behind a coffeehouse in the East Village, where they were doing a little-remembered surrealist play from the forties. The plot wound around itself like a suicidal passion vine, but the show was intriguing nonetheless, firing along on rapid patter and brilliant illogic, simultaneously seen and unseen, as if you were watching it under a strobelight. In the end, I couldn’t tell you what had just occurred, but I relished having my head screwed with, and my face was warm with laughter.
The director and lead actor was Joe Green, a strapping young man who was playing (depending on which version of the story you were buying into) either an insurance detective or an out-of-work mailman. His features were extremely Italian: Roman ringlets of black hair, thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes and a generous nose with a boxer’s break. For all I knew, he could be a wiseguy. But he spoke like a director, bits of Bronx breaking through like fossilized ribs at an archaeological dig.
I cornered him at the reception, which was pretty easy to do. Lacking surplus space, they held it onstage, and Joe had enthroned himself on the central fixture, a turn-of-the-century barber’s chair. As we spoke, I commendeered a straight-razor (which turned out to be plastic) and pretended to give him a shave.
“I suppose I should tell you about the name.”
“Yeah? What about the name?”
“It’s Anglicized.”
“From what? Salvatore Frangiatelli?”
“Giuseppe Verdi.”
I stopped to even up his sideburns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that name already taken?”
“Yeah. And my parents aren’t even opera fans. What the hell were they thinkin’? When I entered the thee-uh-tuh, I saw my chance. Stage name: Joe Green.”
“Chin up, please. But how’d you get from one to the other?”
Facing ceilingward, he cocked an eyebrow. “You’re a smart girl – figure it out. I didn’t say ‘changed.’ I said ‘Anglicized.’”
Pretty cocky for a guy with a blade at his throat, I thought. I geared up the brainbox and came up with Giuseppe. Joseph. Joe. Verdi. Verdant. Green.
“Holy shit!”
“There you go. Imagine yourself going through life as, I don’t know – ‘Barbra Streisand.’”
“Okay. I get the picture.”
“Because you’re a singer, right?”
Uh-oh. “Nope.”
“Actor?”
“Nuh-uh.”
He laughed.
“Hey!” I said. “You lookin’ to get yourself sliced?”
“Sorry. It’s just so rare to talk to someone who doesn’t have a theater agenda. And an actual personality. So what is it that you do?”
“Florist shop.”
(Actually, I was delivering for a florist shop – pretty reckless, considering I had just hit town, and was constantly getting lost. But the owners were my cousins, and I was – Oh God – competent.)
“God! I love florist shops. That wall of fragrance that just smacks you when you walk in the door. So… if I’m getting this right, when it comes to the stage, you are an absolute layperson.”
“You got it.”
“So tell me about the play tonight. Nothing you’ve read or heard. Tell me what you think.”
I ran the razor along my teeth. “Knock-knock.”
Joe blinked. “Oh, um… Who’s there?”
“Surrealist.”
“Surrealist who?”
“Broccoli.”
That got him. He laughed, and I noticed what a great mouth he had. His lips were thick, like they’d been bruised in a fight. Poor baby, can I kiss it?
“So. What’s your point?”
“Surrealism,” I said, “is always just that close to being a joke. One… vegetable… away. So it’s all left to architecture, and delivery. Give it a solid structure, find some good actors to play it – it can be fucking brilliant. Lose either one – it melts like cheese in a microwave.”
Joe rubbed his freshly shorn (cleft) chin.
“What about tonight?”
I used the razor to tap him on the head. “I’m still here, ain’t I? Chatting with the director? If you really need me to spell it out, I loved it, and the best thing about it was you.”
He hid his face behind his hands – purely an act, because he was fully aware of how good he was. When he peeked out, I could see that his irises had tiny copper-brown chips that flashed when he moved.
“I need you.”
Gulp. “Pardon?”
“I’m workshopping a play. And I have had it shoveling the bullshit from the theater-folk with their aesthetic agendas and secret jealousies. I need a fresh set of eyes. What are you doing Friday night?”
I unleashed my most devilish smile. “I’m going to a play reading.”
Next: Playing for the Other Team
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV.
Ruby
Time for New York
It’s amazing how quickly you can find yourself adopted. But then, I did have a strategy. Before I even finished unpacking. I began hunting down obscure little theater groups, with the object of finagling my way into receptions and cast parties. Which was easy, because I knew the key. There is nothing more life-draining than investing large portions of yourself into a production, only to be faced with some turd at the reception who says, “You know, I’m an actor, too!” And to be forced to be nice to them, because either 1) they’re friends with someone in the company, or 2) they actually paid money to see you.
