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1950S
The 1950sBiting into the Big AppleI’ve never heard big-city music like this before. Honking, whistling, sirens blaring, cars hitting brakes, and tourists from around the world lling the sidewalks. I’m on 34th Street face-to-face with a police ocer.“Can you please direct me to the YMCA in Herald Square?”He laughs. “It’s across the street, kid. You’re looking right at it!”Bingo. Within minutes, I’m at the check-in counter. An agreeable clerk is quoting the best deal he’s got for a three-night-stay: nine dollars and seventy-ve cents. Happily, I count out thecash.By lunchtime, I’m checking out the eatre District. In an oce building on West 46th Street, I locate the prize attraction: the job board at the Actors Equity Oce. As a paid-up member, I qualify to take advantage of all posted casting options.e ballpoint pen in my hand is busy. Auditions for e Pajama Game start in two weeks. e musical will be choreographed by a “newcomer” from Hollywood. Who the heck is Bob Fosse? Apparently, a sequence he staged in the movie Kiss Me, Kate secured him the assignment.Pajama Game’s casting notice states a strong preference for factory-worker types. Hey, I’m from McKeesport! Y’can’t get closer to factory workers than that!
Wow. e audition is only two weeks away! All I need is a roof over my head for the next fourteen days and a nighttime job.An hour later, I secure a four p.m.-to-midnight counter job in Times Square selling hot dogs, burgers, and fries. It pays fty-nine cents an hour.Before manning the counter, I join two other dancers in renting a furnished one-bedroom apartment on West 82nd Street. In less than forty-eight hours, I’m a New Yorker preparing for his rst Broadway audition. How about them apples?A Meaty Mess-upNedick’s is a twenty-minute bus ride from 82nd Street. Double shifts are available on weekends. Sixteen consecutive hours go down well, since the manager, Stanley Prager, likes hearing stories about the pretty girls I take class with every day. I also get all the free hot dogs, burgers, and fries I’m able to consume on the premises.With a full belly, I’m sent home at midnight, wishing I could share some food with my cash-strapped, hungry roommates. But Nedick’s policy blocks it. To ensure that edibles aren’t removed from the premises, personal bags are inspected before employees go out the door.I dance around it. At midnight, I run to the basement and hang up my Nedick’s shirt and cap. When no one’s watching, I lift three pre-cut raw hamburger patties out of the refrigerator and press them against my bare chest. Once they’re stuck to my skin, I put on my shirt, grab my dance bag, and head upstairs for the required inspection.Nightly, Stanley apologizes for probing my personal belongings. Fortunately, company policy doesn’t include body pat-downs. Exiting the store, I walk slowly to 8th Avenue, where I catch a bus uptown with tomorrow’s meal for three roommates stuck to my skin.
Burgers-on-the-chest continue regularly until one night when the “free-food system” doesn’t go as planned. Climbing aboard the bus, I make my way to a seat in the back. Seconds later, I notice passengers leaning over and staring at the oor. What’s going on?I look.Sure enough, three raw burger patties are lying in the aisle.I walked too fast.Embarrassed, I turn away and stare out the window, ignoring the eshy evidence on the oor. Beyond the glass, I imagine my sister, Charlotte, pointing an accusative nger at me.“Grandma Ammon will be very upset,” she warns, “if she hears that her grandson was caught stealing hamburger patties in Times Square!”at’s not the kind of news I want to send back to McKeesport! What feels like an eternity later, I step over the beef and exit the bus at 82nd Street feeling like I better come up with a better plan than this one.“Mistakes are part of the dues that one pays for a full life.”—Sophia Loren
Face-to-Face with Fossee turnout for Pajama Game is staggering. So is the wait to get in the door. I show up hoping a bright smile and kick-ass moves will get me noticed.Two hours later, I learn that smiles and kick-ass moves are only part of what Bob Fosse expects from dancers.With a clipboard in hand and a signature cigarette dangling from his mouth, he personally evaluates us. Most of the questions he asks are about Broadway credits. Since I don’t have any, I’m relieved when he asks how old I am.“How old do you want me to be?” I respond.He chuckles. “Pajama Game will be populated with factory workers, not high school kids,” he explains. “Right now, you’re a little young for us. But I like your energy.”He turns to his supervisor for additional feedback. Holy smokes, he’s talking to Jerome Robbins—the legend who staged musicals like e King & I, Wonderful Town, Call Me Madam, High Button Shoes, and Billion Dollar Baby.Whispering, they debate whether a skinny dancer from McKeesport should stay or be sent out the door. Fosse is nodding.Within seconds, I hear the verdict: “Stick around, Grover.” Fosse moves on to the next dancer.Lord almighty. ey want me to stick around.Robbins’ interest, however, is unrelated to e Pajama Game, I later learn. He’s more interested in me for another musical he’ll be directing in a season or two.By the end of the day, I make it down to the last ten dancers.Wow. My rst Broadway audition and I’m a nalist.Two hours and three more Fosse combos later, contracts for e Pajama Game are oered to eight male dancers. I’m not one of them.
As eight elated dancers gather for the signing, a disappointed dancer runs out the door to his counter job at Nedick’s.On the way, I focus on the mistakes I made: Not looking good enough. Not being funny or sharp enough. Not being smart or old enough. By the time I’m placing burgers and fries in front of customers, I’ve convinced myself that deserting Bob-a-Lou Dance Studio and the shack on a dirt road might have been a mistake.The Heyday of TV Dance JobsIn 1954, nine TV variety shows employ dancers. Over a hundred are working full-time for choreographers like Herbert Ross, Jimmy Starbuck, Hugh Lambert, Tony Charmoli, and June Taylor. It’s easy to understand why ve hundred or more show up at every audition. e competition is ferocious!Bailing Out of Burgerland?I’m running towards Nedick’s. I’m late. Stanley is standing at the door looking at his watch. Out of breath, I reveal some remarkable news. I just booked e Jackie Gleason Show.“You what?” cries Stanley.I sputter out the details. “June Taylor, Gleason’s choreographer, just hired me for six episodes!”“Did you sign a contract?” demands Stanley.“Yes!” I gasp, dangling the document in his face. “ese two pages mean I can aord all the subway tokens, chicken pot pies, and Peter Gennaro classes I want!”“Wow,” squeals an awestruck Stanley Prager. “You’re going to be on national television!”“For six beautiful weeks!” I shout, running down the basement stairs.
“No counterboy from Nedick’s has ever been on national TV!” Stanley shouts. “Wait till corporate hears about this.”With my Nedick’s shirt and cap on, I run back upstairs to start my shift.“You should be celebrating, Grover,” Stanley insists. “Your Nedick’s days are over. You’re going to be famous!”“It’s a six-week deal, Stanley. I’ll be back in Burgerland before you know it.”“But it’s national TV!” he cries.“I’m a chorus boy, for Pete’s sake,” I say, accepting a customer’s order. “Chorus boys get jobs—they don’t get famous.”Stanley stares me down. “Is that all you expect from yourself?” he asks.I scramble putting a customer’s burger-and-fry plate together.Laughing out loud, Stanley announces: “is kid grew up in a shack on a dirt road and just booked six episodes of e Jackie Gleason Show, but instead of celebrating his lucky break, he’s protecting his fty-nine-cents-an-hour job!”“Luck runs out,” I insist. “I can’t count on it.”“If you believe luck runs out,” Stanley replies, “nine times out of ten, it runs out! I didn’t identify you as a chorus boy,” he continues. “You did. If that’s all you think of yourself, ne, dance in the chorus and keep coming back to Burgerland.”I slam my Nedick’s cap to the oor and head for the basement locker room.From the top of the stairs, Stanley leans down, apologizing for what he just said. My Nedick’s shirt hits him in the face.I climb up carrying my dance bag and shove my way past him.“Wait a minute,” barks Stanley. “Give me that bag.”“Of course,” I respond, slamming it in his hands. “You’re supposed to inspect it.”
Stanley unzips the bag, carries it to the cooler, and throws three raw burger patties inside. “You don’t want to forget these.”I’m speechless.“Yes, buddy boy,” he says, “I know about you sticking burgers to your chest and sneaking ’em outta here. In case you didn’t know, corporate cameras record everything, including the raw burgers you’ve been stealing from us. Come back whenever you want. Your fty-nine-cents-an-hour job and ‘chest burgers’ will be waiting.”I’m mortied. “Stanley, I—”His hand covers my mouth. “Nobody’s perfect,” he says. “Not you. Not me. Not anybody.” He shoves the bag in my direction. “Now get the hell outta here,” he mutters. “And for god’s sake, stop stealing! I wanna read in the papers about the famous dancer who hugged and kissed me in the basement. I don’t wanna read about him being arrested for stealing hamburger patties from Nedick’s.”“We never hugged and kissed in the basement, Stanley. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”“I know,” he says, chuckling. “But we should have. C’mon,” he says, shoving me towards the door. “I’m just sayin’ everything I can to embarrass you so you’ll get the hell out of my life!”My brain explodes. Stanley is the rst man who ever believed in me, and here he is shoving me out the door!Mixing It Up with Mr. Televisionanks to choreographer Herbert Ross, the Texaco Star eatre lands in my lap right after the Gleason shows. And so do $132 weekly paychecks.Being the youngest and least experienced dancer on e Milton Berle Show presents challenges. Berle enjoys performing opening numbers in drag, pinching dancers’ butts, and witnessing their embarrassment on live television.
Second from left, I keep my eye on the Uncle Miltie. Gloria DeHaven stands right.Which dancer does Uncle Miltie decide to goose? Yep. e kid from McKeesport who blushes at the drop of a hat.Every month, Herbert Ross choreos an episode of e Martha Raye Show between three Berle shows, using the same twelve dancers. e Golden Era for dancers on TV is underway.A Swim-or-Sink OpportunityWhen the Berle show transfers to Hollywood for its rst color broadcast in 1955, I’m among the dancers invited to appear in the inaugural episode. Lucky me.Visiting Schwab’s Pharmacy on Sunset Boulevard takes me beyond my wildest dreams. It’s the place actors and actresses like Mickey Rooney, Judy Garland, and Lana Turner are often seen sipping chocolate shakes at the counter. Gotta get there!Imagine what it’s like staying in a motel directly across the street! Rehearsals at CBS are less than ten blocks away.On day two, producers ask for volunteers to swim with MGM’s legendary water princess, Esther Williams. My hand shoots up immediately. ere’s only one problem: I don’t know how to swim.But I’ll fake it, wing it, and do whatever it takes to splash around with Esther Williams.Fortunately, the glass pool provided by CBS is only eight feet wide. Navigating side to side doesn’t require real swimming.
Everything works ne until the actual live telecast when Esther signals me to swim alongside her. I panic.Luckily, another dancer, Ralph Beaumont, misreads Esther’s cue. He slips in alongside the water princess, certain her signal was directed at him. In seconds, Esther is mounted on his back, posing triumphantly for the camera. With his head below the surface, Ralph manages to stay aoat and support her.Disaster averted! Ralph’s mistake saved me from humiliating myself on national television. Another friggin’ miracle! I scramble out of the pool.“Remember that not getting everything you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.”—Dalai LamaAn “Amazing” OutcomeFollowing the swim-fest, Herbert Ross approaches me backstage. Convinced he’s going to chew me out for volunteering for something I couldn’t handle, I brace myself.Looking me in the eye, he says, “Would you like to do a Broadway musical?”I’m in shock. “You’re kidding me, right?”“You know me better than that, Grover,” he replies. “When I oer jobs, I don’t kid. Are you up for a Broadway show or not?”At the pool with Esther Williams. I’m the skinny one in the back.
