It's Only Temporary: The Good News and the Bad News of Being Alive Read Free Page A

stretch of seven Broadway appearances occurred over a period of just eight years. The production I quit after being attacked was the last Broadway play I did, and that was over twenty years ago. But my performance was undeniably awful in that play. Maybe I haven’t been hired since because, in that role, the theater world finally saw my limitations. Either that, or producers aren’t crazy about a leading man who walks off stage in the middle of a show.
    Anyway, I had gained some degree of notoriety. In the early nineties, not enough time had passed for my dubious reputation to become passé (which is a fancy word for “forgotten”). If I so chose, I was able to stop backstage at an off-Broadway show I’d enjoyed, ask to say hello to a heretofore un-met actress, and get a raised eyebrow of recognition upon uttering my name. Famous for all the wrong reasons is still famous. Broadway producers may have had qualms about hiring me, but the average working-class actor – each of whom had dreamed of running a sword through countless alcoholic costars of their own – saw me as a bit of a folk hero. It took two cases of leukemia and one dose of being smacked on the ass in front of five hundred people to find it, but I’d finally gotten my first taste of what I then took to be confidence.
    This is the tactic I put to use to meet Nancy. Nancy is a beautiful blond actress whose performance, and appearance, had impressed me in a play on Forty-second Street’s Theater Row. It was a gay-themed play, and Nancy portrayed a strong-willed, fiercely independent woman who glided effortlessly between a number of lovers. The dialogue was full of snappy ironic comments, and Nancy’s performance was honest, bold, and sexy as hell.
    In the theater’s lobby after the show, the flirtatious and bawdy manner she carried back and forth between several groups of friends impressed me all the more. Nancy gave the impression of being a bit of a wild child. Or maybe I just projected that image onto her from her performance in the play. Though it’s a cliché, the fact that the character she’d played had sexual relationships with both men and women only increased my ardor. If I can’t actually
have
a bisexual girlfriend, I thought, I’d at least like to have a girlfriend who can portray one winningly.
    After introducing myself, I spoke with Nancy briefly before leaving that night. The next day I returned to leave a note for her with the box office. I’m embarrassed to admit it (and with what I’ve already admitted, that’s saying a lot), but I think I even made some kind of whimsical design out of the typewritten text of the invitation to get together. In spite of my heavy-handed tactics, Nancy called to arrange a date. When we reached the “what do you want to do?” portion of the phone call, Nancy didn’t hesitate.
    “I want to do something you’ve always wanted to do but have never done with anyone before.”
    That sounded like quite an invitation. But just because my mind leaped to sexual escapades involving myself and anywhere from one to a couple of dozen others, that didn’t mean that’s what Nancy had intended to suggest.
    “Well…I’ve always wanted to ride the Staten Island Ferry,” I said. And so it was settled.
    It wasn’t as timid a suggestion as it seems. Or, maybe it was. But it wasn’t absent of romantic intent. I’d heard from scores of people over the years that riding the Staten Island Ferry at night was one of the great romantic experiences New York City had to offer. When I mentioned to a few friends my plans for a first date with an actress I’d just met, I got nods of approval in which innocence played no part. Judging from some of those smirks, I could have assumed I was in for the make-out session of my life – if not a hefty dose of barely concealed public sex – all in exchange for the fifty-cent round-trip fare.
    Date night arrived, and Nancy and I met at a Japanese restaurant for a quick snack. It