Without You: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and the Musical Rent (14 page)

Other than that day, Jonathan had been lying low; there wasn’t a whole lot he could have contributed to rehearsal after we learned his music. We all needed to get the chance to try our stuff out, and sometimes fall on our faces, without Jonathan’s protective eyes and ears in the room.

He popped up again, though, when we moved into the theatre and started singing with the band, so he could help refine the sound mix in the house. As the cast and band gathered onstage, Jonathan stood in the midst of the theatre’s red velvet seats, thrust his hands in the air in the infamous devil’s horns gesture, and shouted,
“ROCK AND ROLL!”
in his best Pete Townshend imitation, grinning like an idiot. I laughed, and Tim counted us in for the title song—“A two three
four,
” and we charged our way through the score, filling the intimate theatre with the sounds of Jonathan’s sometimes beautifully noisy and other times quietly stirring music.

The only time I talked one-on-one with Jonathan during those days was on a quick break in rehearsals. Clutching a coffee cup, looking both hyper and exhausted, he approached me in the lobby.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure,” I said.

“It’s not about the show,” he said, smiling. “It’s about Christina Haag.” My costar from
The Mantis Murder.

“What about her?”

“Well, I met her at your birthday party, and we’ve been hanging out a lot since then, and, well—” he paused, grinning bashfully and shrugging his shoulders. “I really like her.”

I smiled. “That’s great,” I said.

“But I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know if she feels the same way about me.”

I found his schoolboy’s crush, and its attendant uncertainties, to be completely charming. “Well, why don’t you tell her how you feel?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell if she just thinks of me as a friend. I really, really like her. A lot.”

“Well, the only way to find out is to let her know.”

“You’re right. You’re right.” He took a sip of coffee. “But the thing is, you know, with her ex-boyfriend being so famous, it’s a little intimidating. It just makes me feel like she’d probably never be interested in me.”

Christina had dated John Kennedy Jr., one of the world’s most desired bachelors, for several years, so I could understand Jonathan’s intimidation. “Yeah, that is kind of a big deal,” I said. “Do you want me to say something to her for you?”

“No, no, no, you don’t have to do that. No, that wouldn’t be good, I don’t think.” He shook his head emphatically.

“Well, like I said, you’ll never know what could happen unless you say something. She’s a very cool woman. I think she’d be honest with you.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You’re right.” He nodded somberly, staring into his coffee cup. “Maybe I will say something. But I’ll probably wait until we’re up and running. It’s not like I could really do anything about it now anyway.”

“That sounds like a plan to me.”

“Hey, thanks for talking to me,” Jonathan said. He smiled ruefully. “Sorry I’m so high-schoolish about this.”

“No problem,” I said, smiling and giving him a little pat on the shoulder. And with that, I went inside the theatre, back to rehearsal.

A couple of days later, Adam Pascal and I were gathered around the piano with Tim and Michael, cleaning up the harmonies in “What You Own,” when I noticed some commotion at the back of the theatre. I saw Michael notice it as well, but he didn’t stop us, so, unsure of what was happening, Adam and I continued singing.

Sue White, our efficient, intense, motherly production manager, made her way down the aisle to the stage, motioning us to stop our work. In a low, calm voice, she said, “Nothing to worry about, but Jonathan just collapsed in the back of the theatre. The paramedics are on their way.”

“Wait a minute, what happened?” Adam said.

“We’re not sure. He just collapsed. It doesn’t seem too serious. He’s up again right now, but he’s very pale and disoriented, and we’re going to take him to the hospital, just to make sure that he’s all right. It’s probably nothing. He’s just stressed out and exhausted.”

“Wow,” I said.

“We’ll let you know what’s going on,” Sue said. “But I’m sure everything is fine.”

I looked up at the back of the theatre, but couldn’t really see anything: just a clump of people that had gathered around, talking quietly to each other. I could see Jonathan leaning against the wall, his head down, with someone’s hand resting on his arm. Tim, Adam, and Michael stood next to me on the edge of the stage for a moment, all of us silently trying to figure out what to make of this.

Finally, Michael said, “Well, I guess we should probably continue working. We don’t want to freak Jonathan out.”

“Sounds good,” Tim said, sitting back down at his keyboard. “Let’s take it back from the top.”

Adam and I started the song again, and as we sang, Jonathan left with Sue and the paramedics, and the strange, unexpected chill that had descended over the room gradually dissipated, until we were all firmly back in the groove of our work, trusting that Jonathan would be all right.

Over the next couple of days—our final days of tech—we first got a progress report from Sue that Jonathan was still suffering from flulike symptoms, most likely from a combination of stress and exhaustion, and possibly the result of a bad turkey sandwich he’d eaten at the Cooper Square Diner. His stomach had been pumped at the hospital, just in case, and they had sent him home to recuperate. Then Sue told us a day later that Jonathan had gone to a different hospital because he was still feeling terrible, and that after some tests he was sent home with the news that he probably had the flu. I thought about calling him to check up on how he was feeling, but then thought better of it; he needed to relax, and phone calls weren’t necessarily the best medicine, especially from a cast member who would remind him of what he was missing at the theatre.

Meanwhile, we all continued our long, long days, singing and teching from noon till midnight, putting together all of the final elements of the show, so we could finally perform it for our first audience on dress rehearsal night.

