What I Want to Be When I Grow Up

I was probably about twelve or thirteen and just sitting around watching TV with my mom one day, when, after having seriously considering my options, I announced that I had a pretty good idea what I wanted to be when I grew up:

"I'd probably like to be in the movies the most," I said, having loved films and actors since I was little. "But I don't think the chances of that happening are very good. So my next choice would be a baseball announcer...But that would be kind of difficult to get into, too. So my third choice would be sportswriter. I think I could get a job doing that...."

I thought I was being a realist, understanding that these types of jobs were in great demand; but to my surprise, my mother looked at me almost angrily and offered me a life lesson for the first (and possibly only) time in our relationship: "Don't ever say you can't do something," she scolded. "You can do whatever you want!"

I explained how I was already aware how slim the chances were of getting into the movie business; or being one of only 48 people (at the time) granted the rarified opportunity to announce baseball games on radio or television; hence I would be content with 'settling' on a career writing about sports. I thought that would be a cool B-plan.

Mom still wasn't happy with my self-deprecation, but I focused on those possible careers as I made my way through high school and into college. And at some point, I had a chance to try all three.

It wasn't only about baseball, but we've already heard how I actually got to host sports shows on local television for two seasons (and I SWEAR I'm trying to get you guys a link so you can actually see that I really was on TV!) And I've regaled you all many times about the articles I've written for various baseball books over the years.

But acting? Yeah, I've got some stories there too, if you believe can believe that....

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As I've detailed in previous columns, it must have run in the family. My mother was going to be the new Shirley Temple, adorned in her little outfit and taking dancing lessons somewhere in New York in the late 1930's ("How the Sausage was Made" blog--Oct. 31) That didn't work out when my grandmother's family wouldn't chip in for the trip to Hollywoodland, solidifying my mom's personal (and very successful) destiny as housewife and mother.

Whatever the familial influence, I inherited that keen interest in movies and acting, so when I got to Nassau Community College out of high school, the first 'elective' I chose was an acting course. Now THIS was a strange experience!

The class was held in the campus theatre, where the instructor sat on stage, while we took seats in the 'audience' and listened to him tell stories about his acting career. I wish I could remember the guy's name. He was probably in his mid-to-late-'40's (although we know that at 18, our perception of 'old people' is usually waaaaay off--however the craggy lines in his face and his leathery California skin underscored the fact that he wasn't a kid.)

He told stories of how electrifying it was seeing Marlon Brando on Broadway in the early '50's and explained how Gregory Peck was more of a 'film actor', because he was a stiff on stage, but the camera seemed to love his face. I soaked all these stories in like a new sponge.

The guy's personal claim to fame was the fact that he had done a turn as 'The Marlboro Man'. That name alone is probably foreign to you if you're under a certain age. But those of us who recall the days when they could advertise cigarettes on television, remember the iconic figure of the weathered cowboy perched on his regal stallion, looking up from under his ten-gallon chapeau and cooly lighting up a Marlboro. It sold cigarettes to teenagers by the truckload!

So in studying at him, yeah, this dude was definitely a casting director's dream of the cigarette-puffing macho man out of the Tough Old West: brown skin, deep voice, full head of golden hair. I didn't exactly recognize his face from television, so the assumption was that Marlboro used a couple of different 'cowboys' for their TV and magazine ads, and presumably he was one of them. And since there was no internet back in those dark ages, we had to take his word for it. Which I did.

The first exercise he gave us was to read the opening monologue from a play about a police officer. It was a very strange play to say the least, a sort of underground, counterculture piece that none of the class really understood. But Marlboro Man wanted us to read it, so we took turns up on stage trying our hand with this speech. The class seemed to be populated with a lot of Long Island 'theatre types', students that I guessed had much more experience on stage than I did. I sensed a bit of cliquish-ness among them as well, so I kind of sat by myself towards the back of the theatre and nervously awaited my turn.

