Confessions of a Transylvanian (33 page)

“And then there was Robby. Robby was unlike anyone else at the Hollywood Twin in one regard. Know what it was? Robby
never
missed a show. Ever. Week in, week out, Robby showed up, played Riff, went home. And
I’
m here to tell you, Jack: He was fucking horrible.

“His timing was always off. And not just a little. It was like he was shadowing the movie in the next theater. Even when he tried, his movements were wooden and robotic. It was like watching a mannequin get pushed around the stage. And his face. Jesus. I mean, you just played the part earlier tonight. You know how cool
O’
Brien is in the movie. He shoots Magenta these sly looks all the time. He grins when he thinks nobody is looking. And then, at the end? He just
loses
it.
‘
He did
n’
t like me! He never liked me
!
’
You know what
I’
m talking about. H
e’
s
awesome
.

“Robby? There was nothing going on at all. No expression. No change in his facial features, no matter what scene it was. Happy? Sad? Pissed? It was all the same to him.

“You remember that mask the guy wears in
Halloween
? Mike Meyers?” I nodded. “That was Robby. A big nothing. Just awful.”

Donny paused, remembering. “This went on for months. Every other understudy had been on, some of us three or four times. But not Ken. He just sat there. On the sidelines. On the bench. Waiting to get in the game.

“Finally I talked to Marshall myself.
‘
Yo
u’
ve gotta give him a chance
,’
I told him.
‘
H
e’
s put in his time. Let him have a show
.’
Marshall would
n’
t budge.
‘
I
t’
s Robb
y’
s part. When he decides to take a night off, Skinny Kenny gets Riff
.’
And that was it. End of discussion.

“Well, eventually it was bound to happen. Robby was
n’
t Lou Gehrig, you know? He could
n’
t do it forever. And sure enough, one night, Robby did
n’
t show. The cast waited around and, finally, at about fifteen minutes to showtime, someone called his house and got word that Robby was in the hospital. Burst appendix. Emergency surgery. Robby would survive, but h
e’
d be out for at least a couple of weeks.

“This was it. Kenn
y’
s turn at the plate. He went on that night for the first time.”

Donny shook his head and smiled. “Man,
I’
ll never forget it. Ken was just on
fire
, you know? It was like...watching a starving man
eat
. He was just loving the shit out of it. Every song, every scene. He was tearing it up.

“And w
e’
re all looking at Marshall like,
‘
See? Tha
t’
s how you play the fucking part, man. Tha
t’
s Riff. Not that bullshit that Robby was bringing
.’
But come the cast meeting, Marshall does
n’
t say a thing about Ken. He just says,
‘
Le
t’
s all send our good thoughts out to Robby
,’
and...that was that.

“Kenny played Riff for three weeks total. Every night he got better and better. By the third week, he was impeccable. I mean dead-on great. Nobody had ever seen anything like it.

“And the week after that...Robby returned. He took over the role again. And he sucked worse than ever. And Marshall never said a word.”

Donny was shaking his head in disbelief at the injustice of it. I did
n’
t bother to comment. I could
n’
t believe it myself.

“And you know what else?” Donny leaned forward and almost whispered to me, “Kenny never played Riff again. Until he got here. Four months later.
Four months
. Can you believe that shit?”

Donny leaned back again, took a sip of coffee and looked across the room at the cast gathered around the big table. From where I was sitting, I could see that Andrea and Sunday were in an urgent conference with Russ. And they all looked deadly serious.

“You know what I think, Jack? I think Kenny scared the crap out of those girls tonight. I really think he did.”

I was looking over at the Sunday and Andrea. They were both listening to Russ and nodding their heads.

“How?” I asked.

Donny smiled. “He showed them what they were turning into. He demonstrated, pretty dramatically
I’
d say, that they were turning into little fucking diva versions of Robby.” He snubbed out his smoke. “Not a very flattering thing to call someone. You know?”

Moments later, Russ convened the cast meeting. As usual, he got right down to business.

“First, le
t’
s hear it for Jack and his kickass Riff Raff tonight.”

The table erupted in cheers. I must have turned bright pink.

Russ waited for the noise to abate and continued. “I think if tonight taught us anything, i
t’
s that we need our understudies to be ready.”

A chill wind blew through the restaurant. Things were about to get icy again.

