Confessions of a Transylvanian (12 page)

My Mom, who I may have mentioned was really cool, did not come barging into my room at the crack of dawn and demand a report of the previous night. She let me sleep in, but only until she deemed my rest to be more slothful than rejuvenating.

“Up and at
‘
em, sport,” she finally called into my room at about 9:30.

I wrenched myself out of bed (no easy task) and made my way to the living room.

“What time did you get in?” she asked, sliding a cup of coffee across to me.

“About 3:30, almost.”

“Why so late?”

“They go out to the Denn
y’
s on Federal Highway after the show and have a cast meeting, so I went to that.”

“Denn
y’
s?” she said, incredulously. “Really?”

“Yeah, tha
t’
s what I thought. But it was
n’
t too bad.”

We sipped our coffee.

“So? How was it?”

I paused. How do you describe it? “It was...awesome.” I was a regular wordsmith in those days.

I related the story of the previous evening to her, not really feeling the need to edit it all that much. First, most of what had happened was pretty tame, really. And what had
n’
t been rated PG was not going to be shocking to
my
mother. She worked in a bar, after all, and had seen far worse than I felt capable of telling her.

When I was done with my story, she seemed pleased by my interpretation of the whole experience. “So this cast, the
y’
re okay, then? They seem like people you want to hang out with?”

I smiled at her. “Like you would
n’
t believe.”

And, just like that, I was cleared for my second night. All systems go.

Night two was
n’
t all that different from night one, except the terror of committing some horrifying mistake had (almost) entirely disappeared. A few things about the Saturday night show, though, are worth mentioning.

First, Steve introduced me to Russ in the parking lot before the show. I liked the guy immediately and, within a few minutes, understood perfectly why Steve had described him as being such an unforgettable personality.

Russ was a compact guy—not short, but concentrated. Like orange juice. He had dark, curly hair, a ready smile and was toasted as brown as a berry from the Florida sun. I judged him to be only a few years older than me, but he talked as if he were the wizened old Mayor of Rockytown. Like Doc, Russ wore dark shades, even at night, which covered up the tiniest pinprick eyes I had ever seen.

That night, standing in the parking lot, Russ was shirtless, but had a black bow-tie around his neck, a dark-brown fedora cocked jauntily over his eye and sported a silky-smooth Members Only jacket. He had a cigarette in his hand and always seemed on the verge of lighting it, when something would occur to him and h
e’
d start talking and forget all about it.

There was never a momen
t’
s stillness with Russ. He was in constant motion; gesticulating, nodding, objecting, agreeing, contradicting, laughing, crowing with indignation and shaking his head in disbelief. I had
n’
t been talking with him for five minutes before he started treating me as if h
e’
d known me for years. The guy was a riot.

He and Donny were apparently old buddies. But where Donny was laid back and relaxed, Russ was hyped up and ready for action. Not tense, mind you. Tha
t’
s the wrong word for it. But Russ was, at all times, ready to go. Go where? Well, where did you need him? His whole manner said, “Wha
t’
s next on the agenda, people?”

That Saturday was also the night I decided which character I ultimately wanted to play in the show. It is, from my experience, a good idea to set your sights early on a specific goal and then do everything you can to make it a reality. The power of positive thinking, right?

So that night I looked around and made my decision.

My character of choice: Riff Raff.

There was something about him—Rif
f’
s innate coolness, his seeming subservience that turned to sly cunning or apoplectic rage at a momen
t’
s notice. He is
n’
t overt or over-the-top. Instead, he lurks in the background, ready to strike. And when he does...
whammo!
He knocks off half the cast with a laser gun. Plus, he sings the best song in the movie.

And if you think about it: The author of the whole film had written the role
for himself
, so how could it not be a choice part?

Trouble was, there was someone standing in my way. And wha
t’
s worse:

He was really good.

Kenny, my Riff Raff nemesis, may have been at least a foot-and-a-half taller than his on-screen counterpart, but other than that he was perfectly suited to the role. For one thing, Kenny was one of the least “colorful” members of the cast. He did
n’
t seem to thrive on the drama and fireworks that appeared to motivate practically everyone else. He was above that petty bullshit, apparently. Who needed it? It was this aloof, I-do
n’
t-need-this-b.s. coolness on Kenn
y’
s part that made his Riff so watchable.

Tha
t’
s not to say he blended into the background or was a non-entity by any means. But Kenny was practical, reasonable and well-grounded, which, in a Rocky cast, was as rare as a talking albino howler monkey.

He was going to be a tough guy to depose, I figured. But I had made up my mind. Riff was going to be mine and Kenny was clearly in the way.