When he called me up, I sat on the single chair he had placed on stage, picked up the book and read the monologue. The only thing I remember doing differently was pointing to my ear when the line called for me to mention my ear; besides that, I didn't think I did anything special. Marlboro man somehow thought differently: after berating the class for their unimpressive performances, he pointed to me. "HE," he barked, not having any idea what my name was, "read this better than anybody!"

I was stunned, a little embarrassed. But you also know me well enough by now to know that under my shy smile, I was laughing vengefully at this classful of pretentious thespians. And I was more stunned a few classes later when Mr. M. announced that we were taking the show on the road: we'd be performing the first act of this same play at some type of assisted living home a few miles from campus....and guess who was picked to play the lead?!

Yeah, I guess my ear-pointing performance won me the role, though I also had the idea that Macho Teacher disliked the pretentiousness of the rest of the class as much as I did and chose me to make a point. I was more 'natural' than they were.

Either way, I panicked about memorizing so many lines in so short a time; that was alleviated when he told us that this would not be a big deal show and that we would all be able to hold our scripts while performing, sort of like a radio play. Whew.

We arrived at this 'rest home' sometime in the late morning, expecting to find a dayroom full of elderly patients awaiting the afternoon's entertainment. Except it wasn't--an assisted living facility I mean. Nor did it have any elderly patients.

Nope--it was a halfway house.

So here I was, innocent Jewish boy from Valley Stream, whose forays into the real world stretched no farther than occasional trips to New York where I would do my best to avoid the bums and homeless people surrounding Times Square, suddenly standing on a makeshift stage looking down at an audience of ten or fifteen people, mostly male, mostly stoned out of their skulls.

Or at least they seemed to be. Think of standing in front of the residents of the game room in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and trying to get them to listen to a counterculture hippie-inspired, sexually-oriented nonsense play, and you'll get an idea of how we felt. I wanted to get back in the van and go home.

But, as they say, 'the show must go on', so at the prescribed time, we all took the stage and started reading our parts. I will never forget looking down at the front row, where a bearded guy sat slumped in an easy chair, a large sandwich board-type sign around his neck with a long message inked down the length of it. And every time I had a pause between my lines, or it was someone else's turn to speak, I'd look down at this guy and attempt to read his sign. But no matter how many times I'd try, or how I tilted my head, I never decoded more than a couple of words before I had to give up and go back to the play.

I think it said something about Jesus, but I never knew for sure.

When we finished the act, I don't think anybody applauded, except perhaps the host and staff of the home. We didn't care. We just wanted out. Honestly, to this day, I couldn't tell you how many audience members were actually even conscious...

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When I transferred to Buffalo State College for my junior year, I figured I'd try again. I auditioned for the part of a sailor in some maritime play, but didn't get the part. Undeterred, I kept checking the bulletin boards in the student union and discovered one day that the student directors in the theatre department were having a one-act play showcase, with three plays one night and three more the next.

'Great," I thought. 'SIX plays. I have to be able to land one of those parts!'

I got to the audition on the day requested. There were long card tables set up in the auditorium, where six student directors and their assistants sat with clipboards interviewing prospective actors. I picked the table that had the least number of acting hopefuls (none) and sauntered over.

"Hi," said the slightly large girl at the table. "Interested in being in our play?" I said 'of course,' and after some small talk, she handed me a script. The play was "27 Wagons Full of Cotton" by Tennessee Williams, a playwright I didn't know much about at the time. The role she wanted me for was that of a Mexican cotton gin owner who comes to the home of a business rival to seek personal revenge by seducing his young, hot wife. (It was made into a not-so-successful movie in 1990.)

There were only two characters in the play, me and the hot wife. The director had me read a few of the lines. When I was done, she wrote my name down on her clipboard. "You've got the part," she said calmly. "Rehearsals start Monday." I really would have liked to applaud myself for having such obvious talent, but truth of the matter was, I was the only person that even tried out. I have no idea how or when they cast the girl to play opposite me.