“So
I’
ve made a decision.” Russ raised his voice and announced: “Every understudy in the show, every single one, will go on and perform their character at least once a month, every month, whether the regular cast member is available or not.”

Every eye in the room swiveled to Andrea and Sunday, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

But they did
n’
t move. They did
n’
t blink. They stared up at Russ as if they thought he was making all the sense in the world.

Russ continued, “Storme and Jimmy, yo
u’
re up next Friday as Magenta and Eddie. Billy and Cheryl, yo
u’
re Frank and Columbia the Friday after that...” He went on, assigning a separate Friday night for each understudy to perform a role every month, rain or shine.

And the girls just sat there and took it. The miracle of the loaves and fishes had nothing on this. I could
n’
t figure it out.

Until I did. All of a sudden, I knew:

It was their idea. The whole understudies-go-on-every-month plan. Sunday and Andrea had proposed it to Russ. Probably
insisted
on it. It was the only explanation.

But yo
u’
d never guess it to look at them. They just sat there.

A couple of goddamn Sphinxes, they were. Unbelievable.

About ten minutes later, the restaurant door banged open and Kenny strolled in. He had a big smile on his face and sauntered casually up to the table. Every muscle in the room simultaneously tensed up. This could not end well.

“So,” he grinned. “Ho
w’
d it go?”

He looked completely relaxed, as if he did
n’
t have a care in the world, which was surprising since practically everyone seated around the table assumed that these would be his last few moments of life.

After what seemed like about ten hours, Andrea looked across at me and caught my eye. She smiled, but just barely. It was there for a millisecond and then it was gone. She then turned to stare back at Kenny. Finally, she said:

“He was a hell of a lot better than your sorry ass. Pack your shit, asshole. Yo
u’
re done.”

There was a momentary pause, and then the table exploded in laughter. Kenny did
n’
t seem to mind at all. He, like the rest of us, knew that despite the stunt he had pulled, he would resume his Riff duties the following week. But he also knew that before things returned to normal he would have to endure a spanking from the ladies he had so unceremoniously abandoned. Taking his punishment like a man, Kenny nodded his head approvingly and slid his eyes over to where I, his new understudy, was sitting looking up at him, grinning like an idiot.

As happy as I was, I swear: I think Kenny was even happier.

14

Hot Patootie

S
ummertime in Florida is like a new morning in Hell every damn day.

And yes, I know i
t’
s called the Sunshine Goddamn State. And yes, I know that the big draw is supposed to be the sunny beaches, warm climes, tanned ladies and all that.
I know
. But Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ it gets way too fucking
hot
down there and tha
t’
s the honest truth.

I mentioned earlier that almost everyone in Florida has either a pool in the backyard or at least some sort of access to watery relief, right? The reason for this is because, honestly, there was just no surviving without it. The air was like soup, the temperature was not unlike the inside of a roaring kiln and the sun made it feel as if someone threw a red-hot blanket over you every time you stepped outside.

The air conditioning, refreshing as it was, could
n’
t be everywhere. Besides, my mother did
n’
t make the kind of money that allowed us to keep the A/C on all day anyway. So we endured the heat and cursed our fate.

This meant that we were dripping with sweat about five seconds after getting out of the shower. You could get a sunburn walking to the store and back (those of us who actually walked, that is). But the worst was when you got into a vehicle that had been sitting in direct sunlight with the windows up for more than ten minutes. In those circumstances, it was like stepping into a car parked just outside the fifth ring of freaki
n’
Hades.

Needless to say, when summertime rolled around in Florida, finding activities that kept you cool was a high priority. And nobody, but nobody, knew cool like Russ.

By June, the Rocky cast at Deerfield was no longer simply confining our mutual activities to the weekends alone. We had begun to crave each othe
r’
s company on the weeknights, too. And once school let out and we no longer had to get up early for class...it was Friday night
every
night.

We needed ideas for exciting and interesting things to do and Russ, God love him, was the emcee of frivolity. The wizard of merriment. The ringleader of good, clean fun.

Who arranged for the mass trip to the local water park every month that summer? Daddy Russ.

The pool party at Storm
e’
s house? Rus
s’
s idea.

Even when we did something that involved moving about in the great outdoors and sweating (like the Great Softball Tournament of 1982, for example), it was Russ who showed up with a cooler brimming with tasty beverages to ward off the worst of the heat stroke.

