The Importance of Being Ernie: (18 page)
“Damned compressor broke again!” he snapped. “I just had it replaced, too!” His cheeks flushed red with embarrassment, like a spoiled child whose favorite toy was broken. “I’m very, very sorry.”
The girls exchanged timid looks, not sure how to calm their pouting host. He grumped, “We’ll be leaving the station momentarily, without cool air!”
Right on cue, the train lurched forward. Peter glanced at me, suddenly aware that I was with his female companions. His hangdog expression brightened.
“My Three Sons,
right?” he blurted out.
“My Three Sons,
right?” he blurted out.
I nodded, relieved to see his sour puss lighten. It’s always surprising how fast a person’s mood can change after meeting someone famous. It’s like a magic tonic. He looked around the packed club car and said, “Let’s go to my compartment. Would you like to have a drink with us there?”
I smiled and thought, Would I like to have drinks with the railroad president and two really cute girls from Ohio? ... oh, sure, why not?
We arrived at Peter’s compartment; it was actually two sleeper suites combined to make one spacious stateroom. Cold beer was delivered and I guzzled mine like water. It was hot as hell, even in the president’s suite. When Peter found out that I played guitar, he insisted that I bring it back to his room so we could have a sing-a-long. When the president makes a request, you oblige.
I retrieved my Gibson from my berth and returned to play every Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Simon & Garfunkel tune that I knew. The more cold beer we drank, the louder our sing-a-long became.
At about eleven o’clock, there was a knock on the compartment door. The president, now pretty sloshed, cracked open the door to find an old black porter smiling sheepishly. He whispered, “It’s past eleven o’clock, sir, and some passengers are startin’ to complain ’bout the music.”
Peter nodded, then slurred, “We’ll take our singing somewhere else then.” He looked at us, lifted a plump index finger, and pointed it at the door a few times. We took this as a signal that we were leaving.
Moments later, our drunken host led us down a corridor toward the front of the train. I was right behind him, clutching my Gibson, trying not to bounce off the walls as the train swayed back and forth. The girls brought up the rear, carrying cases of beer.
Our trek ended on a clanging, wind-blown platform between cars. A steel door with a sign that said U.S.
MAIL CAR—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
prevented us from going any farther. Peter rapped repeatedly on the metal door, muttering curses about how it was hurting his knuckles. Eventually a peephole in the door slid open, and a pair of squinty eyes studied us.
MAIL CAR—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
prevented us from going any farther. Peter rapped repeatedly on the metal door, muttering curses about how it was hurting his knuckles. Eventually a peephole in the door slid open, and a pair of squinty eyes studied us.
“I need to come in,” Peter announced with authority.
The man behind the door said, “You can’t come in unless you’re mail personnel. It’s against the law.”
Irritated, Peter slammed an I.D. badge up against the peephole and bellowed, “This is my train, open the goddamn door!”
The peephole shut. Carey and I exchanged puzzled looks as we swayed with the jiggling platform. The door remained closed, and I assumed a debate was occurring inside the mail car. Suddenly the portal swung open, and a mail worker waved us in. Peter, smug and satisfied, marched forward and we followed.
The mail car was crammed with stacked cardboard boxes and gray duffel bags marked U.S. MAIL. Probably because of the stifling heat, the loading door was slid open to let some air in, and the outside scenery rushed by in a blur.
Three nondescript mail clerks gawked at us. We must have looked like an odd apparition appearing out of nowhere. They looked nervous, and I’m sure they felt their jobs were at risk.
“Go back to work. We’ll be gone soon. Nobody will know,” Peter said, waving them away. “Sit, play, sing!” he instructed us.
I parked my butt on some duffel bags, positioned my guitar, and resumed the concert with the Beatles song “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away.” We joined off-key voices again as the train’s constant clatter provided us rhythm. What an amazing, surreal scene.
Our revelry continued for a couple more hours until my throat was raw and raspy from singing. My brain was swimming in beer, too, as I grandly bid adieu to the president, his female companions, and, of course, the slack-jawed mail clerks. I stumbled toward the door, and Carey jumped to her feet. She said she was exhausted, too, and wanted to go to sleep. The night, already memorable, was about to take a turn for the erotic.
Carey and I had been eyeing each other all evening. The moment we were away from the others, we locked lips in a heated embrace. I suddenly wasn’t as exhausted as I thought; youthful hormones are such wonderful things.
