This is the thirtieth post from my NaNoWriMo Life Story Crafting project (find first post here). In the “12 Questions to Help Us Realize Our Potential”, it continues question six: “Tests, Allies, Enemies”. Name some tests you faced. Who were your (internal or external) allies? Who were your (internal or external) enemies? The “transformation” I chose to write about was how I came up with the Well-Being Toolbox.
Regardless of what I thought about Andrew Lloyd Webber’s post-Evita work, I was in awe of his Really Useful Group.
“The Really Useful Group is wholly owned by Andrew Lloyd Webber and exists to license and promote his shows and music around the globe.”
To date, its Broadway productions had included Cats, Song and Dance, Starlight Express, and a West End show that was getting a lot of pre-Broadway buzz, The Phantom of the Opera.
I was now a member of the Dramatists Guild and subscribed to Variety where I diligently scanned the “Legit” (legitimate theater) box office numbers. By my royalty math, Andrew Lloyd Webber was earning more than William Goldman had raked in for his Butch and Sundance screenplay every single week.
I wasn’t in awe of David Mamet’s success, or even Andrew Lloyd Webber’s, which was financially at least many multiples greater. I was in awe of the pragmatism these men had shown when they were my age or younger.
Northlight and Chicago Dramatists had been useful for readings, but what was really useful was forming your own company to get shows workshopped and produced.
David Mamet had formed St. Nicholas Theatre with some theatre-school buddies, assuring him a home for new works. I doubt that he was rolling in dough from his day job at Playboy, but like my Montgomery Ward job, it paid the bills.
To start building a really useful group of my own, I needed to live in the city. Lisa, who lived with her boyfriend in a doorman apartment building on State Street, suggested I check out Ukrainian Village. It was one of those ethnic strongholds that had, so far, escaped gentrification but was still close to downtown, and closer to work, which had a huge, free employee parking lot.
During my first week at Ward’s, I found a listing for a one-bedroom apartment at Superior and Oakley for $90 a month less than I was paying in Des Plaines. The straight and narrow apartment in the old six-flat was nothing special. It had a long, narrow kitchen, a tiny bathroom, a tiny dining room, a small living room, and a tiny bedroom that would squeeze in a full-size bed max. If I angled the dresser just right, I’d have access to the top two drawers. The landlords were a middle-aged English couple who had combined the two top-floor units for their living space. Their twenty-something son lived in one apartment, their twenty-something daughter in another, which left two units open for strangers.
“Looks good,” I said. “Where do I sign?”
They were a little hesitant at my haste, but my interest in theater worked in my favor. When I mentioned Shakespeare, the husband recited a sonnet from memory. They were a little less enthusiastic when I mentioned it was a musical. I assured them I had headphones. I had my lair.
I was close enough to Chicago Dramatists to hang out there in the evenings and help paint and build a riser with an actor/set-builder from the Atlantic Theater Company (a New York-based company Mamet had started). They were renting our space. My construction supervisor was a super nice guy whose shift usually ended abruptly with, “Time for the shoot.”
I assumed he meant fashion shoot, but was surprised how regular his work seemed to be. On the day before the Atlantic Theater show opened, I asked him who he was working with. It might have been one of the photographers Ward’s used.
“The Untouchables,” he said.
I was aware that Brian DePalma was shooting The Untouchables in town. It now came back to me that David Mamet was writing the script, which is probably why the Atlantic was doing a production in Chicago.
“Did you meet Sean Connery?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Gotta run.”
Of course, I had comp tickets to the Atlantic Theater opening, which I attended with Lisa. The play was disappointing. More disappointing: David Mamet wasn’t there.
The following week, Russ told me that Mamet had been to the Sunday night performance. D’oh!
Russ also gently mentioned that I was a couple of months behind renewing my annual dues.
“Here’s where I’m at,” I said. “I have the rough draft of the book for Ode done.”
“Would you like to do a reading of that?”
“I don’t know how to do one with music here. I’d rather start a company.”
“That’s a lot of work.”
“More work than this?” I asked.
He laughed. “Well, no. But different. It’s hard to sell tickets.”
“Sheila and I want to sell subscriptions.”
“Then you need a season.”
“What if we open that season with Bed?” I asked.
“Interesting,” he said.
“We counter-program The Nutcracker and A Christmas Carol with David’s Beethoven/Karl.”
“Huh,” he said.
“As long as Stage Kiss runs around Valentine’s Day I think we’ll do okay.”
He laughed again.
“And we close with They Say Mrs. Brown is Going Crazy.”
“Well, you know I like all of those shows. But it’s going to be tough getting subscribers without names.”
“Playwrights Horizons gets names,” I said. Playwrights Horizons had launched several Obie Award winners (the off-Broadway Tony) from its 128-seat space in New York. In Los Angeles, tons of theaters operated with 99-seat Equity contracts, mostly supported by actors needing a place to be seen by agents. If audiences came, it was a bonus. “You know we have enough nationally famous actors here. All we need is scripts.”
“And a space.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We’re thinking school auditoriums like Northlight uses. I don’t think we can sell subscriptions to folding chairs, but there are plenty of old grade schools and high schools with upholstered theater seats. Sheila’s scouting them now.”
As Russ thought about his, I watched his face closely. Much of Sheila’s confidence was based on my ability. I had no objective way to gauge that, but I had been able to attract attention. If we could pull it off, our first season would offer a kick-ass ensemble piece, a star-turn as Beethoven, and a meaty actress role in the Diary of a Mad Housewife mold.
What I needed from Russ was a reality check. He visited Playwrights Horizons several times a year as part of his day job with local producers Cullen, Hennigan and Platt. He knew Sheila. He knew me. He knew the other playwrights and the other plays. If he thought I was full of shit, he would tell me.
I saw that old twinkle in his eyes as he said, “That just might work.”
The next weekend Lisa wanted to usher a flamenco performance.
“I don’t like flamenco,” I said.
“Have you ever seen flamenco?”
“Not live.”
“It’s sexy. You’ll like it.”
I’d seen the Carlos Saura film Carmen in college and liked it. Then there was Buñuel’s That Obscure Object of Desire: very sexy. But I had also drawn the line with Claire over dance. This situation wasn’t as cut and dried. I couldn’t break up with Lisa because we weren’t together. Her live-in boyfriend was busy seven days a week writing code to launch his new software company. That and the fact they didn’t own a car made us perfect theater buddies. Lisa made all the phone calls to sign us up as ushers. I no longer had to sit through a crappy reading for comps to previews or tech rehearsals. Every small and mid-sized company with assigned seating needed ushers. And not only did Lisa send the signal to gay men that I was straight, she was attractive, and not too old for me, which made it safe for younger, attractive women to talk to me.
“What if I throw in dinner?” she asked.
“Deal.”
Well, the featured septuagenarian flamenco dancer wasn’t sexy, but I didn’t mind a bit. The performance took place in a beautiful auditorium I’d never been to at the National College of Education in Evanston. It wasn’t close to downtown, but it was close to many of downtown Chicago’s affluent North Shore theater patrons.
On Monday morning, I called Sheila and said I had a space for her to check out.
When Sheila called back and said the space was doable, my Really Useful Group had a home. I was both excited and clenched. I’d had the RUG pulled out from under me before.