And while w
e’
re on the subject of that softball game…

We had long since washed our hands of Marshall and the rest of the Hollywood cast, rebuffing their offer to join forces and create a mighty Rocky army. By doing so, we had (unofficially at least) declared war.

With a war on, it was inevitable that we would have battles. So, I ask you: What better place to hold a battle than a battlefield?

I want to say it was Marshall who proposed the big game, but it surely must have been one of us. (If it
had
been Marshall who conceived of the idea, Andrea would have refused to participate on general principle.) However it came about, we somehow agreed to play a game of softball against each other. We issued official challenges, accepted same, fixed upon a date, lined up equipment (gloves, bats, etc.), reserved a field for the big day and rehearsed the demeaning catcalls to be bandied back and forth between the rival casts.

Clearly, a lot of preparation goes into these grudge matches.

With our Transylvanian pride on the line, we were all itching to trounce the Hollywoodians and forever seal our reputation as the Best at Virtually Everything. Our zeal was such that we actually managed to organize a practice session the week before the game.

Even more surprising—we actually showed up for practice. Yes, we acted like good little girls and boys, turned in early the night before and arrived bright-eyed on the field the following day, all ready to give it a go. We had considered just showing up on the day of the Battle Royale and winging it, but we did
n’
t want to ruin the perfect chance to humiliate Marshall and his cohorts. To avoid looking like complete idiots, at least one practice session was deemed necessary so...off we went.

I
t’
s a good thing, too. Because inside of five minutes, the horrifying truth came out:

We were fucking awful.

It was like the Bad News Bears, if the Bears had been retarded and slightly drunk.

The problem was
n’
t our hitting. We could hit just fine. Hell, some of us (especially Donny) could send the ball a mile. That was
n’
t the issue at all.

It was our fielding. Dear lord. In our attempts to perform the simple task of capturing a batted ball in an oversized leather glove, we were simply atrocious.
Spectacularly
bad.

We could
n’
t field ground balls. We could
n’
t snag pop-ups. We could
n’
t catch a friggi
n’
cold. What made it worse, when the ball finally stopped rolling (after bouncing off our mitts and sending our hapless players scurrying after it) it turned out that most of us could
n’
t
throw
either.

Russ immediately attempted to make adjustments. Those of us who had actually played Little League (I was in this group) were given infielder positions. The truly abysmal players were relegated to the outfield. I suppose the strategy was to put his strongest defensive players up front and if it got by us...oh well.

Everyone rotated in and out of various positions until Russ finally agreed on a starting lineup. My sweet wife Tracey was kicked out into right field, poor dear. Sunday was in center. Felicia stood out in left. Andrea, one of our strongest players, actually, wound up at first. Russ got the hot corner at third, Ron played second and I took my place at shortstop. Donny was behind the plate, Tony took the mound and the rest were the reserves.

Despite this shuffling, we were still pretty horrifying. Balls regularly squeaked their way through the infiel
d’
s defenses and the ensuing chaos in the outfield would have been supremely comical if it had
n’
t been so pitifully heartbreaking. It was
sad
.

Nobody seemed to know the rules, either. Players did
n’
t call for pop-ups and so would either run into each other trying to snag one or, in the alternative, would slam on the brakes
before
the collision only to watch the ball drop pathetically to the ground between them. The concept of the “squeeze play” was lost on virtually everyone who had
n’
t seen a professional game and this included the majority of our team. Half the players did
n’
t even seem to grasp the idea that it was
n’
t cool to spark up a cigarette
while you were playing
.

After a while, Russ called for a break. We all slumped back to the dugout, much wiser than we had been when we arrived, but depressed as hell about the type of wisdom we had each received. Hollywood, if they were any good at all, was going to kick our sorry asses.

We dug into Rus
s’
s cooler for refreshments and sat in silence for a bit.

Finally, to break the tension, someone suggested bringing in a ringer.

“No ringers,” Russ immediately shot back. “I thought Marshall might pull something like that himself so...”

“So?” said Ron.

“So we traded cast lists. Nobody who is
n’
t on the list plays. Only full-time cast members.”

Once again, we all fell mute. There seemed no way out of this disaster. We were doomed.

