Home and Alone

“When I left my home and my family

I was no more than a boy

In the company of strangers

In the quiet of the railway station

Running scared

Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters

Where the ragged people go

Looking for the places only they would know”

—PAUL SIMON “THE BOXER”

I made the decision to move to New York quickly because I wanted to get out of Maryland before all my friends left for college, and to be able to tell them that I was doing something cool too. My parents insisted that if I went, I had to sign up for acting classes, to at least give the appearance that I was going for educational reasons. But beyond that, they had no idea where I was going to live, who I was going to see, or what I was going to do. They gave me four hundred dollars to get started, and I took the money from my savings account and got traveler’s checks for safety. I stuffed my clothes and sleeping bag into the duffle bag I used at Wigwasati, grabbed my guitar and the piece of paper with Christopher’s address on it, 21 West 86th Street, and walked out of my family home for good. My dad took me to the Greyhound bus station in downtown Washington and that was it—I was on my own, and would be for the rest of my life. Kind of like sending me out onto the mean streets of Philadelphia by myself as a four-year-old, only this time with a different message—don’t come back. I was scared to death and already feeling homesick but, really, I had no other choice.

I am not sure why I didn’t call Christopher to tell him I was coming before I left. Well, actually, I do. I was afraid he would tell me not to come. As it stood, legally speaking, the final offer on the table was “Come on by if you’re in the neighborhood,” and there was no reason to fuck with that. All I had to do was get myself to his neighborhood and he would be legally and morally bound to let me stay with him. The bus let me out at the Port Authority on West 41st Street and 8th Avenue, a very sleazy part of town in 1975. With “my suitcase and guitar in hand,” I still remember the feeling of hitting a wall of humanity, and just being swept up in it like a school of fish. There were buses that went to the Upper West Side, but they were so crowded and I had so much stuff that I decided just to walk the two and a half miles. Eighth Avenue was crazy, lugging that duffle bag and guitar, being jostled by the crowd, surrounded by hookers, porno theaters, three-card monte games, and food carts. But at 59th Street, it turned into Central Park West, which was a whole other world I was seeing for the first time. I made my way up to 86th, turned left, and there was Christopher’s building, with an awning that read The Brewster Hotel. I went through the revolving door and up to the clerk behind the desk, asking if Christopher lived there. He told me he did, gave me his room number, and up the elevator I went. I don’t think I had peed since I left my parents’ house that morning and my bladder was close to bursting, so barging in on Christopher was not the only reason for my anxiousness when I knocked on the door.

Bruce McGill is a daunting motherfucker. He is from Texas and is built like a bull. He is an amazing character actor you have seen in movies and TV for decades, from Animal House to My Cousin Vinny to Ali, playing bikers, cops, judges—any character whose intention is to intimidate, because he is a formidable guy. He opened the door to Christopher’s apartment with a look that said, “I am in the middle of a lot of things and who the fuck are you?” I wasn’t sure if I had the right apartment because Christopher never mentioned anything about having roommates.

“Oh. Uh, well, I met him in Washington this summer and he said I could stay with him if I ever came to New York and so I came.”

“He did but I didn’t know he wasn’t going to be here. Could I please come in? I really have to pee.”

And that was it. Bruce said I could sleep on the couch until I found a place to live, even though he had never even heard of me before that moment. Bruce, Christopher, and John Heard all shared the apartment, and took me in like the lost dog I was. I was stoned for the first time in my life within minutes of my arrival. Everyone was in their mid to late twenties, and having a seventeen-year-old in their midst was kind of like having a pet. The Brewster Hotel was a cheap place for young actors to live and there was a constant party going on. I finished my first day in New York at four o’clock the next morning, at their favorite bar, the Tap A Keg, drunk off my ass, and then passed out on the couch. I knew I was home.

They were all working actors, going to auditions, arguing with their agents, and checking their messages at the telephone answering services that everyone had back then. I think Bruce was in Hamlet and Heard was doing Streamers. Christopher came back to town but moved in with his girlfriend, Patricia Richardson, so I was able to stay at the Brewster a little longer. I signed up for a beginner’s scene-study acting class at HB Studio, a very good acting school run by Uta Hagen and Herbert Bergoff. I struck up a conversation with a talkative stranger in the lobby one day, commiserating about trying to find an apartment in the city. He was also new to town and staying at the YMCA. At that moment, as luck would have it, the actress who had played Bianca in Taming of the Shrew came into the lobby and gave me a very warm greeting. She was surprised that I had actually moved to New York and told me that there was an apartment available in her building on West 75th Street and Broadway. The talkative stranger, John Nichols, and I decided we would be roommates on the spot, got on the subway, and went straight to the building to talk to the landlord, who was a very kind old Jewish man. He said we could have the place, a two-room apartment, and when we asked how much the rent was, instead of telling us, he asked what we could afford. We told him we could pay one hundred dollars each, and he gave us the keys. John got his stuff from the Y and I got mine from the Brewster, and we met back there later that day. There was an abandoned building next door, which was some kind of whorehouse/drug den. John and I ventured in there and found two mattresses, which we dragged up to the apartment. There was no electricity, but there was heat, water, and gas, and we started living there that night. We eventually found a card table and some chairs, but to save money, we didn’t get electricity for about four or five months, just lived by candlelight at night. My dad stopped by when he was in town on business and tried to put up a good front, but I could see he was worried about the safety of the place. It was a barren crash pad, like Ratso Rizzo’s place in Midnight Cowboy, and I loved it.

