Confessions of a Transylvanian (48 page)

And then it was over. Our little Rocky Woodstock had come to an end and it was time to pack up our gear, debrief at Denn
y’
s and simply marvel at the experience.

Russ was glowing, as proud of us as
I’
d ever seen him. W
e’
d been faced with a high-pressure, do-or-die situation and had somehow pulled it off. Better than that—the size of the crowd (and their obvious enthusiasm) practically guaranteed that we would get a huge bump in attendance over the next couple of months, something that never fails to mollify a nervous theater owner.

Though we did
n’
t know it at the time, this evening would also mark the high point of the Ultravision Rocky show. We had enjoyed great nights before that one and many wonderful nights afterward, but nothing would ever compare to the pure energy, the raw enthusiasm and the mind-blowing rush of that huge crowd eating up everything we did with a big-ass spoon.

Over the next few weeks, a number of full-time cast members, most of whom had now spent almost a year away from their old home in Hollywood, began to walk away from the Deerfield cast. Andrea left first with Tony in tow. Tom, naturally, followed suit. Sunday was next out the door. Even Billy left. One by one, the original Ultravision cast faded away.

Storme took over Magenta. Steve became our full-time narrator. Cheryl was the new Columbia.

And very soon afterward, after almost a year of waiting, my big moment arrived.

Kenny announced his departure in December of 1982 and symbolically turned over the Riff Raff reins by presenting me with his combat boots in a brief ceremony after the show. He told me that he would be keeping the skullcap and tails, but the boots were all mine.

“Have fun, Jack,” he said, grinning wide. “H
e’
s yours now.” Kenny seemed almost relieved to be done with it.

It was a whole new cast. The only Hollywood veterans left were Donny, Russ and Ron. Everyone else had turned in their keys. We still saw them a lot, of course, down at Tracey and Kenn
y’
s place or at one of our outings, but the word had come down from the mountaintop.

The old guard was finished with their work. There was a new Rocky gang in town.

And we were it.

23

Say Goodbye to All This

S
o that was 1982. It had been the greatest year of my life. And the way things were going, 1983 looked poised to top it.

I was going out with the prettiest girl
I’
d ever met, my redheaded young goddess with the bitchi
n’
car. I was finally playing the role of my dreams, kicking it as Riff Raff every Friday and Saturday night at the Rocky show. My friends were the coolest people on the planet and knew more ways to have fun than ought to have been legal (and quite a few that were decidedly
not
). My senior year was in full swing, I was starting my final semester of high school and, as Class President, I quite literally ruled the school.

Even better, after graduation
I’
d be looking at three blissful months off—my last summer at home—and then the real adventure: my first year at college.

Life, in other words, was a bowl of cherries. And I was making cherry fucking
pie
.

As a cast, we spent almost all of our free time either at Kenny and Trace
y’
s place, Rus
s’
s apartment or Storm
e’
s house. By then, all of my high school friends, save Dean, had completely ceased to exist. It was all Rocky, all the time.

Classmates threw parties. I did
n’
t care.

Clubs at the school beckoned. I ignored them.

Organized sports? Who had time?

The only reason my grades stayed above sea level was because my Mom would have yanked the plug on the show if
I’
d let them slide. So there I was, a full year after having joined the cast, and my enthusiasm had not ebbed in the slightest. Instead, my devotion to the show had multiplied exponentially.

Rocky had become my entire world.

This became clear one night when I found myself at Denn
y’
s after the show locked into a conversation with Ron, Tracey and a new cast member named Sam. Only a three-week rookie, Sam was trying to get his mind around what it really meant to be a true Rocky devotee. He was having fun and everything, he said, but he did
n’
t quite grasp what we got in return for our dedication. And he was deadly honest about it. He thought our unwavering allegiance to the show was a bit...ridiculous.

And then, after expressing his confusion over why we considered the show to be such a big deal, he made the mistake of saying the dreaded words:

“After all, i
t’
s just a movie. Right?”

Ro
n’
s face fell, but he seemed ill-disposed at the time to school this kid on what an egregious Rocky
faux pas
he had committed. It is
n’
t easy to try to explain the inner meaning of life as a Rockette, so I could hardly blame Ron for giving it a miss. But schooled this kid must be, so I did my best to explain:

“Lemme tell you something, Sam. And
I’
m not just blowing smoke at you. This is the truth: Rocky is not (all evidence to the contrary) just about dressing in crazy costumes, getting up on stage and pretending to be some character in a movie. If it were, just about any movie would do the trick. You could do Rocky versions of..
.‘
Grease
,’
you know? Or
‘
Wizard of Oz
.’
Anything. Hell, it would be just as easy to get dressed up as Danny Zuko or Dorothy or the Tinman or whatever and do this kind of show, would
n’
t it?”

Sam nodded. This seemed to encourage me to expand on the topic. “So if it was just about performing a live version of a movie, then ask yourself: Why this one? Why is this the
only
movie on the planet where people show up, week after week, get in costume and perform the show the way we do? I mean, why
‘
The Rocky Horror Picture Sho
w
’
?”

Sam looked as if he did
n’
t have an answer. But Ron did:

“Because this movie is not about all that surface shit. I
t’
s not about being a nympho or running around half-naked or fucking everybody you see. I mean, it looks that way, at first, and tha
t’
s part of the original charm, I suppose. It may be what gets people (especially teenagers) to check out the movie or think about joining the cast. But i
t’
s not what makes them
stay
. The essence of this movie and, by extension, the point of doing the live show every weekend, is...”