As we sat there, wallowing in our own sense of foreboding, a familiar scent began wafting its way down the dugout, causing eyes to snap open and nostrils to flare with considerable interest.

Russ caught it right away.

“Goddamn it, wh
o’
s getting high?”

There was a moment of guilty silence, then:

“Why the hell not?” This from Sunday. “As long as w
e’
re going to play like shit, we might as well enjoy it.”

This sentiment seemed to be shared among most of the assembled players. The joint, produced from who knows where by God knows who, was passed among the interested cast members. I took a pass. I followed Russ, who had wandered away from the dugout dejectedly.

He was standing near the mound, staring in the direction of the outfield. In his dark glasses, I could
n’
t tell if he was focusing on anything in particular but his expression was dour. After a moment or two, I tried to lighten the mood.

“Hey, who knows? Maybe they suck worse than we do.”

Russ was
n’
t biting. “No way, Jack. Back in the day, we used to split the cast in two and play at a field down in Hollywood.” He turned and looked me square in the eyes. “They can play.”

I had no response. Russ stared off for a few more minutes and then turned, plodded back to the dugout and called out to the cast.

“Okay, two more innings and w
e’
ll call it a day. Le
t’
s go.”

Needless to say, getting everyone back out onto the field was
n’
t the easiest thing in the world to do now that they had self-medicated. But eventually we managed to get nine of us in position and Russ took up a bat, squaring off at the plate.

He tried not to sound defeated, but it was hard not to detect the note of tragedy in his voice.

“Okay, the play is to first.”

He lofted the ball in the air and sent it skittering toward third, where Cheryl had stepped in as his replacement. I was standing immediately to Chery
l’
s left, at shortstop, and was fully prepared to back her up when she muffed the play.

Miraculously, however, Cheryl somehow managed to scoop up the ball cleanly, digging the grounder out of the dust. She paused momentarily, looking slightly surprised. Then she pivoted, planted her foot and rocketed the ball to first. Andrea caught it clean.

One out.

The silence was deafening. None of us could quite believe that it had happened. Cheryl had executed a perfect play, perhaps the first of the day.

In the moments afterward, despite this display of unexpected athleticism, there was no congratulatory praise heaped on Cheryl, nor did she seem to expect any. Andrea simply dug the ball out of her glove and heaved it into home where Donny caught it without a word, turned and casually flipped it to Russ.

Russ held the ball and looked out at Cheryl, somewhat stupefied. Not seemingly inclined to call attention to her defensive gem, he simply called out, “Tha
t’
s one,” tossed the ball into the air and sent it sailing into the outfield.

Tracey, who had spent most of the morning standing in right looking bereaved and out of her element, was suddenly moving gracefully through the grass, tracking the fly ball. All at once, she planted herself and the ball fell into her glove. Plop. Ron had stepped forward as her cutoff man for the play at second but...there was no play at second. She had made the out.

Two down.

Again, the moment hung suspended. We were frozen, dazzled by the unexpectedness of this development.

And at this moment, we were all consciously aware that we faced a choice. We could either call attention to these astonishing occurrences (and risk jinxing the whole thing), or we could play it cool and act like what had happened was perfectly normal.

We opted for the latter choice. Tracey threw Ron the ball, he sent it home to Donny and we played on in silence.

For the next half hour or so, the defensive abilities of the cast improved exponentially with each play. Andrea caught a ball in foul territory that she had no business being able to get a glove on. Sunday ran in to snag a blooper that should easily have fallen for a base hit. And Ron and I, to our amazement more than anyone els
e’
s, actually managed to turn a double play.

The whole time this was occurring, Russ never said a word that was
n’
t related to the defensive play at hand. H
e’
d call out, “Man at second, one out. Play is to first if hit to the right, to third if hit to the left.” And h
e’
d swat the ball out to us and watch us do our thing.

After we had notched fifteen or so outs, Russ announced that we were done. We all trotted in and gathered in the dugout.

No one said anything. What had happened was beyond words, so we did
n’
t even bother trying. We waited for Coach Russ to weigh in on the proceedings.

“Well,” he finally said. “I think w
e’
ve got our strategy for next week.”

He looked around at us and then shook his head disbelievingly.

“If w
e’
re going to have any chance of kicking Marshal
l’
s ass on Sunday,” he finally said. “Yo
u’
re all gonna have to get baked out of your
minds
before the game.”