I was out most of the time anyway. The lifestyle of an unemployed actor in New York fit me like a glove. Playing frisbee in Central Park in the day and going to the Tap A Keg at night, my friends all so much older and cooler than me but accepting me as a fully-fledged, functioning adult. Their apartments had actual furniture, their girlfriends were beautiful and kind, and they fed me more meals than I could ever count. There was a little outdoor newspaper stand at our corner where I could pick up some money watching the stand and selling papers when the owner needed a break. Christopher’s circle of friends included Doug and Tay Cheek, who lived in a loft in Chelsea and had a young daughter. The whole gang was my family, the best big brothers and big sisters any eighteen-year-old kid could ask for, feeding me, taking me to plays, and teaching me guitar. I went to auditions that I found in the trade paper, Backstage. They would post real jobs for actors, in regional theaters, industrial films, off-off Broadway, chorus parts, and student films—anyone who needed actors. I stood in lines at the cattle calls and got to take my swings and see how the game was played.

At HB Studios, it was time to sign up for the next semester of classes. I had a chance to audit Herbert Bergoff’s class, sit in the back, and watch the elite actors in the school do scene work with this legendary acting teacher. I still don’t know why, but when he finished the lecture at the beginning of one of his classes and the first team of actors was preparing for their scene, Herbert looked into the shadows of the last row, pointed to me, and said, “Come down here and sit next to me.” After a confused, paralyzed beat, I made my way down to his table at the edge of the stage and sat down next to him. He told me I was going to be able to see much better up there and really get a sense of what he was talking about. I told him I was grateful, although I had never even spoken to him and had no idea why this was happening. Herbert then stood up in front of the class and, being the great actor he was, made a grand gesture of taking a dollar bill out of his pocket. “I am going to give this young man a dollar. He looks like he could probably use it, but I am giving it to him as an investment. Because I think great things are going to happen to this young man and that he has a real future. You are all a witness that he has accepted this investment and I now own a piece of his talent.” The class laughed as he gave me the dollar bill. I sat through the class, pretending to pay attention, but I was so surprised by this random act of validation that I couldn’t focus on anything else besides the dollar bill in my pocket. At the end of the class, I offered to give it back, but he insisted I keep it. I wrote home to my parents telling them the story, trying to create the illusion of progress. I thought about framing that dollar, but I needed the money, so I spent it at some point. But the confidence booster he gave me, for whatever his reasons, has lasted all this time.

I signed up for Austin Pendleton’s acting class. Austin is an incredibly talented actor, director, and acting teacher as well. I knew it would be challenging, but my confidence was growing. Since I was the new kid in the class, and so much younger as well, I spent the first month or two just watching. It was a very serious class. The actors were good, and the way Austin gave them notes and direction was always so exciting and insightful. I saw how the actors made their adjustments to their performances, using the same words but with very different intentions, completely changing the meaning of the scene. And then one day, I finally got my chance to get up in front of the class. As a homework assignment (the good kind of homework), Austin had told us to be prepared to recreate three minutes of our life onstage. No dialogue or plot or story, just exist on stage and behave in as natural a way as you can. I guess I wanted to appear cool and hip in front of my older classmates, so I had decided that my three minutes would just be me hanging out in the living room, where I would roll a cigarette and just smoke it. When I got to class, I started to get really nervous, especially when I watched all of the other actors before me and realized I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I AM DOING! I AM A TOTAL FRAUD! When Austin called my name, my heart jumped out of my chest. I got on the stage, pushed a couch and table to set the scene, put my tobacco and cigarette papers on the table, and began. I thought I would calm down once I started, but that didn’t happen. I started to hyperventilate and walked around the stage, trying to catch my breath. I could feel how red my face was turning, and I was so upset with myself for choking the first time in front of all these great actors. I decided to just get to the part where I roll the cigarette. Do you know how hard it is to roll a cigarette when your hands are shaking like you are inside a fucking blender? I could barely roll a joint on a good day, but under these conditions it was going to be absolutely impossible. The rolling paper was shaking, the tobacco was flying, and my ego was being crushed. I tried to gather myself and make a second attempt at rolling the cigarette, but the guy in My Left Foot would have had a better shot at accomplishing that at that moment. I was also getting a real good lesson of just how long three minutes can be. I was near tears by the time Austin said that the time was up. But to my absolute astonishment, the class broke out in applause, and Austin said how terrific I was and how real that felt. He said, “What was going on in that scene? What three minutes were you recreating?” I saw a way out of this fiasco, and I took it, lying my ass off. “Well, I was almost hit by a bus on Broadway the other day. It really scared me and I was pretty shook up and so this was the three minutes when I had just gotten back to my apartment.” Given my meltdown onstage, that scenario made perfect sense and Austin bought it hook, line and sinker. “Well, I have no notes. That was just great.” When I took my seat in the class, I didn’t feel invisible anymore. I had totally fooled them. Oh, wait, isn’t that what being an actor is? To try to totally fool people? I was good at bullshitting. I majored in it at high school. I thought, “Hmmm. I might do well at this.”