The road to popularity, then, was to engage theater folk without once mentioning your status as a fellow traveler. Also, of course, I was one hot little chick. Garnering invitations from men was a cinch – even gay men, who seemed to invest me with a sort of Judy Garland vibe.
Two weeks after my arrival, I journeyed to this little hole-in-the wall behind a coffeehouse in the East Village, where they were doing a little-remembered surrealist play from the forties. The plot wound around itself like a suicidal passion vine, but the show was intriguing nonetheless, firing along on rapid patter and brilliant illogic, simultaneously seen and unseen, as if you were watching it under a strobelight. In the end, I couldn’t tell you what had just occurred, but I relished having my head screwed with, and my face was warm with laughter.
The director and lead actor was Joe Green, a strapping young man who was playing (depending on which version of the story you were buying into) either an insurance detective or an out-of-work mailman. His features were extremely Italian: Roman ringlets of black hair, thick eyebrows, dark brown eyes and a generous nose with a boxer’s break. For all I knew, he could be a wiseguy. But he spoke like a director, bits of Bronx breaking through like fossilized ribs at an archaeological dig.
I cornered him at the reception, which was pretty easy to do. Lacking surplus space, they held it onstage, and Joe had enthroned himself on the central fixture, a turn-of-the-century barber’s chair. As we spoke, I commendeered a straight-razor (which turned out to be plastic) and pretended to give him a shave.
“I suppose I should tell you about the name.”
“Yeah? What about the name?”
“It’s Anglicized.”
“From what? Salvatore Frangiatelli?”
“Giuseppe Verdi.”
I stopped to even up his sideburns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that name already taken?”
“Yeah. And my parents aren’t even opera fans. What the hell were they thinkin’? When I entered the thee-uh-tuh, I saw my chance. Stage name: Joe Green.”
“Chin up, please. But how’d you get from one to the other?”
Facing ceilingward, he cocked an eyebrow. “You’re a smart girl – figure it out. I didn’t say ‘changed.’ I said ‘Anglicized.’”
Pretty cocky for a guy with a blade at his throat, I thought. I geared up the brainbox and came up with Giuseppe. Joseph. Joe. Verdi. Verdant. Green.
“Holy shit!”
“There you go. Imagine yourself going through life as, I don’t know – ‘Barbra Streisand.’”
“Okay. I get the picture.”
“Because you’re a singer, right?”
Uh-oh. “Nope.”
“Actor?”
“Nuh-uh.”
He laughed.
“Hey!” I said. “You lookin’ to get yourself sliced?”
“Sorry. It’s just so rare to talk to someone who doesn’t have a theater agenda. And an actual personality. So what is it that you do?”
“Florist shop.”
(Actually, I was delivering for a florist shop – pretty reckless, considering I had just hit town, and was constantly getting lost. But the owners were my cousins, and I was – Oh God – competent.)
“God! I love florist shops. That wall of fragrance that just smacks you when you walk in the door. So… if I’m getting this right, when it comes to the stage, you are an absolute layperson.”
“You got it.”
“So tell me about the play tonight. Nothing you’ve read or heard. Tell me what you think.”
I ran the razor along my teeth. “Knock-knock.”
Joe blinked. “Oh, um… Who’s there?”
“Surrealist.”
“Surrealist who?”
“Broccoli.”
That got him. He laughed, and I noticed what a great mouth he had. His lips were thick, like they’d been bruised in a fight. Poor baby, can I kiss it?
“So. What’s your point?”
“Surrealism,” I said, “is always just that close to being a joke. One… vegetable… away. So it’s all left to architecture, and delivery. Give it a solid structure, find some good actors to play it – it can be fucking brilliant. Lose either one – it melts like cheese in a microwave.”
Joe rubbed his freshly shorn (cleft) chin.
“What about tonight?”
I used the razor to tap him on the head. “I’m still here, ain’t I? Chatting with the director? If you really need me to spell it out, I loved it, and the best thing about it was you.”
He hid his face behind his hands – purely an act, because he was fully aware of how good he was. When he peeked out, I could see that his irises had tiny copper-brown chips that flashed when he moved.
“I need you.”
Gulp. “Pardon?”
“I’m workshopping a play. And I have had it shoveling the bullshit from the theater-folk with their aesthetic agendas and secret jealousies. I need a fresh set of eyes. What are you doing Friday night?”
I unleashed my most devilish smile. “I’m going to a play reading.”
Next: Playing for the Other Team
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Image by MJV.
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