Carey and I rushed to my sleeping berth, which was an upper bunk separated from the corridor by a heavy curtain. We tore off each other’s clothes and made passionate, over-heated love all through New York and Connecticut. Our lust was finally exhausted in Massachusetts as the sun rose and we fell asleep.
As the train neared the Boston train station, Carey and I awoke to the porter’s voice announcing the train’s arrival. We dragged ourselves out of bed, hungover as hell, and stumbled to the president’s stateroom.
We knocked on his door, and Peter opened it, greeting us with a stony glare. “Morning,” he hissed, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. His puffy bloodshot eyes narrowed with disdain, and he wobbled woozily back to a sofa. Sara was shrunk down in a seat across from Peter, unwilling to make eye contact with us.
It was hard to read what was behind this cold reception. Perhaps the president was worried about Carey’s disappearance. She offered up an apology, but he rejected it with a grunt and stared sullenly out the stateroom’s window.
My beer-pickled brain went from throbbing to pounding. I started to sweat, and it wasn’t from the lack of air-conditioning. I wondered, Maybe he’s jealous that I’d slept with one of his concubines.
That didn’t make sense, though. Carey told me that Peter gave no indication of wanting sex from her or Sara in the two weeks they’d been together. She assumed he was just a lonely, rich eccentric who wanted company.
I wanted to leave the room, but there was no easy way to make a graceful exit. Mercifully, the train clanged to a stop in Boston.
Our group, festive and merry the night before, disembarked from the train in complete silence. We walked together through the bustling station like total strangers.
At the curb outside, I hopped into the first available taxi. Peter gave me a stiff handshake and then quickly looked away. My eyes connected with Carey’s. I could see that she hoped we could meet up again, but she couldn’t say so in front of Peter. She wasn’t done riding the president’s
gravy train.
gravy train.
As my cab inched away from the curb, I glanced back at the trio, and something really odd occurred: Peter looked at me and raised the middle digit of his left hand. I couldn’t believe my eyes; the railroad president was giving me the finger. It was such an unexpected farewell gesture that I had to laugh. What a weird ending to a wonderful night.
I’d never been to Boston before, so I was eager to experience this historic city. Not knowing much about the lay of the land, Railsback and I chose to stay at the Avery Hotel just off the Commons, the city’s grand park. It was also within walking distance of our new theater, the Colonial.
Soon after moving in, I learned that my new neighborhood was called the Combat Zone, an area rife with prostitution, drugs, and other assorted illegal mayhem. It felt like I’d moved to Tattoine and was staying at the Star War’s Cantina. As Obi-Wan Kenobi said: “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.” That was a perfect description of my new home.
The Avery was a grand old hotel that had fallen on hard times. Every time you set foot outside, you had to dodge hookers in spandex hot pants, Super Fly drug dealers, and tattered beggars, every day and all night. It seemed strange that the city fathers of Boston, one of America’s most Catholic and moral enclaves, would tolerate such a place.
Boston was a very conflicted town, and I soon learned that the Combat Zone was more than Babylon on steroids. It was also ground zero for a bitter civil rights battle between the city’s African Americans and the white Irish communities. Large demonstrations filed past the Avery every few weeks, clamoring for freedom and equality. On one occasion, the march turned violent as the police started cracking heads with clubs. I watched the chaos from my fifth-story room window, witnessing a bloody uprising on the streets below, helpless to stop it.
It didn’t take long to get infected with the callous and crazy vibe of the Zone, either. Some nights at three in the morning, I’d lean out my window and throw a half-eaten apple at the roof of a pimped-out Caddie on the street below. Other times, I’d drop a firecracker or two if the pimpmobile were blasting an annoying disco song. It’s not normally my nature to do such things. I just got caught up in the madness. I was barely sane and mature, and caught up in a hostile, corrupt environment. It rubbed off.
Skin
premiered in Boston, and the major papers saw a fairly coherent performance. Once again, the critics were mildly impressed with the play but loved Liz Ashley’s Sabina. Maybe she did know better than any of us after all. Whatever the case, her bravura performance drew audiences, and that was enough to convince our financial backers to bring the play to New York. We would be going to Broadway after all.
premiered in Boston, and the major papers saw a fairly coherent performance. Once again, the critics were mildly impressed with the play but loved Liz Ashley’s Sabina. Maybe she did know better than any of us after all. Whatever the case, her bravura performance drew audiences, and that was enough to convince our financial backers to bring the play to New York. We would be going to Broadway after all.