Ron looked at me. “Go ahead. Your turn,” is what Ro
n’
s look said to me.

I took a breath and picked up where he left off. “I
t’
s about getting rid of your fear. Tha
t’
s the worst thing about being our age, right? The fear? The high school anxiety, the peer pressure bullshit. Scared of being embarrassed or laughed at or bullied or…well, just scared of being...different.

“Shit, tha
t’
s what Rock
y’
s all
about
. Embracing your…differentness. Seriously, if yo
u’
re looking for a formula to make a 17-year-old kid less self-conscious, you could do a hell of a lot worse than letting him strut around in a bra and fishnets every weekend, lemme tell ya.

“Around here, the rule is: Let go. Just lose your fear, dump it, and then you can do
what
you want,
when
you want, without giving a shit what other people think of who you are.”

“Or what you look like,” said Ron.

“Or your ambitions or your love life or
anything
you want to do. Anything.”

Ron said, almost under his breath: “Do
n’
t dream it. Be it.”

I nodded. “Goddamn right. I
t’
s easy to go through life scared. Or emotionally fucked-up. Or disappointed.”

Sam spoke up. “Disappointed in what?”

This surprised me. “In what? Hell, in everything, man! Disappointed in yourself. In your life. In your girlfriend, your parents, your husband, your wife, your family, your friends, your job. I
t’
s the easiest thing in the world, hating your life, right?”

Sam was really listening now. It was encouraging.

“But you know wha
t’
s hard? Changing all that. Doing what you actually
want
to do instead of what yo
u’
re
supposed
to do. Not being afraid of someone calling you a loser or a dreamer or a faggot or a weirdo or a fuckup.

“And that, Sam, is the message of this dumb fucking movie. And tha
t’
s why we do it. Every weekend. And that,” I said, leaning close, “is why the show works.”

I climbed down off my soapbox. Sam was quiet, taking in what I had said. I figured it was best to leave him alone with what I had just hit him with. My thought was that he would either swallow the Gospel of Rocky as I had preached it to him or dismiss me completely as a brainwashed nutcase. (Either option was entirely valid, really. I would
n’
t have blamed him either way.) So I figured I was done.

But when I got up from the table and turned around, Russ was standing there. H
e’
d been listening the entire time.

He did
n’
t react, at first. He just looked at me very seriously. He seemed to be sizing me up. Then he looked as if h
e’
d made a decision.

“Come here, Jack. I gotta talk to you.” Russ motioned me to a private booth and sat me down.

As was his way, he did
n’
t waste time.

“Listen,” he said. “I want to offer you a job.”

“A job?”

“Do
n’
t get excited. It does
n’
t pay anything.”

I smiled. I had
n’
t expected that it would.

“Her
e’
s the thing,” he said. “I want you to be cast director.”

I was a bit taken aback.
I’
d never even heard of such a position.

“Cast...what?”

“Director,” he said. “I
t’
s the perfect job for you, Jack. You…get it. What we do here. You believe in it. And best of all, you can
say
it.” He puffed on his cigarette. “So?”

I was totally flummoxed. “What does a cast director....do?”

Then it was Rus
s’
s turn to look perplexed. “You know what? I dunno. I guess w
e’
ll have to figure it out as we go along.” He stared off for a moment, deep in thought. Then he said, “For starters, yo
u’
d be in charge of who plays what. You make the assignments. Main characters, understudies, the works. And new hires. Any cast members we get from here on in, yo
u’
re their new boss. Think you can handle that?”

I considered the offer. It was more responsibility than
I’
d ever imagined I would have in this cast. It might even involve pissing people off, assigning them to positions they did
n’
t particularly want. But I simply could
n’
t see myself looking Russ in the eyes and saying, “No thanks. Not interested.” Because that would have been a
huge
lie.

“Sounds great,” I finally stammered out. “Starting when?”

Russ grinned. “Starting right now.” He stood up and called for everyon
e’
s attention.

“Listen up! I want to announce a new position. And
I’
ve asked young Jack here to take it. Please welcome the new cast director.”

I was expecting a collective “Huh?” but, instead, the cast applauded. I was apparently the only one in the room who did
n’
t see this coming.

The spring semester flew by. I got letters back from the colleges where
I’
d applied and discovered that I had been admitted to three of the four schools
I’
d written to. In fact, Dean and I had both been accepted by virtually all the same New York schools and were trying to figure out which one to pick. It was an enviable position, I knew, having a selection to choose from.

After wrestling with our various choices, Dean and I finally settled on a state school, part of the SUNY system, about ninety miles due north of New York City. We would go together. Strength in numbers. We were all set.

But we were
n’
t in any hurry. We were still in high school, after all. College did
n’
t start up until the fall. We had plenty of time to—

Boom. Graduation Day. Just like that. School is done. Real life begins. Her
e’
s your hat. Wha
t’
s your goddamn hurry?

We could
n’
t believe it. We thought w
e’
d have more time to prepare. We thought w
e’
d be ready.

We thought wrong.

The whole final semester seemed to take no more than a week, really. On Monday we were back from Christmas break. Tuesday we studied. Wednesday was prom. Thursday was finals. Friday, they handed us our sheepskins and kicked us out the door.

Before I could wrap my head around it, I was forced to come to terms with the fact that I was now a high school graduate looking at my last summer before college.

So, you know: Gulp.