As I blabber an acceptance, Ross lls me in. e Amazing Adele will star TV’s popular bombshell Dagmar, dancer Mara Lynn, Big Band singer Johnny Desmond, and a nineteen-year-old newcomer by the name of Tammy Grimes.“And you’re sure you want me?” I gasp.“For Mara Lynn’s beach number, I need a nervous kid in a swimsuit. Based on the mess you just made in the pool with Esther Williams,” Ross says, “you’re a perfect t.”“Just tell me when and where,” I respond. “I’ll be there!”Four weeks later, rehearsals for e Amazing Adele are underway in New York.Surprises SurfaceSurprise #1: Mom can’t keep her mouth shut. She immediately calls the McKeesport Daily News, making sure they know that the son of Mr. and Mrs. Sunny Cox is going to dance on Broadway.Surprise #2: Ross gives me two favorable positions. One with Mara Lynn. e other with Dagmar.Surprise #3: After the fourth week of rehearsals, I hear rumors about a Broadway tradition coming up. A “gypsy run-through” is scheduled at the Second Avenue eatre.What the heck is a gypsy run-through?Before musicals are performed out of town, they are performed in New York for the Broadway community, to stimulate word-of-mouth. In most cases, reactions are enthusiastic—exactly what a producer like Morton Gottlieb hopes to see.
A Fantasy Investment?Adele’s gypsy-run scores big time.Following a standing ovation, Gottlieb takes full advantage of the moment. Assembling the cast backstage, he pitches an opportunity to invest in the show.“I’ve got one share left,” he announces. “It can accommodate ten investors. A hundred dollars,” he explains, “will get your name on a contract.”My ngers are trembling. Should or shouldn’t I?“If you come on board,” he adds, “you could quadruple your money before the end of the year. Anyone ready to take advantage of it?”Up goes my hand. I commit the full two hundred dollars in my savings account.e next morning, two hours on the train to Philly are spent imagining the rewards I’ll reap from my rst Broadway investment. Singing lessons, new jazz sandals, and extra chicken pot pies at Horn & Hardart are just a few ways I can spend my prot.I perform in the Amazing Adele with the iconic Dagmar (left) and Mara Lynn (right)
Five days later, the curtain goes up on the rst ocial performance of e Amazing Adele at the Shubert eatre in Philadelphia. Local critics are in the audience.Reviews are published the next day. All of them are bad. Ticket sales plummet. My “Broadway investment” just got clobbered.What the heck was I thinking?Doctor! Doctor!“Doctoring a musical” feels a lot like being back at the dinner table with Mom struggling to get stued cabbages onto the table while Dad gripes that no one is lling his empty glass.e director’s demand for new songs falls apart. e composers insist the problem isn’t the songs, it’s with the way they’re staged! e cast enters shock mode. e director is red. Choreographer Herbert Ross takes over, pledging to turn the tide before critics see e Amazing Adele in Boston.In spite of Ross’s eorts, the reviews in Boston are worse than in Philadelphia. e Amazing Adele isn’t going to Broadway.Morton Gottlieb posts a closing notice. e nal performance takes place at Boston’s Shubert eatre on a very chilly January21,1956.When the cast boards a train back to New York, Gottlieb is nowhere in sight. I’m not surprised. I’ll probably never see him (or my two hundred dollars) again.e mood brightens when Dagmar and her husband (Danny Dayton) climb aboard with a case of champagne.Yeah, baby, pop those corks!While distributing the bubbly, Dagmar drops her favorite headshot in my lap.Wow. She inscribed it.
To Grover–Honey, I’ve never worked with anyone I enjoyed being with more. Your face always gave me the biggest lift I’ve ever had. And honey, I’ve had some big lifts in my life. You are terric and I do hope I’m lucky enough to work with you for years.I love you, Dagmar.As the train pulls out of the station, a hand taps my shoulder. It’s Morton Gottlieb. Into my lap, he drops ten twenty-dollar bills.I’m speechless. I thought I’d have to start from scratch again.“I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t return your hard-earned money,” he whispers. “I want to be remembered as a good man, not a thief.”He moves on to four more cast members who are weeping softly about the closing.“Don’t cry because the show is over,” Gottlieb says, winking back at me. “Smile because the darn thing happened!”After giving him a thumbs-up, my ngers press the ten twenties into my shirt pocket.As the train chugs towards New York City, I stare out the window, ruminating on Morton Gottlieb’s determination to be remembered as a good man.Changing ChannelsOnce again, I’m a “television dancer.” TV is the way to go. Base pay for an hour TV show is now $145 while Broadway minimum remains at $82 a week.
Bookings with Perry Como, Sid Caesar, Imogene Coca, and Dinah Shore keep surfacing. Burger-and-fry shifts are history, although I keep returning to Nedick’s and entertaining Stanley with the latest tales about auditions.With his tendency to exaggerate, Stanley reminds everyone at the counter that he’s responsible for his buddy’s career on national television.No WonderVisits to McKeesport are few and far between. ree or four days max. ey always include sleeping on Grandma’s back porch, coaching dancers at Lillian Jasper’s studio, and avoiding Mom’s piggy bank at any cost.e day after anksgiv-ing, a “bring-your-own-left-over” dinner is arranged at the Jasper house on Banker Street. At the table, Joyce squeezes in between me and my mom.Out of nowhere, she turns to Emma and asks a question: “What was Grover like when he was two?”Following a thoughtful pause, Emma responds with a simple admission: “I neglected him.”Startled, Joyce turns to me. “Did you hear that?”“Yes, I did. And y’know what?” I say. “It’s a relief. Now I don’t have to wonder about it for the rest of my life. My mother neglected me. We both heard it.”Dancing with Mom on rare visit home.
Camp TamimentTamiment Playhouse in the Poconos is New York’s breeding ground for up-and-coming writers, directors, choreographers, and performers. Alumni include celebrities like Carol Burnett, Imogene Coca, Woody Allen, Danny Kaye, Neil Simon, and Jerome Robbins. Choreographer Frank Wagner hires me for the summer of ’55.On day one, the cast assembles for dinner, drinks, and “cabin assignments.”With a glass of wine in hand, I spot a handsome dancer at the opposite end of the bar.What if he and I end up sharing the same cabin? How amazing would that be? Sensing my interest, dancer Sharon Shore whispers, “at fella you’re staring at is Larry Kert.” She shoves me in his direction. For a second, his eyes meet mine. I quickly look away, convinced he’s staring at someone else.Wait a minute. He just waved his glass and smiled. It is me he’s staring at. Nervously, I wave back. He laughs, picks up his glass and heads in my direction.Oh boy. In a second or two, Larry Kert will be sitting next to me. Can I handle this?Giving it a shot, I fumble my way through a conversation and even struggle with my name. Cox, Ammon, Aitken, Dale—can’t believe the mess that comes out of my mouth! I get him chuckling. ank god he has a sense of humor.
Cabin FeverTwo hours later, I’m in Cabin 3A unpacking my bags. One of my assigned cabinmates, Harvey, rushes in and collects his luggage. A better bed has been oered to him next door and he’s grabbing it before the guy changes his mind.Exiting, he swaps keys with someone at the door. My eyes pop as Larry Kert strolls in and throws his suitcase on the bed that Harvey just vacated.Winking in my direction, he says, “Looks like we might have a great summer ahead of us, right Grover?”Within days, it appears that Larry’s prediction is accurate. e rst time he performs at the Wednesday night cabaret, he polishes o a jazzy “I Get a Kick Out of You” by throwing himself into an aerial back ip. How many singers can do that?It’s an amazing summer. We perform reepenny Opera, weekly revues every Saturday, cabaret every Wednesday, and test out a version of Once Upon a Mattress with a newcomer by the name of Carol Burnett. She calls me “Gro-Gro-Day-Day.” I call her “Ca-Ca-Burr-Burr.” Backstage, we time-step and shue-o-to-Bualo every chance we get.When Larry and I need private time, we run to a special spot in the woods on the opposite side of the lake. Given the work schedule, fteen-minute getaways are the most we can manage.A Decent ProposalLarry loves sharing stories about Subito, his Italian Greyhound. e walks, the hugs, nighttime cuddling, and chasing squirrels in Central Park. e more he shares about his dog, the safer I feel. I may have met a guy who’ll understand the loss of Tootie.Take your time, buddy. Wait and see.
A few days before the Tamiment gig ends, Larry asks, “Do you have a place to live in New York?”After I admit to sharing a one-bedroom with three other dancers, he suggests I might prefer his apartment on West 80th Street.“Living together could be good for both of us,” he adds. “In a semi-permanent kind of way, of course.”Exactly what I hoped tohear.In the ’50s, “semi-permanent” arrangements were the closest guys got to same-sex marriage. e Stonewall Inn Riot that led to gay rights was a long way o. “Same-sex-marriage” wasn’t even in the vocabulary. Neither was LGBTQ.In some states, men were imprisoned for sleeping together.A Birthday TailAs I load my bags into the trunk of a rental car, Larry alerts me that a birthday present is waiting for me in the back seat. e Model T Ford days with Grandma ash in my brain. What is he giving me?I dash to the door. ere, to my amazement, sits an adorable mixed-breed puppy. Larry insists I’m going to love her.“Happy birthday, Grover.”e two-hour drive to Manhattan is consumed by naming her. By the time we reach the George Washington Bridge, her bright eyes perk up every time we say “Skitter.” So be it. Next to the red tricycle I got from Grandma Ammon, Skitter is the best present I’ve ever received.
Love-NestingWhile Larry focuses on performing with Chita Rivera and Sammy Davis Jr. in Mr. Wonderful, I leap into my rst go at “homemaking.” Larry’s garden apartment needs TLC. Most of all, it needs light. I remove two interior walls, combining three tiny rooms into a twenty-by-twenty-foot open loft-like space. I invest in three gallons of white paint. Floors are sanded and polished. Petunias and geraniums are added in the garden.I hire a handyman for the most important project: to enclose the tiny porch o the kitchen and transform it into a bedroom. With a window facing the garden, it feels a lot like the sleeping platform Grandpa Ammon built over the cellar steps. ere’s no orange-colored sky ickering every night, but hey, Larry and I will create our own steamy landscape.Is the sleeping porch warm enough for winter? We’ll soon nd out. Till then, body heat will keep it feeling cozy.C’mon, Skitter, Subito, and Larry—let’s snuggle up!Are You Kidding Me?Out of the blue, Sharon Shore calls from Boston where she’s performing in the tryout tour of Li’l Abner. Michael Kidd, she reports, is replacing a dancer named Paul Taylor. Do I want a private audition?Bingo. Within two hours, I’m on a train to Boston. Feeling condent, I invest in a one-way ticket.My Mr. Wonderful, Larry Kert.
I arrive at the Shubert eatre mid-afternoon. After a session with Marc Breaux and DeeDee Wood—Michael Kidd’s assistants—I’m sent to the wardrobe department to determine if I can t into Paul’s costume. e dancer I’m replacing is at least two inches taller than me. A number of adjustments will be needed.“Can they be completed in time for tomorrow night’s show?” inquire Marc and DeeDee.ey’ve gotta be kidding! ey expect me to go on in less than twenty-four hours?In a state of shock, I follow Marc and DeeDee to a front row seat in the balcony. As the evening’s performance gets underway, I’m startled by Michael Kidd’s back-breaking choreography. I’ve never seen guys stomp around the stage with women positioned across their shoulders! I weigh 135 pounds. Will I be able to dance like that with a 145-pound Carmen Alvarez on my shoulders?en I notice Paul. His performance is as strong as any dancer in the show. Why did Kidd re him? Is there some reason no one mentioned it? Should I have asked more questions before getting on that train?By noon the next day, I’ve absorbed all of Kidd’s choreography, including strutting with Carmen Alvarez on my shoulder. A full-out dress rehearsal is proposed.Front left, I strut to killer choreo by Michael Kidd (center) with Carmen Alvarez in tow.