I am not sure if I ever did another scene in Austin’s class or not, because within a short time, Austin offered me my first professional acting job. He was directing a prestigious play by Robert Lowell called Benito Cereno at the American Place Theater on West 46th Street, starring Roscoe Lee Browne as a slave on a slave ship. Austin gave me the part of a sailor on the ship. I guess he had heard about my work in Taming of the Shrew because my character in this had the exact same dialogue—two or three “Aye, aye, sirs!” and maybe an “Over there!” or a “Halt!” He took a chance on me—I didn’t even have to audition. I was making forty-five dollars a week as a real actor in a real play in New York, eight shows a week. At the same time, I landed the lead role in a play at St. Clements Church, which was a very respectable off-Broadway venue at the time, and it was also located on West 46th Street but over at 9th Avenue. They arranged the rehearsal and performance schedule so I wouldn’t have to miss any shows at the American Place, but I would have to run from one theater to the other some days to be there in time. The play was terrible, but the director was very cute and became my girlfriend for a while. My mom came up and saw both plays and she got to meet Roscoe, who charmed the pants off her and told her what a talented actor I was. She knew Roscoe from television and his validation made my career seem legit in her eyes.

When those plays ended and I stopped getting paid, I had to take a job at a pharmacy on East 71st Street, delivering prescriptions and cleaning the store, but that was the last straight job I ever had. Before long I went to another audition from Back-stage, to be the understudy for David Mamet’s first New York play, Sexual Perversity in Chicago, at the famed Cherry Lane Theatre in the Village. I auditioned for David and got the job, which also included changing the sets, buying and setting the props, running the sound, and being an usher, and it paid forty-five dollars a week. The play, starring F. Murray Abraham, was a huge hit. I understudied Peter Riegert, who was dating Bette Midler at the time, so there was an electricity around the theater, and it felt like a pretty prestigious play to be involved with. To save money, I downgraded my living conditions, moving out of the shithole with John and into a closet in the apartment of a couple I had met. An actual closet. I brought the single mattress from the whorehouse up the five flights and put it on the floor of their hallway storage closet, and could only partially open the door in order to get in the room. But I only had to pay seventy dollars a month instead of one hundred dollars, and that way I could pad my bank account for the lean days that would surely come. I understudied for six or eight months, rehearsing the play once or twice a week, but Riegert never missed a show. When he finally announced he was leaving, I hoped they would ask me to step in, but they gave the part to the guy who was the understudy before me. Being the prideful idiot I was, I quit the job. I needed the money very badly, but it would have been too hard to be the understudy to the guy who was the understudy, some kind of bizarre actor purgatory.

Anyway, I was kind of a working actor. I did another off-off Broadway play. Doug Cheek cast me in a children’s TV show called Vegetable Soup, which was actually a groundbreaking show on PBS at the time, with a diverse cast and a progressive message. I got paid a couple of hundred bucks, which meant a few more months of rent. Then one day, I got an audition down at HB Studios Playwright Center, the theater connected with the school that develops new plays. The play was called Almost Men, which sounded perfect because that was just about where I was in my personal life—nineteen and almost a man. The play had already been in rehearsal for three weeks. Evidently, there had been five other actors who had been cast in the role before me—one broke his leg, a couple got paying jobs—and with the opening only ten days away, there was a bit of stress in the air when I came in to audition. The play is about four high school students from Texas who go to New York City on an adventure. It was an excellent play, very funny and natural dialogue, and mine was the lead part, playing the playwright when he was a teenager. The actors, director, and writer were all in the middle of rehearsal when I came into the theater, but stopped to do my audition. I had no idea that by the time that little play ended, I would be ready to take the next step toward becoming the kind of man I wanted to be, with a life as well as a career, with a wife, children, furniture, a car, and a community and all of the things that have happened since that day. Standing onstage to audition with me was a beautiful woman, wearing a very sexy outfit, who played the hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold in the play. But wait, that’s no hooker. That’s my wife!