Little Did I Know Read online

  Praise for Little Did I Know:

  “A high-rolling romp from start to finish, in which you expect the characters to burst into song and dance at any moment. More of a lighthearted Anything Goes than a darker Company, it should appeal to readers seeking a little escape into worlds where dreams come true.”

  – Library Journal

  “Little Did I Know that Mitchell Maxwell’s first novel could be as titillating and epic as his award winning, tumultuous theater career. It’s an unforgettable summer, chockablock with passionate love, small town corruption and unbridled determination. This book is truly too good to be true, but it is!”

  – Jeff Calhoun, Tony nominated choreographer

  “With wit and wile reminiscent of Moss Hart’s seminal Act One, Maxwell spins a tale of theatre in the provinces that will entertain, amuse, beguile, and inevitably move you.”

  – Frederick Zollo, Tony-nominated producer of That Championship Season and ’night Mother.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Story Plant

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2011 by Mitchell Maxwell

  Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-123-3

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61188-124-0

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Prospecta Press hardcover printing: September 2011

  First Story Plant paperback printing: April 2014

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my father,

  Maxwell Herbert Shmorak 1921–2006

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my editor Lou Aronica for his ideas, focus, goodwill and tremendous humor. If decent were a character, it would be named Lou.

  Thanks to my brother Rick and sister Victoria for reading the book as it evolved and encouraging me to continue.

  Thanks to Arturo Conde for his tireless work on my early draft of the manuscrpt.

  Thanks to everyone who worked at PBT; my story is theirs.

  Thanks to my mom for . . . well, being my mom.

  Thanks to Jeff Calhoun for reminding me kindness never gets old.

  And thanks to my children: Zach, a fine artist in his own right and a man headed toward greatness, and my daughter, Tia, who proves there is a God.

  1

  I looked upon the faces of my friends and saw much passion. There was pride, fear, joy, and a great deal of angst. A palpable “what now, what next?” danced in the air. Etched on the faces of many of my peers it was clear that their next steps had yet to be choreographed. Everyone squinted under a blazing, perfect mid-May New England sun. Eyes half closed were a metaphor for the day: there was something special down the road, though none of us could see it clearly and more importantly, none of us knew how to get there.

  It was all a sea of black square caps topped with silly tassels that hid the eyes of many classmates. If offered an unencumbered view of the mirror to the soul, you’d see their thoughts racing like sand flowing through an hourglass. The joyous past four years of collegiate life were ending. It was our last chance, ripe and luscious, available for the taking. The clock was ticking all too quickly. In a moment, the music would play, and those silly caps would be thrown high into the cobalt sky. When they landed, the next chapter of our lives would begin. Yesterday I was kid. A breath from now . . . well, I guess I would be a grown-up.

  The black caps peppered the blue sky like thousands of little antiaircraft guns looking to take down a bomber from above. Everything slowed enough to be captured on a camera. Amid the slow motion, I looked around at the faces of my friends. Each one promised a story I wanted to know. Some tales would be filled with triumph and others with despair. Some poked a toe into unknown waters, others prepared for a headfirst dive. Yet even the bravest looked rattled by the uncertainty of everything. Their caps hit the ground without a voice, offering a mere dull thud, if that. It made me both sad and angry. We had grown up together and changed through myriad hairstyles and heartbreaks. We loved together, we lived together, and we shared more loony nights than days. Our experiences were infused with the urgency of having to live an entire lifetime within four college years. “Don’t miss out” was our mantra, and we honored it completely.

  Two months before this morning’s graduation, we had the cast party for the final musical we performed together. That night we had stayed up talking way past late. We had worked on numerous projects, all of which had become precious. They were equal to or, in my case, more important than our studies. We lounged on worn, faded furniture that carried the scent of old lust, stale beer, and lingering ganja that had made generations of students high, mixing into a concoction of frenzied promises. The student center was littered with empty Wild Turkey bourbon bottles and long-forgotten kegs that had been drained of their suds.

  Melissa Morgan, a red-headed farm beauty from Ohio with a perfect array of freckles on her nose, drew my eyes to the denim cutoffs that hung provocatively on her perfect butt. She was bleary eyed and happy like the rest of us. She leaned over to me and planted a long, lingering kiss on my lips. I had always wondered what it would be like to kiss her. Although I had been successful with women, I never thought I had a chance with Melissa. We had admired each other from a distance, and on this particular night the wait proved to be well worth it.

  She looked into my surprised eyes and said, “I’ll never forget these shows, Sam. They were the most fun I ever had.” Then she said good night to the group and walked slowly onto the dance floor, floating effortlessly away. It was the perfect exit for a woman who kept men awake at night with unfulfilled desire.

  JB, one of my closest friends and in many ways my theatrical muse, sat across from me watching the evening fade into daylight. She had the look of a lost little girl searching for something to break away from the melancholy of the night’s last curtain call, or somehow find a way to never let it go.