“Are you ready to give it a shot, Grover?” Sharon Shore teases.“As long as I’m allowed to moan and groan my way through it, I am!” I reply.Within minutes, the dress rehearsal is launched. Midway through, Marc Breaux runs to the edge of the stage, praising everyone’s eort and asking if the newcomer has any questions?“Only one,” I gasp. Slowly, I lift my trousers, revealing my calves. “ese throbbing veins are not the prettiest sight in the world,” I say. “I’m wondering if other dancers in the show experience this? ere must be a secret to surviving Mr. Kidd’s choreography. Anyone know what it is?”Laughter breaks out.“You want the truth, Grover?” Kidd shouts from the rear of the orchestra.Yikes. I didn’t know Michael Kidd himself was in the theatre.“You have an important decision to make, Grover,” he says, standing up to make sure he’s heard. “You can do what your predecessor did—quit the show, go back to New York, and get an easier job—or, you can stay here, work your butt o, and become a Michael Kidd dancer. Look around. You’re surrounded by some of the best dancers in the business. e veins in their legs are working ne. Yours will, too. Just get used to the hard work.”“But, but—” I stutter.“No buts, Grover,” responds Kidd. “You’re either gonna be a Kidd dancer or you’re out the door. What’s it gonna be?”“I’m gonna be a Kidd dancer,” I reply.Sharon Shore pats me on the back.Goong o with Sharon Shore.
at night, I kick butt on the stage of the Shubert eatre in Boston. Backstage, after the show, Kidd hands me a contract and a pen. “e job is yours, Grover.”I’m in shock. I didn’t know I was still being tested.As I sign the document, he mutters, “You want to know why Paul lost his job?”I nod.He gives me an earful. “I know how demanding my dances are,” he admits, “so I start every rehearsal by sharing a couple of jokes. We laugh, relax, and then everyone’s ready to work hard. It’s the way we get along. Paul never laughed at any of my jokes. Not once.“Glum and gloomy isn’t a good t in Dogpatch,” he adds, ”or any show I’ve ever worked on. It just isn’t. I had to let him go.”I’m stunned. And I understand the position I’m in. If I wanna keep this job, I gotta laugh at Kidd’s jokes.Every single one of them.He shakes my hand and walks away.ree weeks later, Abner opens at the St. James eatre on 44th Street. High-kickin’ my way through L’il Abner.
Michael Kidd receives rave reviews for his “exceptional choreography.”He wins the 1956 Tony Award for Best Choreography.On the Horizon: A Game-ChangerIt’s 1957.Rumor has it that Jerome Robbins is considering casting “unknowns” in leading roles in a musical he’s developing with Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, and Arthur Laurents.e show is titled West Side Story.Broadway pundits speak up, claiming that a Broadway musical without star names is a recipe for disaster. Producers Bobby Grith and Hal Prince defend Robbins’ move by insisting that nal decisions won’t be made until after the rst round of auditions.Dancers are beside themselves. Stepping into leading roles is a big deal. Hey—we’re not talking summer stock, regionals, or Camp Tamiment here. We’re talking Broadway and a choreographer who’s already got On the Town, High Button Shoes, Billion Dollar Baby, Call Me Madam, Peter Pan, e King and I, and e Pajama Game on his list of credits. How should gypsies prepare for an opportunity like this?Do Your Homework!Larry and I know there’s gang activity in our neighborhood. Daily, we see it on the corner of West 80th Street and Amsterdam Avenue.Scrappy clothes, greased-up pompadors, and arrogance are dominant characteristics. We see the control they impose on the neighborhood as well as each other. We stay out of their way, but watch like hawks from every angle available.
Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo?With an agent at his back, Larry’s in a favorable position for the lead role of “Tony.” By his third audition, he’s paired up with a dancer named Carol Lawrence who’s determined to secure the role of “Maria.”A Jet All the Way?Without an agent, my best shot is the Equity call. On the day of, I sweat through the long lines with a fellow dancer from Li’l Abner, Tony Mordente. Together, we’re determined to handle the pressure of a Robbins audition.With numbers attached to our shirts, we leap through a basic “circle-the-stage” combo. e choreography couldn’t be simpler. But the objectives shouted by Robbins from the sixth row orchestra are demanding. If you satisfy them, you’re told to “stick around.” If not, you’re shown the door.“C’mon, guys, show me why you’re chasing the pig in front of you. I’m not looking for wimps—I’m looking for power!”—Jerome Robbins.ankfully, Mordente and I hear “stick around.”Following two more hours of “I’ll-punch-you-in-the-face” combinations, we join the nal lineup across the stage. One at a time, we undergo inspection.Robbins probes about dance training. As credentials like New York City Ballet and Ballet eatre are revealed, my condence sags. Nobody here has ever heard of Lillian Jasper’s Dance Studio in McKeesport, Pennsylvania. I’m convinced I’ll be shown the door.When number 22 is called out, I step forward.
“Are you the kid from McKeesport who auditioned for e Pajama Game two seasons ago?” Robbins demands.“Yessir!” I respond, astonished he remembers a nobody like me. “He’s probably going to tell me why I goofed up the Pajama Game opportunity,” I mumble out loud.Mordente giggles at my side.Robbins walks in my direction.Oops. Spoke louder than I realized.Robbins stares directly into my eyes. “e only person who identied you as goofy,” Robbins replies, “is yourself. Be careful what you admit, young man; this is a tough business. You lost e Pajama Game because you didn’t look or behave like a factory worker. You came across like a nervous teenager. West Side Story will consider a nervous teenager. Stay that way if you can.”“You got it, Mr. Robbins,” I stammer.“What’s the most powerful dance you’ve ever performed?” Robbins demands.I sputter details about the “Slaughter on Tenth Avenue” dance I did with Mary Lou Steele: the shoves, the drags, the cigarette dangling out of my mouth, and the switchblade she held to my throat. Robbins moves in closer. “How comfortable are you with ballet?” he asks.“I tried dropping out of ballet,” I admit, “but Lillian Jasper wouldn’t allow it. Real dancers, she told me, don’t walk away from the training they need.”“Does that mean you stuck with it?” asks Robbins.“Yessir, I did. And then the shit hit the fan.”“What kind of ‘shit’ are you talking about?” Robbins demands.I swallow hard before responding. “e preacher’s wife at church informed me that dancing is a sin.”
Robbins steps in a little closer. “Does that mean you walked away from it?”“Just the opposite, Mr. Robbins. e only thing I walked away from was the church.”Robbins’ interest spikes.“Without dance,” I announce, “I’m nothing. I don’t care if it’s sinful or not—I’m going to dance.”“So you walked away from the House of God to keep dancing?” Robbins says.“Hell, no,” I reply. “I didn’t walk—I ran as fast as I could and never looked back!”Robbins turns to his colleague Arthur Laurents. “at’s the kind of commitment I want from every dancer in the show,” he whispers.As Laurents nods in agreement, Robbins returns to me. “Your name is Grover Dale?”“I think so, yes.”Laughter.“Are you always this comfortable about spilling the beans?”“I think so, yes.”More laughter.“Do you want this job?”“I think so, yes.”Even louder laughter.“I think you might be our Snowboy,” he says.“How many lines will I have to say?” I ask.“Don’t worry!” Robbins laughs. “Just say ’em the same way you talked about running from the House of God, and you’ll do just ne.”White Lies about White LinesRobbins calls for a ve-minute break before songs are sung. When it’s my turn, I run onstage. In front of Bernstein, Sondheim,
Laurents, and Robbins, I describe paying sixteen cents for a ticket at the Memorial eatre in McKeesport to watch Gene Kelly prove that stormy conditions never got in his way. All he did was get out there and dance in the rain.“If that’s all it took for Gene Kelly to get what he wanted,” I proclaim, “singing might work for me, too.”I launch into it.Two phrases in, Robbins halts the song and calls me to the edge of the stage. Obeying quickly, I squat directly in front of him. Quietly, he leans in, inquiring if I’ve ever smoked weed or experimented with cocaine(?).I’m thrown for a loop. I’ve never smoked weed or experimented with any drugs!What the hell am I going to say? I can’t aord to lose this job!Instantly, I fabricate a history of smoking pot and using cocaine. “Sning, snorting, smoking, shooting up, you name it, I did it.”Robbins’ eyes widen. en abruptly, they narrow.“Don’t worry, Mr. Robbins,” I respond, sensing concern. “Isobered up years ago. Swear to God on a stack of Bibles.”Relaxing, he leans in closer.“I’m nervous about including drug use in West Side Story,” he admits, “but if any Jet qualies for being a druggie, it’s Snowboy. Stick around, Grover, I think you’re the addict I’m looking for.”“Sure, Mr. Robbins, I’ll handle any drugs thrown my way.”A few beats later, a stage manager rushes to my side asking if an agent will be negotiating on my behalf.“No,” I sputter, owning up to an actual truth, “I don’t have an agent.”“Well,” says the stage manager, “Robbins just identied you as our Snowboy. What do you want us to do?”“Just sweeten the $85 a week I get for Li’l Abner, and you’ll have a very happy Snowboy on your hands!”
March 11, 1957: The Day of DealsIs it (or isn’t it) going to happen?Anticipating two calls, Larry and I rush through breakfast, clean-up chores, and doggie walks by 10:00 a.m.Tick, tock, hear the clock! Why isn’t the damn phone ringing?As tensions rise, Larry focuses on combing knots out of Skitter’s fur while I assemble chicken salad sandwiches for lunch. I can’t resist identifying each sandwich with a ag. Snowboy on mine. Tony on Larry’s.ere they are: Big dreams on chicken salad sandwiches.“Maybe we’re kidding ourselves?” Larry speculates, easing out the ag from his sandwich and taking a generous bite.I’ve waited a long time for this. Dancing in the chorus is one thing. Signing a contract for a featured role is another. I’m excited and scared at the same time.At the stroke of 11:00 a.m. the phone rings.Grabbing it, Larry gasps a “hello” as he licks remnants of chicken salad from his lips. He signals that his agent is on the other end. As if I didn’t know!I soak up every word exchanged.Larry’s weekly salary will be $250, more than double the $95 he earns in the chorus of Mr. Wonderful. Victoriously, he waves his Tony ag in the air as his agent goes on, bringing up billing conditions he’ll share with Carol Lawrence and Chita Rivera.“If you’re okay with these terms,” brags the agent, “we should move forward as quickly as possible.”“Accept ’em now!” Larry barks.In silence, we give each other a thumbs-up.
