Confessions of a Transylvanian (51 page)

We agreed that this was an entirely understandable request.

We nailed down the third Saturday in May as the official show date. The Flippers cast manager was never anything less than magnanimous about hosting us and the cast was incredibly generous in offering us their parts for the night. And of course, this being a Russ Production, a marketing campaign to draw a decent crowd for the event was set in motion almost immediately.

Once the cast list had been agreed upon and forwarded to the Flippers folks, we began to plan how to put the whole thing together. After all, we could hardly just stroll in the door and begin performing the show after all these years. We had to rehearse.

As it was, we were scheduled to convene at the timeshare on Friday in Hollywood and then perform the following night. After shooting ideas back and forth, we decided to spend Friday simply enjoying one anothe
r’
s company and then devote all day of Saturday to prep for that evenin
g’
s show. Everything was in place.

Then, a small bump in the road:

Someone had suggested that Andrea and Sunday, while unwilling to perform their old roles, at least step forward to do the opening number. For one night, it was proposed, would they be willing to trot out their old “Science Fiction / Double Feature” choreography? For old time
s’
sake?

The answer was swift and final: Forget it.

Cajoling was attempted. Such efforts were definitively shot down by the both of them. No way. The
y’
d show up, watch us do the show, enjoy the movie, no problem. But perform? Not a chance.

Those of us who knew them knew better than to argue.

For the cast members planning to participate in the show, some homework was in order. After all, we were trying on characters we had
n’
t worn in a quarter-century. But this time around, we had snappy new modern conveniences to assist us.

DVDs, downloadable versions of Rocky, YouTube videos...the source materials available to help us prepare were endless. Frankly, during the planning stages, it was difficult not to come across like a curmudgeonly old whiner: “
You kids today. You got it so easy. Why, in my day...we had to learn Rocky in the
theater
. No rehearsal at all! And people beat us with
sticks
while we learned it. And we had to pick our own sequins right off the
tree
!
”

To be honest,
I’
d have killed for a video of Rocky back in the early
'
80s to play at home and hone my craft. Andrea would certainly have been spared one THWOCK in the head with a feather duster, you can bet your ass on that.

So there I found myself, in my Chicago living room the week or so leading up to the big reunion, cramming for my Rocky final exam. I brought home a copy of the movie, popped it in the player, flicked the play button and went back in time.

I’
d like to say that conjuring up my inner Riff after all those years was as easy as getting back up on a bicycle.
I’
d
like
to say that, but her
e’
s the difference: When you have
n’
t ridden a bike in a long time, you simply get on, grab the handlebars, pedal unsteadily at first and then—bam—you get the hang of it. Tha
t’
s it. Yo
u’
re done.

Playing Riff Raff? Slightly different experience. Because i
t’
s the details tha
t’
ll kill ya. How much time is there, for example, between the door creaking open and the first “Hello” to Brad and Janet? Three point eight seconds? Gotta feel that timing in your body. The routine before stepping onto the elevator? You pour the glass of champagne, take a swig, drop the bottle, step in the elevator, slam the door, hit the button. Timing, timing, timing.

Then ther
e’
s the Time Warp choreography. Oh, it comes back to you. But it takes a while.

So, study I did. Night after night, watching that unwatchable movie until I had it
down
.

After all...I could
n’
t disappoint the team.

The flight from Chicago to Florida that Friday morning was uneventful. I wish I could say the same about the rest of that day.

Ron and Tracey picked me up at the airport and gave me a lift to Hollywood. The two of them had broken up years ago and had each married (and divorced) along the way. But, despite their separate, personal emotional roller coasters, they had managed to stay close.

They looked terrific, too. I suspected that, like me, they had gone on “Rocky diets” the minute they agreed to do the show. Could
n’
t very well have a portly Brad or a Riff Raff with a poochy belly, now could we?

Instead, we looked dynamite. Middle age could go suck it.

Rolling up to the timeshare, we checked in and dropped off our bags, soon discovering that we were among the first to arrive. There was only one person there before us:

Donny.