  JB was an ugly duckling on the verge of discovering that she truly was a swan. She had made these shows happen. Tirelessly and unselfishly, she had urged us all to take up the challenge and sing out. She allowed me to find my voice—not one that sang actual notes but one that gave me the courage to lead. One I didn’t know I owned. Then one day I woke up embracing what I wanted my life to be about. JB was a great and supportive friend, believing in me as I gained the confidence and desire to frolic in a playground that might lead to a career in the arts. She sat still and quiet for several minutes, her eyes practically glazed over. She took a long drag on a Lucky Strike, stared as if through me, and suddenly asked with a giggle, “How many girls did you kiss tonight?”

  “Are you asking how many I kissed, or how many kissed me? I could give you the combined number if you like.”

  “I guess the later would suffice.”

  “If I tell you, you’ll hate me forever.”

  “Come on. I have some perverse need to know.”

  “Okay,” I said slowly. “Remember, though, that this is simply kissing, and we all know that tonight is like going to a kissing booth without having to pay the dollar.”

  “Yes, I recognize the unique nature of t
his evening.”

  I waited a beat and then confessed, “More than ten and less than five hundred.”

  She laughed. “You are absolutely disgusting.” She paused. “You never kissed me. Even after all these years.”

  “I was saving the best for last.”

  Caught up in the moment, I leaped from my chair into her arms and kissed her like I was off to war. She lay still in my embrace as if she was being ravaged. She then rolled over, took a deep, sated breath and said, “I need a cigarette.”

  Only a handful of us remained now that the late hour had become early dawn. My best friend, Secunda, who had acted confidently, brilliantly in many of our shows lamented, “Now what do we do? This ride can’t just end. Figure something out, Sammy.”

  “Yeah, we need to keep that torch burning,” Secunda’s younger brother James added. He had been part of the journey, building great sets, solving problems only he knew existed, and always remaining sane. He lit a killer joint and passed it around the group as if it were a peace pipe, a pact to hold on to the dreams that pulsed through our veins.

  Elliot, another friend, pressed the point. “Sammy, it’s the bicentennial. Add something to the party.” He grinned as if he had said something profound.

  “I have,” I said, smiling with drunken mischievousness.

  “Well?” Elliot continued, shouting as much as gobs of bourbon and fatigue would allow. “What are you gonna do? Win a theater in a poker game? Make out with some heiress? We are done here in two months!”

  I held a finger to my lips and gave a long, slurred, “Shush. Believing is part of figuring it all out. It’s part of the plan. If you don’t sign up for the plan, there is no plan.”

  I gestured for the group to sit closer, and from my breast pocket took a small, folded piece of glossy paper that I had torn from Variety. As I opened it, my friends’ eyes widened as if I were revealing the map to a treasure. In bold print was a small but arresting advertisement. Saying nothing, I let them read what it said:

  FOR RENT: AMERICA’S OLDEST SUMMER STOCK THEATER. IMMEDIATE OCCUPANCY AVAILABLE.

  LOCATED FORTY MILES FROM BOSTON AND LESS THAN ONE HUNDRED YARDS FROM THE OCEAN. PROPERTY INCLUDES 480-SEAT BARN THEATER, EQUIPMENT, AND RESIDENCES FOR UPWARD OF FIFTY PERSONS. FOR TERMS AND PARTICULARS ON THIS HISTORIC VENUE CONTACT DR. ANDERSON BARROWS: 617-242-1200.

  The party continued around us. Our cast mates danced close, flirted, and made plans to play with each other naked before dawn. Our small group was quiet, however, stunned by the small black-and-white missive I had just revealed.

  Secunda, always a cynic said, “You wrote this, right?”

  “No, dickhead, I did not, but I did find it and this, as one might say, is the plan.”

  Again it was quiet in the group. The music was sexy, bluesy late-night stuff, yet we were all focused.

  “This is a good plan,” James said.

  “This is a plan to believe in,” Secunda said, wearing a rare happy face.

  “Yes indeed, this appears to be a great plan. Not that I know of plans, but if I did I would have to say this is a great plan,” chimed in Elliot.

  “Say it then,” I said, “because to believe in the plan makes the plan.”

  “Who are you—Gandhi?” asked Secunda.

  “Say it,” I implored.

  In hushed, sacred tones my friends all declared, “This is a great plan.” We sat back, content. We had a plan.

  “I think this is a terrific plan, I really do,” JB spoke up a few moments later. “But what, exactly, is the plan?”

  The group looked at her as if she had spoken heresy, then quickly looked at me for an answer. “No need to take notes,” I said. “I can repeat this anytime. I can say it backwards. First, I am going to call this guy Barrows and rent his fucking building. Before Elliot goes off to marry Madame Curie, he’ll come and teach music and lead the band. Hopefully along the way he’ll realize that Kat is never going to be good for him and he’ll find some sincere cutie to share his bed.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Elliot asked.