Within seconds, Larry is romping around the kitchen with Subito and Skitter, devouring the second half of his chicken salad sandwich.I’m thrilled for Larry, but the wait for my own good news is killing me.Finally, the phone rings again. It’s Carl Fisher, West Side Story’s company manager, informing me of a straightforward oer of $165 per week to play Snowboy.“Is that acceptable?” he asks.“You betcha,” I assure him. “How soon can I sign the contract?”“It’ll be available within the hour,” he responds.“I’ll be there in twenty minutes!”Carl Fisher chuckles. “I’ll try to hurry it up.”After another thumbs-up with Larry, I’m out the door, running towards the 8th Avenue Subway Station with six ballpoint pens in my hand.One of the Most Beautiful Rides I’ve Ever TakenNo one on the train has a clue why the skinny kid seated in the corner with a handful of ballpoint pens is grinning ear to ear. Blissful moments really do happen on subway trains.Four stations later, I’m waving my pen of choice. It’s the red one, and it’s minutes away from signing a contract. Before the stroke of noon, the deed is done. I exit Carl Fisher’s oce with a deal to play Snowboy in the original production of West Side Story.Whaddaya think of them apples, Grandma Ammon?
Time to Celebrate?I’m back at the kitchen table, devouring my chicken salad sandwich and rhapsodizing with Larry. By performing in the same musical, we’ll be riding the same train, entering the same stage door, and bringing home $415 a week! at’s an astonishing $1,600 every month! Laughing, we guesstimate our annual income will exceed $20,000 a year.We’re going to be the richest pair of gay guys in New York City!Suddenly, our nancial rhapsody is interrupted. Someone’s at the front door.I answer it. Gus, our mail carrier, is holding a special delivery envelope in his hand.“Mr. Dale,” he says. “Sorry to bother you, but I need your signature.”“Gotcha, Gus!” I respond, retrieving my red pen. “is pen,” I laugh, “is getting a workout today. I just signed a contract to perform in a Broadway musical.”“Oh, yeah?” responds Gus, directing my attention to the signature line of the acceptance form in his hand. “Maybe you need to see what’s in this envelope before getting too excited about a Broadway musical.”e logo on the envelope catches my eye.No way! It’s a draft notice.Just out of the blue. No advance notice, no warning, nothing. e Selective Service System couldn’t care less if you’re on the brink of the best job you’ve ever had. ey give you a time, date, and place, and if you don’t show up, you’re in trouble! It’s a government order.I sign the damn receipt.“Good luck, Mr. Dale,” says Gus, handing me the envelope. “I hope everything works out in your favor.”e door closes and locks behind him.
Feeling a knot in my stomach, I drift back to the kitchen table and collapse in my chair. Clutching Skitter for comfort, I read the instructions I’m supposed to follow. A physical exam is scheduled for April 10, the day after West Side Story’s rst rehearsal. Arrival is required at 9:00 a.m. in the nancial district.My body slumps into the chair. Skitter nuzzles closer.Larry sidles up behind me.“ere are ways around this,” he says, oering me a business card. “Nobody un-derstands the draft game bet-ter than Mildred Newman. Getting rejected from military service may be easier than you think.”Grabbing the card out of his hand, I kiss it and stu it into my pocket.A Promising PlanForty-eight hours later, Mildred and I are face-to-face. Her words are reassuring. And so is the look in her eyes.“When the Head Examiner asks if anyone’s got concerns that the Selective Service should be aware of,” she begins, “it’s your opportunity to ask if private sleeping arrangements are available. ey aren’t—everyone knows draftees sleep in barracks. But ask anyway.”“Why?” I respond.Somber with Skitter on W. 80th Street.
“It paves the way to claiming you can’t be responsible for your behavior if you’re sleeping in a room with dozens of other men.”“Oh, I get it,” I reply. “I’m a loose cannon when the lights go out. Is that the picture I’m supposed to paint of myself?”“is isn’t about your integrity,” Mildred urges. “It’s about getting ‘Rejected.’ ese directions are simple, Grover. Follow them and you’ll be out the door.”“And for the rest of my life,” I reply, “I’ll have a stain on my record.”“You’ll also have West Side Story on your résumé and a life with Larry, Skitter, and Subito.”“Okay. I’ll give it a shot.”For years, not a single colleague besides Larry Kert ever brought up or admitted to withdrawing from military service. Performers dealt with it and kept their mouths shut until the Selective Service System ocially ended in 1973.The Last Laughe cast of Abner throws its departing members a farewell party. As bottles of champagne from Michael Kidd are uncorked, Marc Breaux pulls Mordente and me to the front of the room.“Even though you guys are deserting us for West Side Story,” he announces, “we want you to take away something you’ll neverforget.”Tony and I are grabbed, stripped naked, and forced down to the oor. Chad Block and Bobby Karl lift razors in the air and merrily proceed to shave away our pubic hair.As two hairless crotches are revealed, Marc announces: “Tony and Grover are going to sweat their butts o this summer. As the pubes grow back, they’ll remember us every itch and scratch of theway!”
An unforgettable Li’l Abner farewell.Tony Mordente and Carmen Alvarez are at the rear.In front of them are Joey Calvin, Hope Holiday, Sharon Shore, yours truly, and Marc Breaux. Among the dancers closest to the camera are Bobby Karl, ChadBlock, and DeeDee Wood.April 9, 1957: Day One of Swimming with SharksI make sure I’m the rst dancer to show up at Robbins’ rehearsal. Privacy is useful when you’re informing a stage manager that you’ve received a draft notice. Placing the document in the hands of the stage manager, Ruth Mitchell, I ask her to share it with Jerome Robbins.“Of course,” she responds, glancing at it. “Looks like you’re the rst dancer we’re going to lose to the Armed Services.”“Oh no, Miss Mitchell,” I assure her. “You’re not losing me. I’ll resort to anything to get rejected from military service.”“Okay, Grover,” she responds, seeing she’s got a determined Jet on her hands. “Mr. Robbins has a lot to deal with today. I’ll show him your document when time permits. For now, Grover, just hang in there.”
Ten minutes later. Robbins addresses the cast.“Today,” he claims, “is my only opportunity to show my collaborators that West Side Story doesn’t need to start with a song.”He gestures dramatically toward the lead sheet sitting on Betty Walberg’s piano. It’s titled “Rocket to the Moon.”“I’m going to explore another option,” he continues, “and every Jet and Shark in this studio is going to help me.”e look in his eyes says he means business.Jump cut. Within minutes, six Jets (Ri, Action, A-Rab, Baby John, Snowboy, and Diesel) are positioned below a street lamp on a street corner. Robbins speaks directly to the gang’s leader, Ri.“e only thing you’ve got to prove is your ownership of the neighborhood. When you’re feeling secure,” he adds, “snap your ngers.”Without hesitating, Mickey Callan initiates a nger snap. “Is this what you mean, Mr. Robbins?”“Yes,” Robbins barks, “Just add some condence to it, like this.” e sharpness of Robbins’ snap rings throughout the studio.Robbins directing (left to right) JayNorman, RonnieLee, Tommy Abbot, HowardJerey, and me.
Within seconds, six Jets are sailing down the block, ngers snapping, feet strutting, and sts striking out at any real-or-imaginary opposition. Ownership of the neighborhood is written all over us.By mid-morning, street creds are bouncing o the walls. From the sidelines, Carol Lawrence, Chita Rivera, and Larry Kert are dazzled by the direction Robbins is taking us. Chita brands him as “Big Daddy.” Instantly, the name sticks.Larry Kert took this iconic West Side Story shot.The Proof in the PrologueBefore the lunch break, Big Daddy’s colleagues arrive for a rst look. Bernstein, Sondheim, Laurents, Irene Shara, Hal Prince, and
Bobby Grith jockey for positions around his bench. Tension in the room spikes. e big test is about to happen. Will West Side Story start with “A Rocket to the Moon” or with Robbins’ attempt at a sequence he identies as the “Prologue.”C’mon, Big Daddy. What’s up your sleeve?“Jets in place,” commands Ruth Mitchell. e room falls silent. “e curtain rises on a street corner,” she announces.Once again, Ri steps forward, surveying the territory. Finger-snaps, struts, and ownership unfolds. Suddenly, a Shark appears. Bernardo. His skin color is dierent. His style is dierent. He’s Puerto Rican. Ri signals him to “beat it.”e steely look in Bernardo’s eyes says he’s defying Ri ’s order. He continues down the sidewalk. Ri chuckles, sending Diesel and Snowboy to get rid of the intruder.Walking behind Bernardo, we make kissy-kissy sounds. Tensions accelerate.Within seconds, full-out gang warfare is underway. Stomachs are punched. Asses are kicked. Bodies are tossed. Violence explodes. Police ocers show up. e stage has been set for intolerance and the tragic tale of West Side Story.e Prologue accomplishes exactly what Robbins was aiming for; Bernstein, Sondheim, and Laurents know it. Enlightened colleagues are led to the door.Jets play out Robbins’ great experiment.
“e next time I invite you back,” Robbins assures them, “you’ll see the whole Prologue, the confrontation with Schrank, and the Jet Song. Until then, I’m going to be damn busy around here.”e cast watches in silence as Big Daddy’s collaborators agree to return whenever Big Daddy needs them.e door is closed. ey’re gone.Robbins’ Rules Roll OutRobbins takes a deep breath. All eyes are on him as he walks to the piano. He removes “Rocket to the Moon” and tosses it in the nearest wastebasket. e cast applauds.“I got exactly what I wanted today,” he boasts. “We delivered story elements. We didn’t need a song. It all happened between us in this studio. I want to protect that. erefore, the only contact Jets and Sharks should have with each other is in this room. Socializing before and after rehearsals must be avoided. Stick with your own kind. Am I making myself clear?”e cast responds with a collective “Yes.”Ruth Mitchell announces a one-hour lunch break. “Jets with Jets, Sharks with Sharks. Please respect that.”As the cast disassembles, she returns the draft notice I gave her, assuring me that Robbins hopes I can get myself rejected.“Until you achieve that,” she adds, “he’s assigning the role of Snowboy to your understudy.”A nervous feeling washes over me.Following a moment of silence, I nod my acceptance. “I hear you, Ruth Mitchell.”Fellow Jet, Jack Murray, created this apropos sketch.
The Artful Dodgere next morning.I’m lined up with dozens of men. We’re stripped down to undergarments. e head examiner demands everyone’s attention.“Please identify yourself if you qualify for an exemption,” he shouts. “If anyone has concerns about serving in the U.S. Army, now is the time to speak up!”I raise my hand.e examiner approaches. “What’s your concern, young man?”“I’m uncomfortable sleeping in a dormitory occupied by men.”“Why?” he demands.“I can’t be responsible for my behavior in an environment like that.”“at indicates you’re a homo,” he responds, summoning me to his desk.Bam, bam, bam, bam. He stamps “Rejected” on my draft document.“You’re outta here, young man,” he says, directing me towards the door. “I suggest,” he adds, “that you make an eort to rid yourself of homosexual tendencies.”“I’ll do the best I can, sir,” I shout, running down a ight of stairs.On the street, I’m overcome with gratitude for the freedom I just secured. e sidewalks, the trac, and the garbage cans of New York never looked so good.ank you, Mildred Newman and Larry Kert. And as for you, Big Daddy, get my understudy o the oor! Your rst choice for Snowboy will be showing up in a couple of minutes.