Over the next six weeks in Boston, the show still didn’t improve greatly. Without a director’s input to guide us, we were floundering. Some nights were pretty good, some were pretty bad, others just pretty weird. Near the end of our run, though, we did have one truly exceptional performance, the night that Thornton Wilder, the play’s renowned author, came to see the show.
Honestly, I didn’t even know Mr. Wilder was still alive. Throughout his esteemed career, the Pulitzer Prize–winning writer never attended any productions of his works. For some reason, he had decided to break his lifelong rule and see our show. His attendance was going to be very special indeed. It was so noteworthy, in fact, that José Quintero rejoined our company to give notes. He implored Liz Ashley to do the play as Mr. Wilder had written it, no ad libs allowed!
The big night arrived, and Ashley was on her best behavior, performing the play verbatim. After the performance, Mr. Wilder, who was in his eighties, came up onstage and greeted each cast member with a smile and cooed, “Thank you, I enjoyed your performance tonight.”
One funny, and perhaps telling, footnote regarding the sincerity of Mr. Wilder’s praise involved my old buddy, Chris Craven. He was working up in Montreal, so I told him to come to Boston on the night that Mr. Wilder was attending. I figured he’d like to meet the author of
Our Town
since both of his uncles had starred in the original production decades ago.
Our Town
since both of his uncles had starred in the original production decades ago.
To my surprise, Chris flew in on the big night and finagled his way backstage during intermission. After the show, we stood in the line of cast members to meet Mr. Wilder. Chris stepped up and extended his hand.
“Mr. Wilder, my name is Chris Craven. My Uncle Frank played the lead role of the stage manager in the very first production of
Our Town
, and my Uncle John was George Gibbs,” Chris said.
Our Town
, and my Uncle John was George Gibbs,” Chris said.
The old man’s tired eyes widened as if somebody poked him in the ribs. Wilder replied, “Oh, my goodness. That was in 1938! How are Frank and John?”
“Frank passed away, but Uncle John is alive and well in Barcelona,” Chris said.
“Well, please send him my best regards,” Wilder said. “And thank you for your performance tonight, Chris. I enjoyed you very much!”
Skin
closed in Boston, and the producers announced that they had booked the only theater still available on Broadway, the Mark Hellinger. The more experienced members of the company groaned. The Hellinger was a huge, huge auditorium that held fifteen hundred seats and was best suited for large-scale musicals like
My Fair Lady
and
Jesus Christ Superstar.
A straight drama like
Skin
needed a more intimate space if we were to have any chance of pleasing the critics. All we could do now was cross our fingers.
closed in Boston, and the producers announced that they had booked the only theater still available on Broadway, the Mark Hellinger. The more experienced members of the company groaned. The Hellinger was a huge, huge auditorium that held fifteen hundred seats and was best suited for large-scale musicals like
My Fair Lady
and
Jesus Christ Superstar.
A straight drama like
Skin
needed a more intimate space if we were to have any chance of pleasing the critics. All we could do now was cross our fingers.
Railsback and I rented a car and drove to New York. On the way, we stopped to visit Elia Kazan at his rustic farm in Connecticut. I was looking forward to spending time with him in a less chaotic setting than our previous meeting, his birthday party at the Actors Studio. Unfortunately, the director wasn’t home when we arrived. His son, Chris Kazan, was, though.
Chris Kazan had written the film
The Visitors
, which Elia directed and Steve starred in. It’s an overlooked Kazan classic about two Vietnam vets who’ve just been released from the brig. The soldiers pay a menacing visit to a former army buddy who testified against them in a My Lai–type massacre. The story is a brilliant and subtle study about young men struggling with the consequences of their violent actions.
The Visitors
, which Elia directed and Steve starred in. It’s an overlooked Kazan classic about two Vietnam vets who’ve just been released from the brig. The soldiers pay a menacing visit to a former army buddy who testified against them in a My Lai–type massacre. The story is a brilliant and subtle study about young men struggling with the consequences of their violent actions.
Because the movie was shot on the director’s property, I recognized many of the fictionalized settings. To my surprise, Kazan’s house looked even more run-down than in the movie. The furniture was old and worn, screen doors were in need of repair, and the exterior paint was peeling. There was nothing that hinted of Kazan’s Oscar-winning, international fame. The place was more hillbilly funk than Hollywood glitz.
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