ALTHOUGH I'D ALWAYS WANTED to become a writer, I wasn't sure what kind of writing. After I read Nathanael West's horror story of Hollywood—The Day of the Locust—I ruled out screenwriting.
That left plays, short stories, or novels. I'd read hundreds of each, but my only experience with live theater were student performances in school. I was on stage once, in third grade, and I played an oracle. In a deep voice, full of portent, I said to the king of the Aztecs, "Thy days are numbered, Montezuma."
That was the extent of my acting experience.
In my teens, I glorified Manhattan. It was Baghdad-on-the-Hudson, city of the arts, of publishing, and Broadway theater. I could reach that mecca for a nickel, and see two-thirds of a show free of charge. All I had to do was mingle with the crowd that stepped out for a smoke after the first-act curtain. When the buzzer announced the second-act warning, I would drift in among them and quickly find a seat before the lights dimmed. I called it second acting.
The year was 1942. I was fifteen, and the play was The Skin of Our Teeth. Since I had read Our Town in high school, and seen the movie, the thought of second acting a Thornton "Wilder play excited me.
I was clever enough never to try it on weekends. On a midweek evening, I put on my navy blue suit, a conservative tie, and took the subway to Times Square. I was early that night, as I walked to the theater district, so I lingered outside Lindy's Restaurant for a while and peered through the window. I imagined Damon Runyon's hustlers, gamblers, and gangsters, guys and dolls hanging out at the restaurant. Runyon called it Mindy's. When I could afford to splurge, I'd go inside, sit near the window looking out at the Broadway passersby, and gorge myself on the cheesecake Runyon had immortalized.
I stopped daydreaming and focused on the task at hand. I didn't mind missing the first act of The Skin of Our Teeth. I could usually figure out the opening situation, but even if I couldn't, it didn't matter. I would develop the opening in my mind, write a beginning that brought the characters and the story together. In those days, I saw many second and third acts, but never any firsts.
Always after the final curtain, I would applaud with the others, and visualize the glories of a playwright's life. Curtain calls on opening night of a smash hit. Shouts of "Author! Author!" Bows and bouquets. Then to Sardi's for celebration with champagne and caviar as everyone waited for the early Times review.
That night started out the same as usual. I blended in with the crowd of smokers that spilled out of the theater onto the sidewalk, took a cigarette from my imitation gold case, and lit up. I mingled with the paying customers and listened to the chatter about the first act, picking up clues about the opening.
When the second-act warning buzzer sounded, I merged with them into the lobby. Above their heads, I caught a glimpse of the faces of Fredric March and Tallulah Bankhead on the life-sized poster. I'd seen them both in the movies, of course. Tonight, I would see them live, on stage, in a Thornton Wilder play.
Once inside, I hung back at the rear, scanning the rows for an empty seat, ready to slide into it before the lights dimmed. I saw two in the center off the aisle, but as I made my move I was jostled aside by the latecomers.
Only then did I realize that the crowd was larger than usual. I moved to the wall, peering through the dimming light, my eyes growing used to the dark. Every seat was occupied. Did I dare try the balcony? I'd come this far. Might as well. I went back and headed upstairs two steps at a time. I found a Playbill, slipped it into my jacket pocket, and headed for an empty seat in the center of a row.
As I sat down, a woman glared at me. "What are you doing? That's my husband's seat!"
"Sorry," I said. "Wrong row."
I jumped up and squeezed my way back to the aisle as a huge man headed toward me. I'd waited too long. I had to backtrack to the other end. People grumbled as I stepped on their feet.
An usher with a flashlight was waiting for me. "May I see your ticket stub? The curtain is about to go up."
Heart pounding, I pretended to search my pockets. "I must have dropped it somewhere. I had it right here."
She looked at me suspiciously. "There are no empty seats in the balcony."
"I'll go down to the lobby and see if I can find it."
"Let me light your way."
"Not necessary," I whispered, moving quickly. But I missed the last step and fell.
"Sir, are you hurt? Let me take you to the managers office."
"No. No. That's all right. I'm fine."
I ran down the steps two at a time into the empty lobby. There I saw the full length of the poster with a banner announcement that had been hidden by the crowd heading inside for the second act: TONIGHT'S PERFORMANCE SOLD OUT!
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Out of the lobby, into the street. Only then did I look back at the marquee at the play's title that now mocked my close call. THE SKIN OF OUR TEETH.
I walked north on Broadway to Central Park South, telling myself I might find an adventure along the way. Since it was late, I didn't enter the park, just sat on one of the benches and looked up at the luxury hotels. The name Essex House impressed me and I wondered about the lives of wealthy people who lived there. Someday, I would look down from one of those windows to where I was sitting now.
As I passed the theater district on the way back to the subway, I saw the street filled with the exiting theater crowd. Some people entered waiting limos or hailed taxis. Others walked toward brightly lit Broadway.
Once again, I merged into the crowd, as if by being among them I could be part of them. Many held the Playbill in their hands. I pulled mine out of my pocket, and held it as a badge that showed I belonged in their world.
One group turned off into Sardi's. I followed them in and looked around. After they were seated, I saw the head waiter approach. I waved my Playbill at him and asked for directions to the men's room.
When I left Sardi's and continued on to the subway, I tried to imagine what the play I had not seen might be like. I couldn't. So on the ride back to Brooklyn, I made one up, about a boy who had a great adventure, a narrow escape—by the skin of his teeth—as he tried to second act a Broadway play.
Twenty-five years later, in 1967, I received a fellowship to the MacDowell Colony for Creative Artists in Peterborough, New Hampshire to work on my second novel The Touch.
I was assigned a luxurious studio deep in the woods. On the first day, I was told that to preserve solitude for creativity, the only distraction would occur at noon each day when a car would drive up the gravel path and someone would leave my lunch basket at the door.
Exploring the studio, I noticed a piece of wood in the shape of a paddle on the fireplace mantel. It was inscribed with a list of names of former visitors, some at the top faded, others at the bottom fresh. As I glanced up the long list, I saw the name: Thornton Wilder. In 1936 or 1937 he had written Our Town in the same studio where I would be working on The Touch for the next month.
Remembering my failed evening at the theater, I added my name at the bottom of the paddle.