Like him or not, Kenny had to
go
.

There were no new cast members that first Saturday night, so we (the Transylvanian crew) fell into our respective roles without any muss or fuss and managed not to trip over one another during the course of the show.

I had learned some new Time Warp moves (when to wave your arms to and fro or left and right...it was slightly more complicated than it appeared) and had the opportunity to actually chat up some more cast members than I had the previous evening. Of course, none of what we had to say to one another about our respective lives was really all that interesting. We all went to different high schools, most of us lived at home and, oh yeah, we were having a really excellent time doing the show.

Clearly, the details would have to come later.

It was still far too early to try to actually meet or (God forbid) interact with any of the principals, so I basically stuck to my own caste. The Transylvanians were a very friendly bunch and we stayed together out of equal parts fear and camaraderie. We knew we were a part of a community of sorts, but we were keenly aware of our status on the food chain.

We were the gerbils. Wait. Are they lowest on the food chain? Maybe not. Okay, we were the plankton. There we go.

And while clinging to the lowest rung on the ladder was a degrading place to be, it did come with this comforting thought: There was no place to go but up.

The top of the show began and, again, I camped out in front of Andrea and Sunday for the opening number, once more filled with post-pubescent wonder at the pure sexual attractiveness on display just a few feet away. Then it was off to the wedding scene. Then a break. Then “The Time Warp.” Then Fran
k’
s song. Then the lab. Then Eddie. Then the newlywed
s’
trip to the boudoir. Then...clock out and wait for clean-up time, honing my callback skills along the way.

There was
n’
t a moment during the show where I was
n’
t still keyed up. I was like a Transylvanian sponge, soaking everything up at once. I spent the show hanging out with Steve, but Tracey soon joined us. The rookies felt it was important to hang close together, I suppose.

But the experience itself no longer felt completely foreign. Even though it was only the second night, I already felt like I was merging with my surroundings. There was still a lot to learn, a great many hurdles to overcome as far as ingratiating myself with the headliners and a lot more viewings to get under my belt before I could be called a veteran. But there was
n’
t a question in my mind as to whether or not I had made the right decision.

I was home.

After the film came down, there was
n’
t that awkward, “What now?” feeling either. When all was said, done and safely stored away, I piled into Stev
e’
s car and we were off to Denn
y’
s for the post-show gathering. The seating at the restaurant was slightly different than the night before (there did
n’
t seem to be a pre-arranged arrangement) and I found myself seated next to Russ instead of Tony and Tom. Worked for me.

Once Donn
y’
s portion of the evening was finished and the official cast business was put to rest, the sparks began to fly.

Russ, along with a couple of other Rocky veterans, was more than willing to mix it up with Sunday and Andrea, if only to wind them up and watch them go. The veteran cast members were always spoiling for a fight, it seemed, and it was
n’
t exactly comfortable to be caught in the crossfire. My proximity to Russ meant that I was going to catch a lot of shrapnel that was
n’
t necessarily meant for me.

Tonight, Sunday and Andrea were joined in their evening banter by the girl who played the Floor Show Janet, and she was just as whip-smart and devastatingly quick as the other two. Her name was Iris and she was this tall girl—not much older than me—with long, wavy blonde hair down past her shoulders and this positively enormous pair of bright-blue eyes. Iris was thin but, like many of the young ladies in the cast, had a balcony that you could do Shakespeare from. The girl knew how to enter a room, is what
I’
m saying. Also, she had a laugh that exploded from her like a cannon and, since she found a lot of what was said at the table hilariously funny, her outbursts were enough to rattle the windows.

The banter usually revolved around a specific topic and this evening the subject was music. The debate swiftly grew fast and fierce.

Russ seemed to be the non-partisan arbitrator, as there was
n’
t much music he
did
n’
t
seem to like. But the rest of the people at the table had very strong opinions about what music did (or did not) totally and completely suck balls.

Iris was a huge Van Halen fan and she was catching a lot of flak for that. Most of the people at the table seemed willing to concede that Eddie was an impressive guitar player, but that David Lee Roth was horrifying—an egotistical, preening idiot. The guys all
hated
him and took turns trashing Roth. Iris, for her part, was having none of it.

Someone dared to call him a showboating asshole and most of the table agreed. “Fuck you all,” Iris shot back. “Not one of you is worth a hair on his nut sack, so get bent.”

But if the Van Halen front man proved to be a divisive topic, he was nothing compared to the singer Sunday and Andrea were currently swooning over. In fact,
I’
d go so far as to say that there were few lead singers in the early
'
80s who caused more friction by the mere mention of their names.