A Crayon-CoupTwo weeks into rehearsals, my grasp on the role of “Snowboy” is still shaky. Uncertainty surfaces in Robbins’ eyes every time he looks at me. I try to hide the fear in my gut.Larry, to my surprise (and relief!) shares similar feelings. We’re both on rocky territory.Soon, Robbins makes an im-portant announcement. Wanting a closer look at what he’s creating, he informs us that our producers (Hal Prince and Bobby Grith) are moving us out of the studio on 54th Street to the stage of the Mark Hellinger eatre. e move, he claims, will put more fo-cus on everyone’s performance.Ah-oh. Twenty-eight dancers better watch out!A day later. An early-bird arrival.Approaching the Hellinger, my eyes are drawn to a bundle of discarded cardboard outside the stage door. As I nger through the stack, a large piece gets my attention. Withdrawing it, I hear two Sharks whispering nearby, hinting that Jets can’t keep their hands o of garbage.Instead of responding, I tuck the large slab under my arm and navigate my way silently past the Sharks. Inside the Jets dressing room, I position the cardboard against a wall. With blue, black, and red crayons, I quickly draw a shark bleeding from stab wounds.“Whatcha got there, Snowboy?” demands a curious Lee Becker already posturing in her tomboy role as “Anybodys.”After dodging the draft, my role as Snowboy was nally secure. Or was it?
I lean away to give her a better look.“I totally get it!” she laughs, as other Jets wander in.Within minutes, the whole gang is jazzed about creating a wounded Shark. Together, we complete the image, fold the cardboard, and stu it with wads of toilet paper.e big question is: When, where, and how do we deliver the dying beast?During the morning rehearsal, we become aware of a y-oor overhead. It’s a platform suspended over the stage, used for accessing lighting and scenic elements. It’s the perfect launchpad.When lunch break is called, we carry our corpse ve stories up and evaluate the stage below. e next forty minutes y by quickly as we plan our attack.At 1:55 p.m., Sharks reassemble onstage. It’s time to start rehearsing. But Jets are noticeably absent.Robbins arrives at 2:00 p.m.“Will someone tell me why the Jets are getting away with beinglate?”Ruth Mitchell can’t provide an answer. As Robbins reacts, Sharks pu up, adopting a “Well, we’re here” attitude.Tossing our wounded beast down to the stage, we yell: “e Sharks are dead meat!”Bulls-eye. It lands directly at Robbins’ feet.Big Daddy bursts out laughing. Finally, he’s witnessing a competitive spirit between Jets and Sharks. Mambo music kicks in as Jets descend to the stage, celebrating the fact that they scored big time.
As “Dance at the Gym” gets underway, Lee Becker retrieves a broken red crayon from the oor of the stage.“Hmm…” she muses, dangling the crayon in my face. “I wonder who this belongs to?”I shove it away, downplaying my role in the victory that just occurred. Big Daddy knows better. He walks by and slaps me on the back of my head.Anybodys leans in closer. “For the dancer Big Daddy was thinking of replacing a couple of days ago,” she mutters, slamming the stub in my hand, “this red crayon might have saved his butt.”A dollop of gratitude is once again aimed towards Grandma Ammon, for the advice she delivered in the alley on my fth birthday.Four hours later.e rehearsal is over. It’s time to go home. Exiting, I pass by Betty Walberg, who’s noodling on the piano keys. Robbins is next to her, singing softly. I’ve never heard softness in his voice before. Kinda weird.GOOD NIGHT, GROVER TILL WE MEET AGAIN TOMORROWFeeling his eyes on me, I avoid making contact and keep on walking. Outside the door, I pause.Is this his way of praising my goofy idea, or is he saying something more personal?Go home, Snowboy. Get on that subway. Take Subito and Skitter for a walk, draw pictures, chew on a chicken salad sandwich, cozy up with Larry Kert. Don’t get distracted by a choreographer who scares the crap out of twenty-eight dancers every day. Protect yourself.
A Fabled FallBroadway storytellers claim that during a heated West Side Story note session in Philadelphia, the cast stood in stony silence and allowed Robbins to fall in the orchestra pit.Here’s what really happened.e note session was intense. As Robbins revealed the mistakes we made, we didn’t dare look up, down, or sideways. All eyes remained locked on his. No one actually knew how close he was to the edge of the stage.Whammo! He fell.Shocked, the entire cast ran forward and peered into the orchestra pit. Clattering among the percussion instruments, Robbins rejected every helping hand that reached out to him.Taking control of the situation, he climbed back onto the stage, ordered the cast back into position, and proceeded giving more notes.irty minutes later, he sent us on our lunch break. When the stage was cleared, he limped away. Alone.Another Kind of PitfallWhen creating movement, most choreographers focus in the mirror. Robbins never did. He closed his eyes, listened to the music, and liberated the moves inside him. What came out was always aligned with the intentions driving the scene.Did any aspect of that process challenge him? Yes, one. “Committing to decisions” haunted Robbins throughout his career. Finalizing staging, wardrobe, scenic, and makeup choices tookforever.
e original “Cool” dance was a good example. For weeks, Jets absorbed, performed, and retained four dierent versions while Big Daddy agonized over which version would become nal.Over and over. Take this out, slip this in, shorten this, lengthen that, replace what you doing today with what you did yesterday. No. Stop. What do you mean you can’t remember what you did three days ago?!More (Big) Daddy Issues:1. Injuries. At any cost, avoid them. If you’re unable to perform, your part in any scene, dance, or song will be occupied by an understudy. All too often, adjustments like that became permanent. Your role is always at risk.No one knew it better than Eddie Roll (Action). After pulling a ligament during a “Cool” rehearsal, he endured the pain and kept going. During lunch hour, he hobbled to the street and caught a taxi to see Joe Pilates, his physical therapist. An hour later, with Learning copious choreographic variations for Big Daddy to select from was a chronic challenge.
ligaments restored, he returned in time to participate in the next rehearsal. Robbins never found out Eddie was injured. Eddie’s understudy never got a chance to step in. Eddie was one smart cookie.2. Never let Big Daddy know you’re a tap dancer. Mickey Callan (Ri ) learned it the hard way. e day after performing a favorite tap step in Robbins’ presence, he arrived at work and heard another dancer auditioning for his role in a nearby studio. Everyone heard it. So everyone knew Mickey’s role was endangered. A new rule was on the table: Keep your mouth shut about tap dancing.3. Seeking approval from Robbins is risky. Just because you capture a bit of it during casting, doesn’t mean it will continue.“Go ahead,” Howard Jerey, one of his assistants, told us, “try for it, but understand that he rarely gives it to anyone, including himself.”Aha. A genuine insight into the man in charge.irty-ve years later, during the development of Jerome Robbins’ Broadway, my own need for approval will surface. Knowing how futile that is, I’ll replace it with another solution: devising a way to approve of myself. Stay tuned for details when we get to 1989. Right now, the development of West Side Story is still in the early stages.
“Getting West Side Story ready for Broadway as been far more strenuous than it is for most musicals. e actors...spent many extra days learning the tough, acrobatic dances that depict gang warfare. ey have to practice ying tackles, leaps from high fences and getting hit by sticks, bricks and bottles...During the out-of-town tryouts there have been so many injuries that a doctor has been called at nearly every performance to treat the wounds.”—Life magazine, September 16, 1957
Homework Assignments?Ruth Mitchell announces that Mr. Robbins expects written character and family descriptions from every Jet and Shark. “I’ll let him ll you in.”As Big Daddy describes what he wants, I turn to Tony Mordente, admitting I don’t understand what Robbins is talking about.“Never admit that,” Tony whispers back, “or he’ll destroy you. Let me show you how to handle this.”In less than two minutes, Tony engages with Robbins, describing how he, as A-Rab, steals money from his father to buy cigarettes for his street buddies.“Keeping Jets supplied with cigs is taking care of brothers,” proposes Tony. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Robbins?”I’m beginning to understand the workload in front of me.I knuckle down with pad and pencil. Instead of making up Snowboy’s history, I use my own. Incidents include the violence I endured at the kitchen table, the execution of my puppy, and stealing pennies out of my mother’s piggy bank.ere it is, owing right onto my writing pad. A list of Snowboy’s misses and messes.One Hand, One HeartDuring the rst week of performances in Washington, DC, word circulates that an “after-the-show party” is going to be held in Lee Becker’s hotel room for a special reason.Pop those corks, baby!When the celebration’s in full swing, an aggressive knock at the door gets everyone’s attention. Lee Becker answers it. Standing alone cradling three bottles of wine is Jerome Robbins.“Who in the hell invited Big Daddy?” Lee calls out.
After a roar of laughter, she raises her wine glass, welcoming him in.“Here’s to Big Daddy,” she shouts, “who showed up just in time to hear that a Jet and Shark are getting married.”Jerry’s jaw drops.“Somebody,” gasps Lee, “better ll Big Daddy in, okay?”“Yeah!” roars Tony Mordente, as he and his bride-to-be, Chita Rivera, pull Robbins in, giving him a prime position on Lee’s bed.Within seconds, more corks are popped. More glasses are lled. More confessions are made. More breaches are overlooked. Robbins proves himself to be a gypsy, just like everyone else in the room.A New York Times Billing Error?It’s week #2 in Washington. A Sunday morning rehearsal. Before the warm-up starts, Larry rushes into the studio with a copy of the rst ad for the show, published in e New York Times. Everyone gathers.Peter Gennaro’s assistant, Wally Seibert (right), entertains us gypsies by imitating a Robbins note session. Visible left to right: Larry Kert, Jerome Robbins, myself, Chita Rivera, and Lee Becker.
“Look at the featured players,” Larry whispers in my ear. “You got billing.”“No way,” I gasp, grabbing the paper out of his hand.Holy mackerel—Larry’s right. My name is there, next to Eddie Roll and Tony Mordente. How did that happen? ere’s no billing clause in my contract. Somebody made a mistake.My God. My name is in e New York Times!Secrets Exposede cast is all over the ad.George Marcy notices something he’s never seen in a Broadway advertisement.“Big Daddy” he points out, “has a box around his name.”“I wonder how long it’s gonna take before I get a box around my name?” speculates David Winters (Baby John).Lee Becker reminds him that boxes around names only happen to legends.“Well,” David muses, pumping himself up in all the glory he can muster, “what do you think you’re looking at?”“You want an honest answer?” she asks.As David responds with a sti middle nger, Big Daddy arrives. Everyone hustles up to the barre except me.Still mesmerized by the ad, I’m unaware of Robbins looking over my shoulder.“Maybe Snowboy,” he muses, “is dreaming about getting famous?”
Oops.I wake up and run to the barre, leaving the ad in Robbins’ hand.“No, no, no,” Baby John announces, “Snowboy’s dreaming about the ad being seen by the lousy father who deserted him twenty-two years ago!”I deliver a swift kick to Baby John’s ass. As laughter erupts, I realize family secrets shouldn’t be shared with blabber-mouths like David. Bad decision on my part.“Get over your lousy-father stories, guys,” recommends Robbins. “e theater is full of ’em. Why do you think so many of us run away to the stages of Broadway?”Good grief. Jerome Robbins has a lousy father, too!Sept 26, 1957: The Winter GardenIt’s nally here: Opening Night. Excitement lls the air; people are running around backstage in a frenzy. In minutes, the curtain will go up. None of us has any idea we are about to perform a musical destined to become an Americanclassic. Backstage, silly-ass presents are exchanged, like dolls, doodads, and lanterns—anything to celebrate the crazy six weeks you just spent with your buddies.e walls of our dressing room provide the perfect place to display congratulatory telegrams. My collec-tion, as modest as it is, includes sends from Chita Rivera, Carol Lawrence, Marc Breaux, DeeDee Wood, and George and Cristy Reeder.