  Without hesitation, surrounded by nods of assent, James quickly replied, “Yes, unfortunately, it is. Quite.”

  I continued. “James, well . . . he will be James. He will make things work that are broken. He’ll be our Spock, our man of logic and calm. He will roll us a joint in time of need. Secunda will act his ass off and sing his ass off and tell jokes and break a few hearts and help me find the money to pay the rent. We’ll kiss every frog that will ribbet and raise this dough.”

  Everyone was listening, barely breathing, not wanting to miss a moment. I continued, “JB will tell everyone what to do. She will organize the business, hire the staff, figure out where everyone is going to live. She will listen to all the hopeless, brokenhearted beauties who believe that all boys want from them is their brains and insight into life. She will charm the press and motivate the entire town, and her acolytes will multiply.”

  I raced on, gathering momentum and breathing life and true belief into the plan. Then I took a beat and closed my eyes for a moment to see the future. When I opened them, I looked hard into the soul and character of my dearest friends. “And me, I am going to direct the shows. I am going to learn how to be a man. I am going to give everyone who crosses my path a memory to cherish. Then I’m moving to New York to direct and produce plays on Broadway and become famous. When I win the Tony, I am going to thank my parents and all of you.” I was done.

  JB said, “You really are going to make this happen? You really mean this?”

  “Yes,” I answered with unwavering conviction. “And the last part I mean the most.”

  She seemed almost frightened by my intensity, then asked, “How many girls are you going to sleep with?”

  “Maybe none. I’m done being a rabbit. I’m looking to find something of substance . . .”

  My friends’ faces creased with expressions of disbelief. “No, really,” I cried, and then added, “Besides, JB, I love you and my heart is in your hands.”

  A rotgut bottle of whiskey had been delivered to our group while I talked. We passed it around and the mood went from jovial to solemn. After a moment I said, “But you had all better be on board. I don’t want to be in Pilgrimtown with my dick in the wind looking for backup.”

  “Promise,” they all said in unison. That was enough for me.

  Now my promises of weeks ago, the pledges made on that inebriated celebratory night, needed to happen, to take flight, to live. So as my silly tasseled hat hit the ground, it exploded in a burst of fire, color, and endless pyrotechnics of promise and winning.

  Despite these burdens, or because of them, I carried no fear. This was the day my life was to begin, a time when challenges would arise and I would slay them. I yearned for all of it, good and bad. To taste, to feel, to love, to hurt. I was youth and hope, the best my generation had to offer. My time was now— today and then the next and the one after that. Remember my name, read about me in the papers, or see it all through a cloud of dust. I was about to hit a hundred miles per hour on the glorious road on which I intended to navigate my life. Little did I know that youth is not a road map, and sometimes you get lost along the way. The secret is finding your way home.

  2

  I headed south on Route 3, my destination Plymouth, Massachusetts. The Pilgrims had landed there in 1620 to start anew. I was arriving some three and a half centuries later. They sailed a cruel, relentless ocean to find a home. My trip was easier: forty miles of superhighway in my 1969 Mustang that still had lots of life in it. We were linked, however, by courage, tenacity, and an innate refusal to fail.

  I turned off the main highway and onto the service road that offered access to America’s first hometown. The midday early-summer sun gave the place an MGM shine to it. This Plymouth would have been unrecognizable to the Pilgrims. It had become a beachfront tourist center with all the trappings. There was a replica of the Mayflower, suc
h a tiny vessel that I remain incredulous that it actually made the voyage. There were souvenir shops that sold saltwater taffy, postcards, and pictures of the “Rock” itself, which surprisingly was no bigger than a medium-sized watermelon.

  There were lobster pots and fried clam huts, families checked into modest beachside motels, sunburns, and poison ivy. Young, pretty coeds waited tables scurrying about with fresh faces and tight, crisp ponytails. Rolling Rock beer was plentiful as were homemade ice cream, whale watches, and rental charters for deep-sea fishing. Plymouth was like so many other tourist havens across the country, ones that slept through the winter and then raced at breakneck speed from Memorial Day till early September, when Labor Day would shut it all down until the next season when the cycle would begin again.

  Plymouth also had the Bay, which was as blue as Paul Newman’s eyes, and Cape Cod sunsets that filled the dusk with a prism of color. Robust, white, happy clouds weaved their way into a spider web that danced in pungent pastels across the sky; there were cool, icy blues, soft, languid tangerines, calming sea-foam greens, neon-yellow and wild-pink orchid. As I looked above, the question “How can I compete with that?” naturally came to mind. My answer: “Well, we all have to start somewhere.”