To my surprise however, as I was leaving her table, a young Black student approached me. (I mention his race only because minorities were few and far between at Buffalo State at the time; a minority member of the theatre department was even more rare!)

"Hey," he greeted me, "want to be in another play?"

I questioned whether or not that would even be allowed, but he nodded vigorously. "The shows are over two days. Three plays on Friday, three on Saturday. Chances are pretty good that both your plays won't be on the same night..."

He handed me another script. This one was a silly little play written in the 1920's about a guy and a girl having a pre-arranged meeting on a park bench. They fall in love, then they argue, then another guy shows up, there's a misunderstanding, they figure it out, the couple walks off together. Simple stuff. Can't recall its name.

I read him a couple of lines. I got the part again.... 'cause I was the only candidate again!

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Rehearsals started soon after. The silly park bench play was easy enough; the simplicity of the plot and dialogue made the lines easy to remember. I tried ad-libbing some of the stage directions, but those were quickly squelched, so I played it straight.

But the other play was a whole different animal. I don't know how much Tennessee Williams you've read, but his dialogue is rife with hidden meaning and repressed emotion. (One reason I have come to dislike his plays since.) But my lack of acting experience began to show, as I was having trouble handling the part.

Basically, this revenge-seeking Mexican magnate spends the whole play sweet-talking the young wife, while backing her slowly from the porch swing into her bungalow, ostensibly with the goal of getting her into the bedroom. As a matter of fact, the play ends with them entering the bungalow and the door closing behind them.

But the director wasn't happy with my interpretation of the character. Sure, I was reading the lines okay, but something was missing. I just wasn't getting it.

"You're trying to seduce this girl," the director shouted at me from the front of the stage. "You're trying to get her into bed. Put some passion into it!"

Suddenly, in a moment of self-awareness that has served me well most of my life, I realized what the problem was: As an 18-year-old virgin, I had never seduced anyone before. I had never been to bed with a woman. What did I know about this passion stuff? I had trouble enough talking to the Homecoming Queen candidate, remember?? It illuminated to me for the first time how psychologically intuitive an actor needs to be.

So what to do? Find some co-ed and seduce her so I'd know how it's done? Yeah, right.

But at one rehearsal, and without knowing she had found the solution, the director started thinking out loud: "Look, when you're in costume, you're going to be holding a riding crop. Maybe that will help..."

I looked up. "A riding crop?"

"Yeah, you just pulled up on your horse, you're wearing your chaps and you're holding a riding crop."

"Do you have it now?" I asked.

"No, but I can bring it next time."

"Bring it please."

For the next rehearsal I had the crop. And everything changed.

I used it to point at the young wife threateningly. I brushed it across her thigh when I complimented her. I smacked it hard against the porch swing when I got angry. That last one did it..."I think he's got it!" the director announced excitedly from the theatre seats.

I never had a problem with the character again.

As the weekend of the show got closer, they announced the order in which the plays would be presented. Three on Friday, three on Saturday. And as my first director said, chances were 'pretty good' that both my plays would not be on the same night.

So guess what?

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I saw the announcement about the show order and threw a fit. Even the directors couldn't believe it. Obviously, whomever had put the schedule together had no way of knowing that one of the actors was in two of the plays on Friday night. And no one had offered them that information.

"How am I going to pull this off?" I asked, quickly panicking. The first play just required me to wear a coat and tie and a straw hat, and to carry a walking stick. Easy enough. But the Williams play called for me to wear heavy pancake makeup (I was supposed to be Mexican remember!) put on a bolo tie and those riding chaps and change my whole demeanor with little to no time to unwind.

"Look, don't worry," the director of the tougher play said. "You're on first and then third. There's a play between you. That gives you at least 45 minutes to get everything together." (I often wonder what would have happened if my plays had been scheduled back-to-back!)

I felt overwhelmed--yet strangely excited at the same time by the challenge.

"OK," I shrugged. "Just don't lose my riding crop!"

