Page 12 of Playworld
Andy was the person with whom I spent the most time on set. Elyse Baxter, who played my mom, avoided both of us. For the twenty-somethings in featured roles as high school students and archvillains, Andy was probably too close to the age and appearance of the fathers most of them had moved to the city to get away from, while I was like their annoying little brother. We were both shunned in our own ways, although Andy was invited to laugh at bloopers; if he broke character to lighten the mood or improvise when a scene was going poorly, it was appreciated. Because I had not earned such freedoms, my wanderingoff script was met with disapproval. And while I recognized that we’d been lumped together, I was not always ungrateful for his company. We discussed sports and movies, and, like Elliott, Andy waded into current events and politics while I pretended to listen—although after Liz reappeared to check on our progress and then shimmy off, he returned to his favorite subject.
“My God,” he said, and leaned toward me, “the tits on that woman.” He lowered his voice. “I’d like a slice of her pie.”
It was at this moment that I noticed Jack Terry, our soundman, silently roll up behind us on the crane and, from the basket, lower his boom until it hovered just out of view. He caught my eye, tapped his headphones to indicate the mic was hot, and then winked.
“What about Noreen?” I asked. She played the captain of Central High’s cheerleading squad. “She’s just as pretty.”
“Not if you’re an ass man,” Andy said.
“My dad says Elyse still has a dancer’s figure.”
“Only if he means a whirling dervish,” Andy replied. “Nope, her gifts are strictly oral. Which reminds me of a joke. What do you call a woman who can suck a golf ball through a garden hose?”
I shrugged.
“Gifted.”
Chuckling, Andy reached out to squeeze my shoulder, shaking his head. “Son, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You fuck your brains out. I mean it. Chase tail until you’re fifty,thenthink of settling down. Are you still a virgin?”
I tilted my hand side to side as if to say,More or less.
“Let me give you a piece of advice. You want to get in a girl’s pants, the next time you go on a date, you take her to a nice place—chichi, low-lit, you sparenoexpense. I’m talking appetizers, entrées,anddessert. Theworks.You pull out her chair when it’s time to leave, give her your arm when you walk her home, and at her door you be theperfect gentleman.You kiss her on the cheek, a little tongue if she’s interested, but that’s all. Say good night, and here’s the most important part: donotcall her for two weeks. Tell her you were busy, you lost her number, it doesn’t matter. But you go radio silent like that, and she’ll be so frantic trying to figure out what she did wrong she will be your sex slave afterward.”
I nodded as I considered his counsel, catching, out of the corner of my eye, Jack’s A-OK gesture.
“Remember,” Andy said. “Two kinds of men succeed with women: those who love them and those who hate them.”
At this, I perked up. “Which are you?”
“I despise them. Except my wife, of course.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
“Twenty years. She’s coming to the wrap party next week,” Andy said, and then elbowed me. “Word on the street is that Tom’s gonna share a prank he’s played on the cast. Got any intel on that?”
Jack raised his boom, giving me the thumbs-up while the crane silently backed into the darkness. Tom’s voice came over the PA. In the background, the control room was raucous with laughter.
“Gentlemen,” Tom said, “places in five.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said Andy.
“Sorry for the holdup,” I told Tom.
“My dear boy,” he answered, “you arecompletelyforgiven.”
—
Because I was late to school, I took a cab instead of the bus. It was nearly eleven, third period was ending. If traffic kept moving, I’d make it to English—my favorite class. We took the Avenue of the Americas north. I had my window down, and when we hung the left on Central Park South, I saw several horse-drawn carriages lining the entrance. Attending them was the earthy smell of manure mixed with the smoke of almonds from the vendor’s cart, a waft that seemed to name the season. I decided to skim the end of Act III ofRomeo and Juliet,but just before I searched my book bag, we swung around Columbus Circle, and I spotted, on my right, my father, sitting on the edge of theMaineNational Monument’s pool, next to a beautiful woman, to whom he spoke very heatedly. Because of the speed and the fact that my eye followed them amid the pedestrians and traffic, they came into vivid focus: the woman, raven-haired, heavily made up, sitting with her elbows on her knees, staring into the distance and frowning while Dad lividly gestured. Were they having a fight? Before I could begin to marvel at the odds of this happenstance—of seeing him, of all people, at this moment—before I could even process what he was doing with this person and by the timewe were several blocks past them, I realized I’d left my copy of the play on the bus. For the second time in a week. Miss Sullens, my teacher, would kill me. I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes and whispered,“Why, why, why,”until we arrived at Boyd Prep.
I was in a rush. But Mr. Kepplemen, my wrestling coach, intercepted me the moment I was through the upper school foyer’s second set of glass doors. In greeting, he pressed his hand to my cheek and pulled my temple toward his so that they lightly touched.
“When’s your next free period?” he asked.
“Fifth,” I replied. I was late for fourth period, but no matter. If English was my favorite class, wrestling was my life. And with the season beginning in November, I had all the time for Kepplemen in the world.
“Meet me in the lockers then,” Kepplemen said. “Lineups,” he added, and shook his finger at me, “to discuss.”
I told him, “For sure,” and, released, broke into a run that was partly to make up time, partly excitement at the prospect of a starting position on the varsity.