My first time: Part 2

I promised myself that I would write every day and already I think I'm a week behind.  I'm on the hunt as well as working on applications for fellowships and grants.  The future is filled with so much hopeful uncertainty.  But I never went into this business expecting permanence.  I think that's still hard for me to accept as well as my bf, The Loved One.  The erratic nature of showbiz combined with my own erratic nature has made the past few weeks trying for both of us.  I am exhausted and looking forward to the holidays.  I wish I was one of those lucky people who seem to have the whole next two weeks off.  I envy them and I need that time myself.

However, I was in the middle of a story.

The bus had arrived in New York.  It dropped some of us off at the South Street Seaport and some of us off at a local bar.  My parents and I were at the Seaport.  To this day, that section of Manhattan remains an anomaly to me.  It feels as it must have when those Dutch settled it.  The buildings are brick and low (outside of the financial district).  There is a large masted ship docked in the harbor.  The smell of salt air is prevalent if you catch the right angle and breeze.  At that time, the fish market was busseling.  The cobblestones were filled with ice and guts.  The stench hung in the air.  That's all gone now.  But then, it was electric.  Add to that the enormous number of tourists and an odd shopping mall and you're in Oz -- a non-romantic version of Oz.

My parents and I strolled the Seaport.  There wasn't much for a kid to do.  Look at the big buildings downtown.  There's the Brooklyn Bridge.  Here's some ugly street art.  And I was aching for it to be 2pm when the show started.

Finally we boarded the bus.  We picked up the drinkers at the bar and made our way back uptown.  As we drove through the Village I felt something in me stir.  This was where I wanted to be.  Young people everywhere.  Houses mixed with big buildings.  A small park, mostly concrete, with a giant arch and a great fountain.  Stylish and yet laidback, this was somewhere special.  This was the Emerald City of Oz.  Greenwich Village.  Even the name sounded romantic to my 10-year old ears.

Finally the bus reached the Gershwin Theatre.  We were seeing Singin' in the Rain.  The marque boasted the name written in jagged pink letters against a baby blue background.  I was soon to have a matching t-shirt.  We entered the theatre and my heart leaped in my chest.  The pounding was almost unbearable.  A huge marble wall loomed in front of me with two staircases going up either side.  People were milling about, talking, laughing.  My drunk uncles were singing the title song already.  And the excitement was palpable.  I wanted to be a part of this experience, whatever it was, forever.

Our tickets were ripped and we made our way up the staircase to the main lobby.  Here was the Musical Theatre Hall of Fame.  My parents held my hand and pointed out pictures of people whose names an faces they recognized and whose work they could tell me about.  Already I was fascinated by the faces in the sepia portraits, striking glamourous poses.  Or the stills from Broadway productions from years past.  This was my home now.

We went up another flight of stairs to the balcony.  Here we were led down to the very first row.  I sat upright in my seat but a bar extended across the row, hindering me from a clear view of the stage.  Who would do that and why?  I was awestruck by the sheer size of the theatre.  I looked down at the people in the orchestra and I wanted to scream, "Look up here at me!  Look at me!"   But I contained myself and waited.  Finally the orchestra struck a chord, the overture started and the lights went down.  People did not silence themselves quite quickly enough for my liking but they eventually caught on that something amazing had begun.

I can't tell you much about what I saw in the first act.  I can't describe the sets or the costumes or the lighting.  I know that it must have been glamorous.  I know that the stage must have seemed impossibly crowded to me.  I know that there was singing and dancing the likes of which I had never seen before.  The real moment that converted me for life occurred in act two.  Don Correia the actor playing the lead began strolling along the foot of the stage in a grey suit.  Suddenly, it began to rain.  On stage!  The rain began as a light drizzle and then it turned into a downpour.  The stage itself tilted up so that the drops poured down from the back and Don sang, danced and jumped in the water without a care in the world.  This was spectacle.  This was theatre.  This is what made a little fat Italian kid from South Philly decide to do this for the rest of his life.  The moment was lasted for an eternity and for an instant.  It was over but I wanted it to go on and on.  I wanted to get up and jump and dance and sing in those puddles.

The show ended and a great sadness descended upon me.  What experience could ever top that?  Why did it have to end?  How could I possibly go to school on Monday in my suit jacket, tie and slacks after that experience?  We filed out of the theatre me torn between a state of ecstasy and despair.  We packed ourselves on to the bus and got ready to pull away.  As we circled the theatre there was suddenly a great chatter on the bus.  There coming out of the back door, or the "stage door" of the theatre was Don Correia and his wife Sandy Duncan.  Now Don was God in my mind and I didn't know who Sandy Duncan was but Cousin Vinnie made the bus driver honk his horn.  The group pounded on the windows and waved.  Don and Sandy smiled and waved back and I understood.  These were ordinary people like me who had the power to make magic.  I leaned back in the seat, closed my eyes and danced across the stage with the rain pouring down on me.