I invited all my friends and informed them that they wouldn't have to come to the theatre twice, since I was in both plays on Friday. When the night finally came, I plotted out how I would make the quick change and got ready for the first play.

It went very well. Got a lot of laughs, everyone seemed to enjoy it. When the curtain fell, I raced back to the dressing room, elbowing my way past the cast of the second play and plopping down in front of a mirror where the makeup girl (which might have been the director, actually) started on making me look Mexican.

The 45 minutes seemed more like five. Before I knew it, we were told it was time to get on stage. Nervous is the wrong term--cautiously apprehensive? I took a deep breath and walked out.

I know what you're thinking. It was a disaster, right? Something ridiculous happened! You lost you're riding crop just before the show? What went wrong??

Nothing actually. It went great. The riding crop was just what I needed, not only to help punctuate my lines, but also to calm me down and make me feel more in control. We got a nice reception.

After the show, I took off the swarthy makeup, changed my clothes, and left the dressing room. Honestly, I wasn't sure that much of the audience was even aware that I had played parts in both shows. But I soon learned that they were, when I was stopped on my way out to greet my friends.

"You were great, I loved that first play!"

"That first one was really funny, nice work!"

"Hey, good job on that first play. Really entertaining!"

The Vengeful Mexican in me started feeling neglected. 'That was my tougher role', I thought to myself. 'That wasn't easy. Nobody appreciated that one?'

Somewhere between the stage and my pals, a girl leaving the theatre overheard someone else praising the first play and stopped me.

"I actually thought the second play was better..." she smiled shyly. "You were very good."

Had I had more experience in seduction I would have grabbed her, kissed her, and asked her to dinner.

Instead I said thank you, smiled, and walked away.

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I never acted again.

Don't know why, but like child-raising, it's just something that never happened for me. Radio and music and concerts came along, then hockey and TV. I thought about trying again every once in a while, but never seriously.

The irony? Well into their sixties, my parents suddenly became heavily involved in community theatre. They would sign up for local shows, then take turns: one would be in a play, while the other would dress the set, be in charge of the props, take tickets. For the next show, they'd switch responsibilities. They may even have acted in the same show once or twice. All I know is, I'd drive down from Connecticut where I was working to see them whenever I could.

When my mom passed away, my father continued to act and became a respected member of his theatre group. He was pretty good--he played a judge once and a couple of women came up to him after the show to ask which courtroom he presided over, thinking he was really a judge! One of his more emotional roles even had much of the audience holding back tears. Including yours truly.

At one point, his group was chosen to do a one-act play in an off-Broadway theatre on 44th Street in New York. He took us all out to dinner afterwards and we could tell it must have been the crowning moment of his life.

He sent his picture and resume to movie studios, trying to break into independent films. "Hey, it's tough finding actors my age who can still remember lines!" he often accurately speculated. But except for an amateur movie made by some of his acting buddies, he could never crack the field.

I've included his head shot below.

I remember seeing him in the play "Don't Drink the Water" by Woody Allen. In one particular scene, he gets a phone call, picks up a pencil, jots down a number, and then tells his family what the call was about. At this point he got a little stiff and I could tell he wasn't feeling comfortable.

I always watch people's hands when they act. I feel the worst actors are the ones who don't know what to do with them while they're speaking. I asked my dad about the scene later that night and he admitted he didn't know what to do with his hands while he was talking to his stage family.

Remembering my riding crop from 30 years before, I suggested he make use of the pencil. "Keep it in your hand," I offered. "Use it to punch up your lines. Point it. Twirl it. It will give your hands something natural to do."

And my father, who rarely took advice from anybody, much less a family member, nodded thoughtfully. "I think I'll try that," he decided.

He did. He told me it worked.

Maybe I should have grown up to be a director?

So what did YOU want to be when you 'grew up'? Did it happen? Did you come close? I'd love to hear about it in an email or in the comments section.

Then we can... talk Thursday.

IG