you’re leaving.”
So I took the subway down to Greenwich Village wondering what I was getting myself into.
Off-Broadway theater was a new concept in 1947. It wasn’t Broadway, but it was theater. The Cherry Lane, a small, old theater on Barrow Street in the Village, seemed an easy mark. I was sure that there I could find something with no trouble at all.
There was a young fellow outside sweeping the street. He was the producer. I asked if he knew whether they needed actors. “Can you paint scenery? I can’t offer you any money,” he said, “but if you want to make yourself handy, you might also be able to play a couple of roles during the season. I’m the producer.”
Al Hurwitz was a cherubic, sweet-faced guy fresh out of Yale. He ledme into a tree-filled yard and introduced me to a barrel-chested, shirtless man in shorts with a paintbrush in his hand. “This is Rod,” Al said. “This fellow’s going to help you backstage, Rod.” Then he left.
“What’s your name?” Rod asked.
“Jerry,” I told him.
“So you want to be an actor, Jerry?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Have you ever worked in theater?”
“Henry Street,” I said. “I played Hsei Ping Kwei in—”
“Have you ever painted a flat?”
“No.”
“Up and down, up and down. You paint it sideways, it looks like scenery. Up and down, it looks like a wall. This is a dutchman,” he said, running a strip of glue-soaked canvas between two flats. “You paste it over the hinges. That way, the audience doesn’t notice the break in the wall.”
“You’re an actor?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I wondered why anyone with ability would stoop to painting scenery.
“Here,” he said, handing me a paintbrush.
At that point someone yelled, “Rod, telephone for you.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” he yelled back, handing me the brush. “Just remember, Jerry, up and down.”
So Rod Steiger taught me to paint my first flat. He returned a few minutes later, shoving his shirt into his pants. “I gotta go,” he said. “Nice meeting you, Jerry.”
I asked him where he was going.
“I’m playing Christ at the Rooftop Theater.”
The Cherry Lane is losing one hell of a set painter, I thought.
I struck up a friendship with a 6-foot-2 Texan lady while we were both painting. She was several years older and a full eight inches taller than me, but painting scenery must have made me attractive, because one night she invited me to her Greenwich Village flat. As I watched her frying chicken she looked at me with kind, motherly eyes. I was going to be fed before being led into the bedroom.
Her cooking was wonderful. The chicken was heavy with breadcrumbs, dipped in batter, then drowned in hot grease. I kept wonderingwhat I was doing there and how I got into this. I was an aspiring actor, working on Barrow Street for no money. This was the payoff.
When we finished our chicken, she looked at me languorously. Her lids grew heavy and seemed to say,
Now
. It was my turn to do my stuff. She took me by the hand and led me into the small, darkened bedroom. A cot with a madras spread over a thin mattress loomed in front of me. Her towering body slowly sat, pulling me next to her. I sat, saying nothing, waiting for something to happen. She removed her blouse. I slowly got up and unbuckled my pants. She lay back, pulling off her blue jeans, revealing her panties. Her shoes were off. I was acting as if I knew my way. I was upon her. Her eyes looked at me with the expectancy of a woman experiencing a seasoned lover. It was over before it began. I looked at her sadly and thought,
All that wonderful chicken, and for what?
I finally got on stage that summer in Auden and Isherwood’s
The Dog Beneath the Skin.
I played a guy swinging a little girl on a swing. As I was leaving the theater that night, a man stopped me at the stage door. “I saw you up there on stage,” he said.
“Did you like my performance?” I asked.
“Forget the performance, what happened to
So I took the subway down to Greenwich Village wondering what I was getting myself into.
Off-Broadway theater was a new concept in 1947. It wasn’t Broadway, but it was theater. The Cherry Lane, a small, old theater on Barrow Street in the Village, seemed an easy mark. I was sure that there I could find something with no trouble at all.
There was a young fellow outside sweeping the street. He was the producer. I asked if he knew whether they needed actors. “Can you paint scenery? I can’t offer you any money,” he said, “but if you want to make yourself handy, you might also be able to play a couple of roles during the season. I’m the producer.”
Al Hurwitz was a cherubic, sweet-faced guy fresh out of Yale. He ledme into a tree-filled yard and introduced me to a barrel-chested, shirtless man in shorts with a paintbrush in his hand. “This is Rod,” Al said. “This fellow’s going to help you backstage, Rod.” Then he left.
“What’s your name?” Rod asked.
“Jerry,” I told him.
“So you want to be an actor, Jerry?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Have you ever worked in theater?”
“Henry Street,” I said. “I played Hsei Ping Kwei in—”
“Have you ever painted a flat?”
“No.”
“Up and down, up and down. You paint it sideways, it looks like scenery. Up and down, it looks like a wall. This is a dutchman,” he said, running a strip of glue-soaked canvas between two flats. “You paste it over the hinges. That way, the audience doesn’t notice the break in the wall.”
“You’re an actor?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I wondered why anyone with ability would stoop to painting scenery.
“Here,” he said, handing me a paintbrush.
At that point someone yelled, “Rod, telephone for you.”
“Okay, I’m coming,” he yelled back, handing me the brush. “Just remember, Jerry, up and down.”
So Rod Steiger taught me to paint my first flat. He returned a few minutes later, shoving his shirt into his pants. “I gotta go,” he said. “Nice meeting you, Jerry.”
I asked him where he was going.
“I’m playing Christ at the Rooftop Theater.”
The Cherry Lane is losing one hell of a set painter, I thought.
I struck up a friendship with a 6-foot-2 Texan lady while we were both painting. She was several years older and a full eight inches taller than me, but painting scenery must have made me attractive, because one night she invited me to her Greenwich Village flat. As I watched her frying chicken she looked at me with kind, motherly eyes. I was going to be fed before being led into the bedroom.
Her cooking was wonderful. The chicken was heavy with breadcrumbs, dipped in batter, then drowned in hot grease. I kept wonderingwhat I was doing there and how I got into this. I was an aspiring actor, working on Barrow Street for no money. This was the payoff.
When we finished our chicken, she looked at me languorously. Her lids grew heavy and seemed to say,
Now
. It was my turn to do my stuff. She took me by the hand and led me into the small, darkened bedroom. A cot with a madras spread over a thin mattress loomed in front of me. Her towering body slowly sat, pulling me next to her. I sat, saying nothing, waiting for something to happen. She removed her blouse. I slowly got up and unbuckled my pants. She lay back, pulling off her blue jeans, revealing her panties. Her shoes were off. I was acting as if I knew my way. I was upon her. Her eyes looked at me with the expectancy of a woman experiencing a seasoned lover. It was over before it began. I looked at her sadly and thought,
All that wonderful chicken, and for what?
I finally got on stage that summer in Auden and Isherwood’s
The Dog Beneath the Skin.
I played a guy swinging a little girl on a swing. As I was leaving the theater that night, a man stopped me at the stage door. “I saw you up there on stage,” he said.
“Did you like my performance?” I asked.
“Forget the performance, what happened to
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