morning. Next I remember
about halfway through the parade being on my back and looking up into a clown’s face.
They had taken my head off and thrown a bucket of water on me.
“What’s going on?” I mumbled.
“You got heatstroke,” the clown said.
A lot of people had crowded around, apparently thinking it was exciting to see one
of the lions passed out on the asphalt. As I staggered up, pausing on all fours, some
kid sprinted out from the crowd and ripped off my tail. It was no easy task. The tail
was so long that it had a wire that ran from my neck to my ass to keep it in the air.
But he snatched it right off, almost strangling me, and I was too groggy to give chase.
“Where’s your tail, lad?” the costume guy asked later on when I returned my suit.
“Some kid ran off with it,” I said.
“Well, that’ll cost you thirty-five dollars.”
“I’m not even making thirty-five dollars a week. Not even close.”
“I know,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll give you a break. You’ll have to work here another
week for nothing.”
I was quickly learning that theater and circus management have something in common—they’re
all heart.
* * *
Once I got to Miami, the intensity of everything, from the work to my life, ratcheted
up. You could not live in that city for my salary, $28 a week, so I bunked in the
men’s latrine. I threw up a cot between the urinals and put up a tent of mosquito
netting. The latrine was a majorbreeding ground of Miami’s mosquito population. I dated a member of the corps de
ballet whose father was a U.S. Customs officer, and every two weeks he confiscated
a stalk of bananas for me. She kept me alive. All I did in my time off (ho-ho) was
drink rum, eat bananas, an occasional hamburger, and that pretty little dancer.
My day started at 6 A.M. when I checked the tent to see if the wind had come up at night and caused any damage.
Then I sat in on rehearsals in my various capacities as chorus member, actor, assistant
prop man. It was a lot to do, and yet I felt lucky to have the job. These musicals
often boasted a talented cast headed by Elaine Stritch and solid characters like Iggy
Wolfington and George Britton. My night didn’t finish until very late, and I somehow
had the energy to party all night, drinking and dancing and so on.
I’d never been as poor, tired, or happy. I had a lot of stamina. After all—I was nineteen.
Toward the end of summer, the area suffered a freak cold wave. There was even a sleet
storm. Not surprisingly, between sleeping in the latrine and the crazy hours I kept,
I came down with pneumonia. I felt like I was going to die. Iggy and George took me
into the little house they rented and got me to a doctor, who gave me a shot of penicillin,
which was still a relatively new drug. That got me through it.
By the time I recovered, though, the season was over.
I headed north, where Sinjin had me work in his productions in Lambertville, New Jersey.
It was “the original musical circus in the round,” where he had started out. By now
I’d won my spurs and he made me the assistant stage manager, a position whose salary
was regulated by the Actors’ Equity Association. I don’t remember the amount, but
it was a helluva lot more than $28 a week. Best of all, it allowed me to get my Equity
card, a big step for me in those days.
I was also playing very slightly bigger parts and feeling more confident about myself
onstage when Mom called to ask me about an actor named Wilbur Evans. She was about
to reprise her starring role in
South Pacific,
and Wilbur was set to be her leading man. I’d workedwith him in Florida. She said she was concerned that he wasn’t as tall as Ezio Pinza,
her costar on Broadway. I assured her that he was a fine actor who would do well in
the part. But it turned out she actually had something else on her mind. My mother
could be crafty like that. She said there
about halfway through the parade being on my back and looking up into a clown’s face.
They had taken my head off and thrown a bucket of water on me.
“What’s going on?” I mumbled.
“You got heatstroke,” the clown said.
A lot of people had crowded around, apparently thinking it was exciting to see one
of the lions passed out on the asphalt. As I staggered up, pausing on all fours, some
kid sprinted out from the crowd and ripped off my tail. It was no easy task. The tail
was so long that it had a wire that ran from my neck to my ass to keep it in the air.
But he snatched it right off, almost strangling me, and I was too groggy to give chase.
“Where’s your tail, lad?” the costume guy asked later on when I returned my suit.
“Some kid ran off with it,” I said.
“Well, that’ll cost you thirty-five dollars.”
“I’m not even making thirty-five dollars a week. Not even close.”
“I know,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll give you a break. You’ll have to work here another
week for nothing.”
I was quickly learning that theater and circus management have something in common—they’re
all heart.
* * *
Once I got to Miami, the intensity of everything, from the work to my life, ratcheted
up. You could not live in that city for my salary, $28 a week, so I bunked in the
men’s latrine. I threw up a cot between the urinals and put up a tent of mosquito
netting. The latrine was a majorbreeding ground of Miami’s mosquito population. I dated a member of the corps de
ballet whose father was a U.S. Customs officer, and every two weeks he confiscated
a stalk of bananas for me. She kept me alive. All I did in my time off (ho-ho) was
drink rum, eat bananas, an occasional hamburger, and that pretty little dancer.
My day started at 6 A.M. when I checked the tent to see if the wind had come up at night and caused any damage.
Then I sat in on rehearsals in my various capacities as chorus member, actor, assistant
prop man. It was a lot to do, and yet I felt lucky to have the job. These musicals
often boasted a talented cast headed by Elaine Stritch and solid characters like Iggy
Wolfington and George Britton. My night didn’t finish until very late, and I somehow
had the energy to party all night, drinking and dancing and so on.
I’d never been as poor, tired, or happy. I had a lot of stamina. After all—I was nineteen.
Toward the end of summer, the area suffered a freak cold wave. There was even a sleet
storm. Not surprisingly, between sleeping in the latrine and the crazy hours I kept,
I came down with pneumonia. I felt like I was going to die. Iggy and George took me
into the little house they rented and got me to a doctor, who gave me a shot of penicillin,
which was still a relatively new drug. That got me through it.
By the time I recovered, though, the season was over.
I headed north, where Sinjin had me work in his productions in Lambertville, New Jersey.
It was “the original musical circus in the round,” where he had started out. By now
I’d won my spurs and he made me the assistant stage manager, a position whose salary
was regulated by the Actors’ Equity Association. I don’t remember the amount, but
it was a helluva lot more than $28 a week. Best of all, it allowed me to get my Equity
card, a big step for me in those days.
I was also playing very slightly bigger parts and feeling more confident about myself
onstage when Mom called to ask me about an actor named Wilbur Evans. She was about
to reprise her starring role in
South Pacific,
and Wilbur was set to be her leading man. I’d workedwith him in Florida. She said she was concerned that he wasn’t as tall as Ezio Pinza,
her costar on Broadway. I assured her that he was a fine actor who would do well in
the part. But it turned out she actually had something else on her mind. My mother
could be crafty like that. She said there
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