Pushing the Show ForwardOne of my secret pleasures is watching from the wings as Chita Rivera articulates Peter Gennaro’s choreography in “America.” It is electrifying. Even now, as I write about it, I feel the excitement she created.On opening night, her performance stops the show cold. e applause is deafening.Ruth Mitchell makes an eort to move the performance along by raising the curtain on the drugstore scene, populated by Jets. It doesn’t help. e applause for “America” keeps growing.Jets improvise their way around it. Action, played by Eddie Roll, throws more darts at the wall. Baby John chews more nails. A-Rab steals more candy bars. And Snowboy exceeds his usual fteen push-ups in front of the jukebox.Yikes. I’m up to thirty, and the applause shows no sign of tapering o. If I continue doing push-ups, I’ll never get through the “Cool” dance. I’m up to thirty-ve. What am I gonna do?At forty, I exaggerate straining through a few more. Chuckles erupt in the audience. At forty-two, my arms tremble. At forty-four, I collapse to the oor. Full-out laughter. e applause subsides. e show is back on track.Continuing to lie at, I’m consumed by a single thought: Big Daddy is going to kill me for this.Two hours and ten minutes later, the curtain comes down and rises again. As the cast is greeted by a standing ovation, it’s apparent that West Side Story is on its way to becoming a Robbins-Bernstein-Sondheim-Laurents masterpiece.Sketch by Jack Murray.
In the taunting scene, Snowboy (yours truly, center) hassles Anita (Chita Rivera).We party all night long. Hugs are exchanged. Relationships are salvaged. Big Daddy doesn’t kill me for what I did with the push-ups, and Jack Murray, a fellow Jet, drops a hastily-drawn cartoon in my lap. I still have it.The Backstage Boogiee “star” dressing room, shared by Carol and Chita, is a suite with its own bathroom. Across the hall is Dressing Room #4, shared by David Winters, Tony Mordente, Eddie Roll, and yours truly.
David is the smooth operator chasing down every opportunity that surfaces, Tony is the Italian gangster you always wanted for a brother, and Eddie is obsessed with every aspect of the acting profession. Mickey Callan and Ken LeRoy occupy the dressing room around the corner. Larry Kert is positioned close to the staircase. Ensemble rooms are on the third oor.Eight performances a week, things get stirred up in the Winter Garden. Running to make entrances or change clothes is the least of it. It’s the dealings, dishings, and recreational “substances” that keep the trac owing backstage.Baby John supplies marijuana to any cast member willing to fork over twenty dollars. After Larry and I pay for half an ounce, e Daily News reveals that David Winters is being investigated for drug dealing. Panicked, Larry and I bury our stash of weed behind our bathroom baseboard. Just getting in tune with the ’60s, Daddy-O!e puppy peeking out of Dressing Room #4 is Skitter. Going home to feed and walk her on matinee days is challenging, so luckily, she’s a good t backstage. Well-behaved and smart as a whip, she has her own way of charming Sharks and Jets.In Dresssing Room #4, David Winters, TonyMordente, and I ham it up for Eddie Roll’s camera.
When One Door Closes…Inside Dressing Room #4, Skitter gains everyone’s approval. All I have to do is point to our door and say “Here comes Jerry Robbins.” She runs to the door, jumps up, and slams it shut with both paws. Everybody loves it!Somehow, a puppy putting a genius in his place satises every member of the cast. “Here comes Jerry Robbins” quickly becomes a matinee-day ritual.Preceding a particular Saturday matinee, Skitter’s performance is about to peak. Minutes before curtain, Lee Becker pops her head in the door. “Big Daddy’s across the hall talking to Chita; he’ll be passing by any minute. Get Skitter ready.”She spots panic on my face.“Whether you know it or not, Snowboy,” she insists, “Robbins likes your goofy ideas. He liked what you did with a box of crayons and a cardboard shark. He liked what you did with your push-ups on opening night. And he’s going to like what you taught your dog.”Robbins arrives.In unison, everyone shouts, “Here comes Jerry Robbins!”Sure enough, Skitter runs and slams the door shut with both paws. Right in Robbins’ face.Walking Skitter to the Winter Garden eatre for eight performances a week.
It’s not only one of Skitter’s nest moments; it’s one of Big Daddy’s, too. Pounding the door, he demands to meet “the beast” who disrespected him. Laughter erupts.Within seconds, Skitter is in Robbins’ arms, engaged in kissing his face.“See?” A proud Lee Becker nudges my shoulder. “I told you your goofy ideas work around here.”Big Daddy approaches me with Skitter in his arms. “Who’s the most inventive player around here,” he demands, “you or your dog?”Collectively, my roomies insist it’s Skitter.“Whoever it is,” Robbins responds, “is invited to join me at NYC Ballet tomorrow. I’m experimenting with a new ballet. No music. Just moves.”I hesitate.Lee catches my eye. Do it, Snowboy! she mouths from behind Big Daddy.“Okay, Mr. Robbins,” I stammer. “I’ll be there.”“Excellent,” says Robbins, shaking my hand. He exits.Beaming with pride, Lee Becker punches me in the shoulder.“I’m terrible at ballet,” I re back at her. “Why did you tell me to do it?”“e only thing you’re terrible at, Snowboy, is not recognizing an opportunity staring you in the face! When a genius asks you to experiment, you don’t say ‘I’m terrible at it’ unless you want to be a chorus boy for the rest of your life. Wake up, Snowboy!”Lee is right. Here I am in a show surrounded by dancers longing to experiment with a genius. If I was smart enough to bail out of McKeesport, I oughta be smart enough to seize an opportunity presented on a silver platter.Robbins hires me as his assistant for Ballets USA. Remaining in my role of Snowboy at the Winter Garden, I take on the new gig.
Ballets USAFrom day one, stormy conditions form on the horizon…“Peanuts is upstairs crying again,” Big Daddy hisses in my direction. He leans in closer. “If she’s not onstage within the next ten minutes, I’m going to re her. Can you handle it?”“I’ll give it a shot,” I respond.“Good!” shouts Robbins. “Because your job is on the line, too.”Will a twenty-three-year-old bozo from the hills of Pennsylvania be able to deliver Peanuts? e task starts by running up three ights of stairs, entering Sondra Lee’s dressing room, and listening to her fears about working with Big Daddy. e anxiety she unloads is vivid: e darkness she sees in his eyes. e tension in his shoulders. e nastiness spilling out of his mouth.“I love that man,” she weeps, “but I can’t stand rehearsing with him! Why does he have to act that way?”“We’ll never know,” I reply, grasping for ways to comfort her. “But while he does what he does,” I suggest, “why don’t you do what you do?”More minutes and confessions later, Sondra Lee strolls calmly onto the stage, fully prepared to rehearse her role as the ballerina in “e Concert.” I watch in silence as she and Big Daddy sweat, strain, and giggle through the morning’s rehearsal.Grandma Ammon’s First Broadway ShowAt eighty-two, Grandma manages an eight-hour train ride from McKeesport to New York. In the middle of our hello-hug in Pennsylvania Station, she presents Larry and me with a bag of grapes freshly picked from her arbor. Joyously, we crunch down on them as we taxi north to the Winter Garden eatre.
Awestruck by its opulent interior, Grandma slides into an aisle seat in Row K. Making sure she understands we’ll pick her up as soon as the performance is over, Larry and I leave her with a bag of Hershey’s Kisses in her lap and her eyes glued to the stage.Two hours and thirty minutes later, she’s still in her seat, rhapsodizing about the show, the music, and every dance that unfolded in front of her.“Mrs. Ammon…” Larry chuckles, captivated by the Hershey’s Kisses she’s still devouring. “How about saving some room in your belly for the dinner we’re going to have at Sardi’s.”“Oh, no,” she insists, “I’m not leaving this seat. When does the next show start?”Larry quickly explains that the evening performance doesn’t begin for three more hours. Grandma slaps her thigh, recognizing that Broadway shows aren’t scheduled the way movies are in McKeesport, one right after the other.“Let’s get to that restaurant right away then,” she says, laughing, “while there’s still some room left in my belly!”Minutes later, we’re guided to a premium table on the main oor of Sardi’s. Grandma is dazzled by every dish that passes by us and the drawings of celebrities lining the walls.Between courses, she entertains Larry with tales about the messes and miracles I survived on Stewart Street. I groan in dismay, convinced that Larry’s getting too much information. e devilish look in his eyes tells me he’ll never let me forget any of it.Grandma’s faux pas are topped o when a nger bowl with a slice of lemon oating on top is placed in front of her. Not realizing it’s meant for bathing and cleansing ngers, she picks up the bowl with both hands and sips it.Larry and I let her drink away, choosing to let well enough alone.is dinner with Grandma turns out to be the last meal I ever share with her. Six months later, she passes away.
The Price of PratfallsPratfalls are one of Larry’s specialties. He loves falling on his butt and scaring the bejesus out of anyone who witnesses it. en he simply stands up and walks away as if nothing happened.“e startled look on their faces is my payo,” he contends. “It’s the only bad habit I have.”During the winter holidays, his bad habit rears up at the skating rink in Central Park. With Carol Lawrence and me nearby, Larry pulls o what appears to be the “perfect pratfall.” Skating towards an unsuspecting couple, he screams bloody murder as his body slams against the ice. Alarmed, the couple reaches out to help.Oops. e traditional stand-up-and-walk-away moment doesn’t happen. is pratfall is a disaster.e nearest hospital is ten blocks away. As Carol and I maneuver Larry into a taxi, he expresses remorse. “I didn’t get away with it!” he cries, coping with an injured shoulder. “If I can’t perform, my salary will be docked for as long as I’m out!”“at’s why we’re taking you to the Winter Garden before the hospital, Larry.”Five minutes later.We enter the Winter Garden’s stage door. While Carol distracts Sam, the doorman, Larry walks towards his dressing room. Midway up the stairs, he fakes a fall, screams, and tumbles down the stairs. I call for help.Sam and Carol run back to nd Larry sprawled at the bottom of the steps.In the chaos that follows, Sam calls for an ambulance and Larry is taken to the hospital. His broken shoulder is registered as a “backstage accident.” Insurance covers the cost. His salary won’t be docked. Larry’s nancial concerns are taken care of.
Four weeks later, he’s fully recovered and back in the show.Privately, he admits he’s prepared to give up pratfalls. “I can’t keep tricking people this way.”Real Tears / Real JerksDavid Winters, Tony Mordente, Eddie Roll, and I are good at gangster dramatics. When it comes to ghts, battles, and buddy-stu, we deliver.What we don’t deliver is the chops it takes to reach the emotional pitch Car-ol Lawrence achieves each night during the nal scene. As Maria, she wanders the street, search-ing for her lover; at a heightened moment, they nd each other. Relieved, they run towards each other. But their reunion is interrupted by a gun shot. Tony staggers and falls into Maria’s arms. As she lowers him to the ground, Chino hears an ap-proaching police siren. He drops his gun and bolts.A smattering of Jets and Sharks arrive on the scene, joined by Lt. Schrank and Ocer Krupke. As Schrank reaches for the fallen gun, Maria manages to grab it and orders him to back o. Holding the gun with both hands, she describes the loss that’s been thrust upon her.As she grieves over Tony’s lifeless body, tears y out of her eyes and streak down her cheeks, as powerful as the words ying out of her mouth. Jets, Sharks, and police ocers, stand inches from the gun she’s holding, frozen in place.When it comes to action, the Jets deliver.