I’
d like to say that he looked terrific, too, but he did
n’
t. He was bigger than ever and did
n’
t look all that healthy. Not that yo
u’
d guess it from his demeanor. From the moment he laid eyes on us, his face lit up and beamed his joy across the room like a beacon.

I was starving after my flight so we grabbed lunch in the lobby restaurant, the four of us. Talk flowed easily, as always. None of that awkward bullshit that sometimes plagues friends and relatives who have been apart for a long time. We caught up on one anothe
r’
s lives, our kids (those of us who had them), our careers and our enthusiasm for this weekend.

Afterward, we retired upstairs and awaited the arrival of the rest of our merry band. But soon after lunch, I began to feel queasy. Then downright awful. Then really fucking sick.

Clearly, the lovely shrimp luncheon I had enjoyed downstairs was not doing me the favor of enjoying me back. It was, in point of fact, attempting to claw its way out of me using the nearest exit available. I very soon discovered that the only comfortable position was lying flat on my side, in the bedroom, with the lights dimmed.

It was horrible. Not being sick, necessarily, though that sucked, too. But missing out on the reunion—that was just killing me. I could hear people arrive and get swept up in the welcome from the next room, but I could
n’
t bring myself to get up. Every so often, I would get a visitor. Cheryl popped in to say hello. Storme dropped by to tell me to get my ass up and stop being such a pussy. Then Russ. Sunday. And, finally, Andrea.

“Hey, Jack.”

I opened my eyes. And I boomeranged back to my sixteenth year of life.

“Hey.”

“Not feeling so good, huh?”

“Not at the moment. Getting there, though.”

“You need anything?”

“
I’
m okay. For now.”

She smiled pityingly at me. “All right. You need anything, give a holler.” She started to go and stopped. “But Storm
e’
s right. Get your ass up soon, willya?” She smiled again and left.

I allowed myself another twenty minutes of quiet and solitude to make sure everything was settled.

And then, taking their advice, I got my ass up.

The party had moved down to the bar. I went down to find them and it did
n’
t take long. This group was hard to miss.

Almost everyone was there, the entire crew from the old Deerfield cast, save Billy, Boyd and Kenny. But the three of them were not completely AWOL. They were each planning to be at the theater tomorrow. Could
n’
t miss
that
.

The rest of the cast had taken over three tables in the lounge and the scene looked eerily similar to our post-show Denn
y’
s gatherings back in the day.

Storme spotted me as I staggered to the table. “Jack, you look like shit.”

“Thanks, Storme. I aim to please.”

Donny waved me over to a chair between him and Ron. I took a seat and was offered anything my heart desired. Under normal circumstances, I would likely have tried to match everyone drink-for-drink, as was our custom on these occasions, but I settled for soda water instead. I was feeling a little fragile.

Luckily, the bar was situated near the ocean and the breeze that blew in off the water was wonderfully rejuvenating.

After a few minutes of catching up and our usual fuck-with-one-another banter, the conversation turned to the following nigh
t’
s event.

Russ was the Answer Man.

“W
e’
ve got the guy who does their Frank coming by tomorrow afternoon to meet with us. I asked him if he could come in the morning to rehearse but h
e’
s unavailable. So w
e’
re on our own in the a.m.”

I slipped on my cast director hat.

“Okay, who can play Frank tomorrow for the rehearsal in the morning?”

After a brief silence, Sunday piped up. “Fuck it,
I’
ll do it.”

“Yo
u’
ve got the tits for it.”

“Bet your ass I do.”

We ran through the cast list again. Flippers was fielding a Frank, an Eddie and a Dr. Scott. W
e’
d provide the rest. W
e’
d have two rehearsals, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. In between, w
e’
d chill by the pool, grab some dinner and head over to the theater around 11 to get the lay of the land.

Russ, going through his checklist, asked if I was willing to do the pre-show.

“Absolutely,” I said.

Sunday chimed in: “Yo
u’
ve got the tits for it.”

I grinned. “Bet your ass I do.”