That night finally came, and thankfully Jonathan was feeling well enough to return to the theatre, joining Michael and the cast onstage before the performance for a brief photo shoot with a
New York Times
photographer. The
Times
had sent the photographer with a writer—not a critic—who was doing a story on the one hundredth anniversary of Puccini’s
La Bohème
and thought it might be interesting to include our modern-day, rock opera version in his piece. Jonathan still looked wan and ashen, but his nervous excitement for his big night shone through as the flashes went off.

After a few minutes the shoot ended, and it was time for us to go backstage and ready ourselves. Jonathan stood at the edge of the stage and said, smiling and waving, “Have a good show, everybody. I’ll be watching!”

For a dress rehearsal, it was a great show. The audience was with us from the first moment, cheering each number, and leaping to its collective feet at the end of the night. Their response reminded me of the response that
Six Degrees of Separation
had received on its dress rehearsal night when I appeared in it at Lincoln Center. For
Six Degrees,
our audience had laughed so uproariously that the actors in
Some Americans Abroad,
the play upstairs from us, could hear every thunderous outburst, even through the concrete floor that separated our theatres.
Six Degrees
wound up a huge critical and popular hit, with a real and lasting cultural impact, so if responses at dress rehearsals were any indication,
Rent
’s future suddenly seemed assured. Of course, we needed to get a great review in the
Times
to really make us a hit; many an audience’s favorite show had been hurt by bad press in the
Times.
But the critic from the
Times
wasn’t coming for another couple of weeks, giving us plenty of time to continue refining and cleaning up the show, so it wasn’t worth worrying about right now. For the moment, I reveled in the immediate joy that was bouncing around the theatre.

I emerged from backstage to see most of the audience still milling around, another good sign. From the stage, I could see a large group of admirers clamoring around Jonathan in the far aisle, shaking his hand and talking his ear off. I was so happy and I wanted to go over to him as well and give him a congratulatory hug, but then I decided that I should let him savor his glory—I could talk to him later—and I headed over to my friends who’d been in the audience.

One of them, an East Village playwright named Dan, rushed up to me and gave me a crushing hug. “Oh, Anthony,” he said, his words pouring out of him, “it’s so
beautiful.
I can’t tell you. I can’t. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing. Thank you, thank you.”

I grinned hugely. “I’m so glad you liked it.”

“Oh, my god, I
loved
it. I mean it. I
loved
it.”

Still grinning, I asked, “Have you met Jonathan?”

“Oh my god, yes. I had to. I had to just go up to him and tell him how amazing he is. He’s like a hero. You don’t understand. He’s created something so gorgeous and important, and I can’t really keep talking about it because I’m going to explode. Really. I’ve got to go, I’ve got to just go off and not talk anymore. Oh my god, thank you so much.”

Giddy from his thrilling response, I said, “You’re welcome.”

Dan dashed off, and behind him was my agent, Sarah. Her eyes were wide open, brimming over, and she was trembling as she gave me a warm, firm hug.

“Rappy, it’s amazing,” she said, holding onto my shoulders and looking right into my eyes.

“See?” I said, beaming affectionately. “I told you so.”

“Oh my god, you were so right. Rappy, it’s
amazing.
I had to go up to Jonathan at intermission and tell him. And then the second act just blew me away even more. I can’t believe it. It really is beautiful.”

My face was starting to hurt from all of the grinning I was doing. “Thank you,” I said.

“I can’t believe it,” Sarah said again, shaking her head, her eyes bright. “I can’t believe it.”

After I said good night to Sarah, I glanced over to see if I could finally get a chance to talk to Jonathan, but he wasn’t there. There was so much I’d been saving up to tell him on this night, so many thanks I’d wanted to give him: for jump-starting my career; for giving me the chance to sing onstage again; for asking me back after the studio production; for expanding my role so fully in the past year; for writing me new songs to sing with my voice in mind (in addition to “What You Own” I’d also been given a lovely, haunting soliloquy following Angel’s funeral, called “Halloween”); for sharing his process with me; for entrusting me with the role of narrator; for writing this amazing show in the first place; for writing a musical that featured such richly developed queer characters; for writing a show that was so incredibly fulfilling to perform, and so moving for its audiences; and, most important, for becoming both my new, supportive friend and a true, enthusiastic collaborator. I usually stored up these kinds of sentiments for my coworkers, writing them down in little cards, which I delivered on opening nights, but I wanted to tell Jonathan all of these things to his face, especially now that the night had gone so phenomenally well. But I looked around the theatre and couldn’t find him.

“Have you seen Jonathan?” I asked Linda, NYTW’s associate artistic director, who was calmly sitting in the back of the theatre, drinking in the intoxicating buzz that was flying around.

“He’s in the box office, talking to the
New York Times,”
she said, more than a little portentously. That was a good sign; if the reporter from the
Times
writing the piece on
La Bohème
was actually talking to Jonathan, he had to think there was something to our show. Hopefully his colleagues at the paper would follow suit.

“That’s exciting,” I said. Linda smiled knowingly.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Michael came up to me just then and gave me a hug. He had spent the performance pacing around the back of the theatre by the sound booth, obsessively twisting his dark black curly hair into fright-wig proportions, but now he seemed genuinely happy.

“Thank you for your work tonight,” he said.

“It went pretty well, huh?” I said, aware that Michael responded positively to understatement.