Carol’s tears appear to be real. None of us understand how she accomplishes such a dramatic peak eight times a week.In the privacy of Dressing Room #4, Mordente, David, Eddie, and I speculate: Does Carol use “medication” to stimulate the tear ow?We know there’s a medicine cabinet in her dressing room. Assuming we have the right to investigate, we take action. During the next performance, while Carol’s onstage singing “I Feel Pretty,” the four of us inspect her cabinet.e search takes less than a minute. And it proves three things:“Tear-producing” medication does not exist in Carol’s medicine cabinet. She’s capable of crying whenever she chooses.e four of us deserve a kick in the pants for doubting her acting ability.Just Play It Cool, Boy!Six months later.A reality I haven’t dealt with is Larry Kert’s attraction to other dancers. Like it or not, I’m forced to face it.After Mary Tarcai’s acting class, I arrive at the theatre early. I run up the stairs and knock on Larry’s dressing room door. No response. I try the knob. It opens. Hearing water running, I step inside and walk quietly towards the shower around the corner.e open space below the shower door tells me everything.
A sick feeling overtakes me. Voices in my head urge me to get the hell out of there. Once I reach the hallway, I turn around and kick the door closed. I’m sure Larry and whatever Jet he’s with will remember that sound for a longtime.Eight hours later. A cold night on the sleeping porch.Larry, wearing a winter jacket, is sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to make some sense out of his behavior. He admits to everything: His inability to control himself. His disregard for myfeelings.“I understand how devastating it was for you,” he insists, “and I’ll accept whatever you want to do about it.”“Right now,” I mutter, “it’s too cold to think out here. Can we shift to the living room?”“Of course,” Larry responds.I gather up blankets, pillows, Skitter, and Subito. e living room becomes our bedroom for the night. On the sofa, the doggies snuggle against each other for warmth.Suddenly, a loud crash erupts. It came from the sleeping porch. Chunks of ice slide onto the kitchen oor. Whoosh. e sound of wind accelerates.I approach the kitchen.Slowly, I look around the corner towards the bed. A huge block of ice landed where our heads would’ve been. A gaping hole in the ceiling above it conrms that the ice fell from the top of the building and crashed through the porch roof.
In a state of shock, I realize that our heads were only seconds away from being crushed. Tomorrow’s headlines wouldn’t have hesitated to announce West Side Story Couple Killed on West 80thStreet!Panicked, I call out to Larry in the living room. No response. I call out again. Still no response. Checking, I realize he isn’t in the apartment. e conversation we had ten minutes ago never happened. I was asleep on the bed and dreamed it. I saved my life by moving to the living room.It’s 3:00 a.m. Larry is sleeping somewhere else. Within minutes, I’m packing up my belongings in two suitcases and four paper shopping bags.At 7:00 a.m., I leave my key to the apartment on the kitchen table and kiss a sleeping Subito goodbye. He whimpers softly as Skitter and I exit with our belongings.On the street, I load all my stu into a taxicab and share an address with the driver. As we pull away from the curb, my hand extracts a key from my dance bag. It will get me into the rst-oor oce of Jerome Robbins’ brownstone on East 74th Street.An Emotional RideA rental listed in e New York Times catches my eye. A one-bedroom with a replace and terrace is available on 56th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues. e Winter Garden eatre is an easy-six-block-walk away. Classes, auditions, rehearsal studios, and
talent agencies are close by. e rent is an aordable $117 a month. Happily, I sign a one-year lease to distance myself from Larry Kert.48 W 56th Street, here I come!In addition, I invest in a desk, a contraption called a “telephone answering machine,” and David Craig’s eight-week vocal workshop.The Cream of the CropDavid Craig has an exceptional reputation. For years, Broadway regulars have relied on his guidance. During our initial conversation, David suggests I dedicate myself to a love song titled “If I Had a Cow and a Plough and a Frau.”Whoa. Can a Broadway boy like me relate to hankering for a cow, a plough, and a frau?A week later, I’m on a stage facing David and at least two dozen of his students. I hem-haw and stumble my way through the lyrics.IF I HAD A COW AND A PLOUGH AND A FRAU, HOW WONDERFUL, I MEAN, HOW AMAZING OR SHOULD I SAY HOW EMPTY MY LIFE WOULD BE?“What’s the problem, Grover?” David prods. “I’d like to know what’s going on in that head of yours.”“Longing for cows, ploughs, and fraus isn’t exactly up my alley, Mr. Craig.”“I’m glad you brought that up,” responds David, “because the song isn’t about cows, ploughs, or fraus. It’s about what’s missing in your life and how much you’re willing to change it. Does that idea resonate with you, Grover?”Before I know it, I’m describing my father abandoning me when I was eight weeks old, his Scottish jig on the sidewalk in Harrisburg, his gambling adventure in Atlantic City, and his promise to return home before midnight that was never kept.
“I never saw him again.”“If your father came back,” David asks, “what would you hope to hear from him?”Without hesitating, I rhapsodize about Ronal Aitken assuring me I was born for lots of good reasons, including putting a smile on his face when I sat on his lap.Suddenly, singing about a cow, a plough, and a frau makes sense. ank you, David Craig. I know where the song can take me.A Triple-Threat?“If I Had a Cow and a Plough and a Frau” secures me the role of “Andrew” in Frank Loesser’s new musical, Greenwillow. Following the audition, choreographer Joe Layton reveals important information. He heard Loesser tossing my name around as a potential standby for the lead role of Gideon Briggs.My brain explodes! I might end up “subbing” for my favorite lm-actor-and-heartthrob, Anthony Perkins!In a state of disbelief, I nd myself staring at the contract my agent Eric Shepard places in front of me. A ballpoint pen trembles in my right hand.ree roles are spelled out clearly: (1) Andrew (2) e Devil (3) Standby for Anthony Perkins. As Andrew, I’ll perform a solo in the second act proposing marriage to Greenwillow’s ingénue. As the Devil, I’ll lead child-actor Johnny Megna through a ballet, tempting him with a cookie. As Perkins’ standby, I might get my rst chance to prove I’m capable of performing a starring role. My grasp tightens on the ballpoint pen. I sign on the dotted line.Keeping it professional around Tony is challenging. A special glow in his eyes suggests that something intimate could happen
between us. Maintaining focus on the conict between our characters, Andrew and Gideon, is dicult.Stick with your job, buddy. Don’t get distracted by a heartthrob.Layton’s choreography is enough to focus on. Playing a blood-thirsty devil tempting a child with cookies plus pulling o a gut-busting dance in the second act is a lot to handle. By the time we open in Philadelphia, Andrew’s dance, “e Spring Courting” is getting very strong reactions.ree days before the rst preview in New York, Layton devises a new ending. A dive o the church steps into the arms of six dancers, followed by a daring slide towards Dorrie and a horizontal ip onto my back makes for a startling nish. e strong response catches everyone o-guard, including the star of the show. Entering on his usual cue, Tony fumbles before retreating ostage to wait for the applause to calm down. It’s awkward for him, to say the least.e next morning, I arrive at the Alvin early, certain a x is on the agenda. Heading towards my dressing room, I overhear angry voices onstage. I pause to listen.A confrontation between Frank Loesser and Joe Layton is underway. Loesser heatedly insists that the best solution is to cut Andrew’s “Spring Courting” entirely. Joe threatens to remove his name from the show if Andrew’s dance is cut.I gasp a thank-you to Joe.My “Spring Courting” dance in Greenwillow elicited a stronger response than anticipated.
As the confrontation continues, I can’t handle what I’m hearing. I run back out the stage door and nd myself face-to-face with Tony Perkins.“What’s wrong, buddy?” he asks.Everything I just overheard tumbles out of me.Tony pulls me aside. “First,” he insists, “your dance is safe. Joe Layton can adjust my entrance—it’s an easy x.” He looks at me earnestly. “You deserve the applause you got last night, and you deserve the applause you’re going to get tonight. Let me give you a hug.”A modest “thank you” accompanies the embrace.“Frankly,” Tony adds, releasing his hold on me, “you’re probably not getting enough hugs these days. Let me know when you need another one.”Snap. Click. Pop. A lurking photographer gets a shot of us. Iwithdraw instinctively.“Don’t worry,” says Tony, pulling a ten-dollar bill from his pocket. “I’ve got this covered.”He passes the cash to the photographer, who accepts it in exchange for turning over the roll of lm in his camera.“Done, easy, all taken care of!” Tony chuckles condently. “Wally will never publish me hugging another handsome man. Speaking of taking care,” he adds, “you didn’t respond to my invitation about extra hugs?”I hesitate. “Hugs get me in trouble,” I say.“Ahh, I get it,” Tony says, grabbing my hand and leading me back inside towards his dressing room. “You’re one of those. You Starring alongside hearthrob Anthony Perkins, focusing on our characters was a challenge.
long for romance but don’t do it. C’mon, Mr. Stay-Alone, let’s give it a shot.”He opens his arms in invitation. But I remain still.“Hugging isn’t sex,” he assures me, placing both hands on my shoulders.“But it leads to it,” I reply.“It does,” he says. “Especially with horny guys like me. Let me tell you something: e guy I talked to on the sidewalk wasn’t looking for sex, but he sure was comfortable with a hug.”“It’s been a long time,” I confess.“Between hugs?” Tony asks.“Between every-thing,” I admit, step-ping into his arms.In plain sight of everyone, Tony plants a ferocious kiss on my mouth. “When you’re ready to handle more than that,” he says, stepping into his dressing room, “let me know.”He closes the door.I remain rooted in place as Tony, behind the door, shouts “I think you and I could pull o another showstopper together!”Impulsively, I reach for the doorknob, twist it, and step inside. Instantly, the door is closed and I’m throwing myself into Tony’s arms.Greenwillow opens at New York’s Alvin eatre on March 8, 1960. It runs for ninety-seven performances and closes on May 28, two weeks before the premiere of Tony’s classic thriller, Psycho.With Tony Perkins, behind the scenes of Greenwillow.
A Flight of FancyAt a newsstand on 7th Avenue outside Carnegie Hall, I’m gazing at the newest issue of Dance Magazine. A boy like me is on the cover. Grasping the fact that it is me, I move in for a closer look.“New Generation on Broadway” reads the subtitle, identifying me as e Next Dancer Reaching for Stardom on Broadway.Wow. If Grandma Ammon saw this, she’d be dancing in the street.Wait a minute. She IS dancing in the street. A fantasy unfolds. Catching magazines dropping down from the sky, Grandma tosses them up in the air again. A mag for you, a mag for me!e vision fades as a twenty-dollar bill is passed to the newsstand clerk. e customer next to me looks familiar.It’s Tony Perkins.Keeping one magazine for himself, he places the remaining copies in my arms. I turn to him, slightly bewildered.“Delivering magazine covers to every casting director in town could get you another musical,” he claims. “Work it, daddy-o!”Before walking away, he strokes Skitter’s back. If he had a choice, he teases, he’d rather be stroking mine. We laugh. Memories of the embrace we shared in his dressing room surface.Wow. Maybe the embrace isn’t over yet.“See ya, soon, okay?” he shouts, heading towards his house on 55th Street, next to the New York City Center.“Okay, Tony,” I shout back. “anks for the magazines—and your good advice.”“I’m glad you heard it,” he responds.
