I Remember It Well
I adored Holy Cross Sucks!, Rob Nash’s terrific look at high school life, and there was one line that especially resonated: When the teens were planning to go to NYC after they graduated, an adult told them, “You’ll carry that week with you forever.” It’s true. Although my first post-grad trip to NYC was 41 years ago, I still vividly remember it.
Seven of us friends left Boston on Wednesday morning. One of us was going to Broadway, and six were going to drink. (The drinking age in New York was 18, not 21 as in Massachusetts.) We were to arrive at 1pm, giving me time to check into the Hotel Picadilly on 45th and then go to the Broadhurst, where 110 in the Shade was playing. I was so excited! Every tire rotation was getting me closer to Broadway!! But traffic was horrible, and at 1:30, we were stuck on 75th St. How could I get to the hotel, check in, leave my luggage, and get to 110 by two? Bob Dustin saw me sweating and took pity on me. “I’ll take your luggage to the hotel,” he said soothingly — and oh, did I take him up it. The bus arrived at 1:52. I bolted to the Broadhurst box-office and paid my $5.50 for a first-row orchestra seat.
The Playbill cover, to my chagrin, had an out-of-focus picture of traffic going down a busy Broadway street. In those days, Playbills sported pictures of the stars — not logos, as they do now — and when a replacement came in on short notice, that traffic scene was used until new photos could be taken. The week before, Inga Swenson had been injured, so Joan Fagan was in. Fine with me, for I’d incessantly played the second cut of Donnybrook, which featured Fagan singing one of the greatest opening numbers from a 1960s musical. She didn’t disappoint in 110; the way she looked at the first act curtain, when she sang how she was destined to be an old maid, was devastating.
After the show ended, I stopped at the Shubert on my way back to the hotel to buy my ticket for Here’s Love, the musical version of Miracle on 34th Street. With evening orchestra seats costing a steep $9.90, I paid $5.25 and headed to the 11th row in the rear mezzanine. I’d had the show’s album since October and had stopped listening to it by November, but I couldn’t pass a theater where a musical was playing and not buy a ticket! The minutes dragged until the 8:30 curtain. This time, the Playbill sported pictures of neither Janis Paige nor Craig Stevens but, instead, Lisa Kirk and Richard Kiley, who’d recently taken over their roles. They sure sounded better than their predecessors on the album. Not that the public cared; the place was so empty that I saw the second act from a third-row orchestra seat. Sure, the show was no good. But as someone who’d seen many a pre-Broadway tryout — Funny Girl had recently been a mess in Boston — I learned here that even a second-rank Broadway show with a run under its belt was at least a slick, sure-footed commodity.
Afterwards, for the first and only time in my life, I rushed to a stage door in hopes of seeing a star. The theater: The Winter Garden. The star: Barbra Streisand. She never emerged from that door, and about 40 of us were disappointed. Then I returned to the hotel, where I perused my souvenir booklets as a half-dozen drunks vomited in our communal toilet.
On Thursday, I went from theater to theater, taking photos of every marquee before heading to see Oliver! I splurged: $6.90 for the front mezzanine! The Imperial was also far from full, and I wondered if people had demanded refunds; the role of Nancy, usually played by Georgia Brown, would be played by Maura K. Wedge. She was okay, but the show was tremendously tired. Yet there was a star on hand: Sean Kenney’s abstract and glorious set, which turned and twisted in fascinating ways. At intermission, I moved to one of the empty loge seats, for I’d never sat in that section before. Nine seconds later, an usher roared into the box and sent me back to F-5 in humiliation.
On Friday, I accompanied my buddies to the World’s Fair. (Oh, yeah; there was a World’s Fair on.) I was crushed that To Broadway with Love, a revue whose cast album I’d seen in stores, had closed. Never mind the Fair; let’s get back to Broadway! On Saturday afternoon, I was back in the third-row orchestra, this time for What Makes Sammy Run? — and, thanks to the more merciful matinee prices ($5.50), I got to sit there for both acts of the show. During “Lights! Camera! Platitude!” I heard something not on the album, as Steve Lawrence ad-libbed to Sally Ann Howes and the lady spontaneously cracked up right there on stage — or so I thought. They sure put one over on this naive kid!
Then the seven of us went to Tad’s for $1.99 steaks. The woman next to us noticed my souvenir booklet from Sammy. She was a more “serious” theatergoer and had just attended The White House, a drama that starred Helen Hayes. “You must go see this,” she insisted. “Helen Hayes is in her 60s now; you’ll never get another chance to see her again.” She made me feel terrible, but we were just about to get on the bus. Hayes, as it turned out, had more resiliency in her than that theatergoer thought; she’d live for almost 30 more years and do six more Broadway shows, and I caught two of them.
But I didn’t know that then, and I also felt awful because every tire rotation was taking me farther and farther away from my beloved Broadway. I’m still amazed at how vivid my memories are, which reinforces the fact that Rob Nash knows what he’s talking about in Holy Cross Sucks!
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[To contact Peter Filichia directly, e-mail him at pfilichia@theatermania.com]
