The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? by Michael Kearns Read Free Book Online

were shirtless).
    When the second screening ended at approximately midnight and she still hadn’t shown up, I improvised—walked, took a bus, or got a cab.
    “I have to go inside and get the money,” I’d lie to the cab driver. Then I’d disappear into the backyard of the house I’d indicated was mine and wait until I heard the cab speed away.
    Her negligence seemed to hurt less after I got picked to do “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” Once the day of the performance arrived, after I wooed the entire student body, the teachers and the parents in attendance (including my mom), my sense of self began to blossom. Not only was I the one picked from an entire classroom of a couple dozen kids, but I also seduced an audience of at least one hundred with my dazzling display of talent. Everything became secondary to the goal I created for myself.
    My mother was a hard worker by day but took off to see my stupendous performance. A bit contradictory to her irresponsible lady-of-the-night mode, she went into her practical mode when I shared my heart’s desire.
    “I want to be an actor,” I told her.
    She looked up the word “dramatic” in the Yellow Pages, and there it was: “Junior Theater, Acting Classes for Youth, Marian Epstein, Director.” She called and arranged a meeting with Miss Epstein (who would be played by Eve Arden in the movie).
    With her booming stage voice and tailored wardrobe, Miss Epstein was a grande dame, formerly “a New York stage actress,” she announced without providing much substantiation. I was both intimidated by her and magnetized to her.
    “Did you notice the length of her skirt?” my mother asked on the drive home. “Perfect for someone her age. And the light gray color of her blouse matched the color of her hair.” These were the kinds of observations my mother routinely made.
    My mom would also make very astute comments about total strangers that we’d see on the street, often spinning a psychologically complex scenario, simply based on what she saw. “They just had a fight,” she’d say of a couple sitting next to each other at a bus stop but not relating. “Look at the way her body is rejecting him. And she’s holding on to her purse like there’s a secret in it.”
    Later in my life, I realized that her big imagination greatly influenced my writing. She consistently dug for the subtext, never content with what everyone else could see. Based on keen perception, she would concoct a story that was never judgmental and always human.
    This ability to perceive what is unseen was a gift from my mother that would also influence my ability to bring fully developed characters to life. She taught me to look beyond the obvious, to plunge deeper into the human condition.
    I quickly amassed a list of credits from Junior Theater productions. My first small part was the Tall Boy in an original play, a rather benign beginning. Next up was the title role in The Knave of Hearts , in which my frilly costume overshadowed my acting. The role I was really able to sink my teeth into was Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream —the artisan who, in the play within the play, dons a long yellow wig and plays the tortured female character in a bastardization of the Romeo and Juliet death scene. It would not be the last time that I’d play a death scene in a wig (or play a bottom).
    A clown was born. Being able to make ’em laugh was added to my growing repertoire of ways to get attention. I remembered my father not being able to attend the performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the last minute, but my mom and Grandma Katie were there in the audience, sharing my triumph.
    Ultimately, it wasn’t the list of credits I accumulated at the Junior Theater that mattered. What Miss Epstein taught her young thespians was the art of empathy, rooted in the methodology of Stanislavski.
    “Do not ask how you are different than any human being,” Miss Epstein would say. “Ask yourself how you are similar.