It’s funny—our apartments are just a block from each other and this is the rst time we’ve bumped into each other on the street. It would be so easy to show him where I live…“Tony, wait up!” I shout, chasing after him.I release Skitter from her leash. She runs and leaps into his arms.“See how comfortable your puppy is in my arms,” Tony calls, slipping inside his door.By the time I reach the entry, Tony’s personal manager is there to greet me. Introducing herself as Helen Merrill, she guides me up towards Tony and Skitter.What the heck. If my puppy is comfortable in Tony’s house, I can be, too.Helen locks the door behind me and activates the alarm system.Buzz, grind, clamp. e sounds aren’t friendly.My arms tighten around the magazines. Was that really necessary?“Will I be able to exit when I want to?”“Don’t worry, Grover,” Helen hisses in her German-avored accent. “Give Mr. Perkins what he wants and I’ll give you the code.”Earn my way in and earn my way out? Is that what she’s saying?“Please open the door now, Helen.”Within seconds, I’m running with Skitter towards my apartment. Tony is chasing behind, laughing as he acknowledges that Helen Merrill can be a challenge to deal with. Tony pauses at the door to my apartment and asks if I’d welcome his presence. Without a word, I grab and pull him inside. Intimacy with a man is clearly what’s missing in my life.Rules of EngagementMovie actors must take a whole set of precautions when male-to-male relationships are established. Paparazzi are the enemy. Security systems, hats, and sunglasses are a must. Romantic dinners
in restaurants are o-limits unless female friends are included. Ditto with movie premieres, theatrical events, and parties.Discos? Be careful who you shake butt with. Cameras are alwaysnearby.Location Is Everything!e romance launched behind my door quickly expands to a glorious month in Tony’s beach cottage on Cape Cod. No neighbors, paparazzi, security systems, or personal managers to deal with. Just two guys, an adorable puppy, a cabin in the woods, and daily strolls on the best beaches that Welleet has to oer.Twenty-eight glorious days later, we’re loading up the trunk of Tony’s Camry in advance of the six-hour drive back to New York. Skitter has claimed the entire backseat for herself. As Tony and I pile into the front, the unmistakable trill of a phone distracts us.“Whaddaya think, Grover,” he sighs, “do we let the answering machine pick it up or do we get out of the friggin’ car and answer the phone?”After planting a kiss on Tony’s mouth, I jump out and run towards the phone. I answer just in time.It’s Jerome Robbins oering me three dierent options for touring with West Side Story. “Do any of these interest you?” he asks. “A national tour, the London company, or a production that travels to Paris after touring Tel Aviv, Haifa, and Jerusalem?”Hands down, performing in Paris gets my heart thumping. Two days ago, Tony’s agent negotiated a movie deal in Paris during the same timeframe. Knowing the oer means we’ll share time together in the City of Love, I stammer “Yes, Jerry” into the phone. “Sign me up for the Israeli and Paris tour.”Seconds later, I’m back in the Camry, spilling the beans to a delighted Tony Perkins.
An Indecent Proposale West Side Story cast assembles in New York for a read-through with Robbins and Lee Becker, now known as Lee eodore. As I park myself at the table, a teenager squeezes himself into the chair next to me. He places a copy of July’s Dance Magazine on the table and playfully slides it in front of me. I smile and slide it back to him.He initiates a conversation. “When I saw this cover,” he whispers, “I knew I had to nd a way to meet you.”“Well, you found it, young man,” I say, “and you met me. You’re playing Baby John, right?”He nods. en he reveals that he’s sixteen years old, determined to become a famous director, and is prepared to do whatever it takes to share some “buddy-time” with me.“My name, by the way, is Michael Bennett.”As we shake hands, I remind Michael that buddy-time between sixteen-and-twenty-ve-year-olds is against the law.“e rules are dierent overseas,” he counters. “Twenty-ve-year-olds and sixteen-year-olds get together whenever they want.”“I’m in a relationship with a grown-up, Michael,” I say. “I’m not available. Sorry.”Robbins calls for everyone’s attention. Michael Bennett retrieves his magazine and slowly slips it into his dance bag.“I’ll hold onto this a while longer,” he whispers, “in case you change your mind.”A Symbolic GestureBedtime. Seated next to Tony.e night before I board the plane to Tel Aviv, Tony places a gold coin on a chain around my neck, proclaiming it a Chinese
symbol of good fortune and a reminder of his aection for me to keep nearby.“I love this,” I respond, pressing the coin against my skinny chest.“You know I’ll be waiting to see you in Paris,” he whispers, softly stroking my neck with both hands. “Do me a favor?”“Absolutely,” I reply.“Please behave yourself in Israel until we get together.”I stare into his eyes. “I’ll behave if you behave,” I say.He chuckles and hands me a hastily scrawled note that reads, Iwant you. I stare at it and stu it under my pillow before planting a kiss on his mouth. In the middle of a long one, I inform him that there might be a few words missing from his note.“Okay,” he laughs. “If there’s a message that would make you happier, tell me what it is!”“Close your eyes!” I say, reaching for my box of crayons.In under ten seconds, I show him the full message I’m longing for: I want TO LIVE with you!Shalom, Israele ight to Tel Aviv, with a refueling stop in Athens, is twenty- three hours long. Too excited to sleep, I spend my time anticipating the new customs, languages, and food I’ve never experienced before.West meets East: Touching down in TelAviv for a West Side Story adventure.
After a welcoming ceremony at Tel Aviv’s airport, the cast is housed overnight by supporters of the Habimah eatre. e following morning, we set out to secure accommodations of our own choosing.While the Yarkon Hotel is being renovated, discounts are substantial. Eager to ll vacancies, the manager suggests sta quarters on the roof. Modest, yes, but very aordable.For twenty dollars a night, Michael Stuart, Roberta Keith, Tom Hasson, Sandy Leeds, Alan Johnson, and I take over three sta rooms on the Yarkon’s rooftop. Six cots, one toilet, a shower, and a refrigerator are included. Sure, we’ve got construction noise to deal with, but at the great deal of four dollars a night each, Broadway gypsies can handle it. Tony’s good-luck charm might be working in everybody’s favor.Meal choices are limited. Instead of the usual beef, pork, or chicken parts, innards like liver, heart, and stomach-lining are available. If you like hummus, carrot juice, and cannabis, Tel Aviv’s street vendors will keep you stocked. e ’60s American hippie style is alive, well, and thriving on the roof of the Yarkon in Tel Aviv.We explore new territo-ries. With a married couple among us (Tom & Roberta), we’re introduced to “open marriage” and how it works.For a while, going from one partner to the next is heavenly. at idea chang-es radically during an ex-ploratory night with Alan Johnson. Five of the Yarkon Six. Alan Johnson is behind the camera.
As our bodies relax side by side, I learn he was the participant in the shower incident in Larry Kert’s dressing room.Bam. I deserve the knot that forms in my stomach and the silence that’s stuck in my throat.“Sometimes, you need to take the wrong path in order to nd the right one.”—Author UnknownLocal reactions to West Side Story are overwhelming. By the third week of performances, Israelis are showing up at the stage door demanding audition opportunities, even though few of them speak English.Following six weeks in Tel Aviv, Haifa, and Jerusalem, a single performance is scheduled in Ein Gev, a kibbutz located on the Sea of Galilee.What the heck is a kibbutz? During the all-night bus ride, we learn it’s a communal settlement where all assets are shared. Children are raised as a group and housed separately from their parents. Parent-and-child-together-time is limited to educational and religious gatherings.We also learn that the bus’s interior lights must be kept on to ensure our safety. Syrian soldiers along the border claim the right to re at any vehicle not lit inside.At 8:00 a.m., we arrive safely. We’re met by a team of young Kibbutzniks, who lead us to the outdoor stage we’ll perform on. Flat-bed trucks will serve as dressing rooms and an eight-piece orchestra will be comprised of local musicians.e tradition of not sharing living quarters spikes our curiosity.“What’s it like,” we muse, “when parents aren’t around to remind kids they’re doing something wrong?”
After a burst of laughter, a teenager admits that judgment is always available in Ein Gev, but not unless it’s asked for.“It’s never forced upon us,” he adds.Hmm. Dwell on that one, buddy.Six hours later, our performance is underway, attended by Kibbutzniks gathered on wooden benches and Syrian soldiers gathered on nearby mountain ridges. Mortal enemies, together witnessing American performers demonstrate the futility of intolerance by presenting West Side Story under the stars on the Sea of Galilee.Wow. Robbins, Bernstein, Sondheim, and Laurents, wherever they are, must be turning over in their sleep.Gee, Ocer Krupke! (Above) I sing center, with sixteen-year-old Michael Bennett to the far right.West Side Story under the stars of Ein Gev.
Paris: An Affair to Remembere voyage from Haifa to Marseilles involves ve days of rough seas aboard a shabby oil tanker on the Mediterranean. How often do hard-working American dancers mix, mingle, and stir the pot with hard-working European sailors?How often does a sixteen-year-old Baby John keep seeking intimacy with a twenty-ve-year-old Snowboy? Oops. Is that a handsome sailor standing next to Michael Bennett? Is that “krup-you” in Michael’s eyes aimed at me as he tosses his copy of Dance Magazine into turbulent sea waters?e early morning arrival in Marseilles is followed by a six-hour train ride to Paris. I’m chomping at the bit for my rst taste of it.Welcomed at the front desk of the Regina Louvre Hotel, I’m guided to room 2401 where Tony is waiting with a bouquet of red roses and a bottle of champagne. By 3:00 p.m., we’re cozied up on a balcony overlooking the Eiel Tower.“After dinner,” Tony informs me, “a taxi is taking me to the airport. I’m booked on a midnight ight back to New York.”“Are you kidding me?” I groan. “What happened to the Orson Welles project?”“It’s on hold,” Tony replies, reaching for my hand.“And you came to Paris anyway?”Content with Tony Perkins in the City of Love.
“I couldn’t let you arrive here without me. I had to join you.”Whoa. Tony made the trip just to share my arrival in Paris? Feels like the commitment I’ve always wanted.At the airport, we’re walking towards the departure gate. Hidden beneath a wide-brimmed fedora and sunglasses, Tony breaks the silence. “ese few hours with you are exactly what I needed” he says as we arrive at the boarding ramp, “Y’gotta admit, things are working in our favor.”“I know what you mean, Tony.”As he moves towards the ticket-taker, I struggle with a desire to kiss him goodbye. I really want to. But there’s no point in oering one in front of so many people. Tony will protect his image and back away. A handshake is all we can manage.Americans in ParisFollowing the rst performance of West Side Story, the chanteuse known as Regine visits backstage and extends an open invitation to the cast to her signature discotheque, Chez Regine.Chez Regine is instantly our go-to club following every performance. Jets and Sharks introduce Parisians to America’s newest dance craze, “e Twist,” and nightly, Jets and Sharks are on the oor twisting their brains out with Regine and her devotees.A Backstage BombshellFollowing the fth performance, Stage Manager Joey Calvin announces over the sound system that Sir Noël Coward and Marlene Dietrich are on their way up to see Grover Dale. Laughter erupts in every dressing room. e idea is preposterous.“Why would celebrities like Coward and Dietrich ever want to meet up with you?” my four dressing-room mates demand.
I shove them out of my way and answer the gentle knock at the door. Wearing little more than a dancebelt, I’m standing face-to-face with Sir Noël Coward and his equally-famous companion, actress Marlene Dietrich.Mr. Coward reacts quickly. “I’ve always been known for my sense of timing, young man,” he says, chuckling as he surveys the body in front of him. “But it looks like I may have outdone myself.”Laughter erupts behind me. My buddies toss over my shirt and pants, which I quickly scoop up and put on.“You’re probably wondering, young man, why I’m knocking at your door,” Coward says, leading the conversation towards the purpose of his visit. “Joe Layton suggested I approach you about playing the juvenile lead in my upcoming Broadway musical, Sail Away.”A leading role in a Noël Coward musical?In a heightened state of blabber, I assure him I’ll go along with any idea Joe Layton proposes.“I know a nightclub a few blocks away,” Coward continues, “where I can play a few of Barnaby Slade’s songs for you. Can you manage that tonight, Grover?”“You bet,” I respond quickly, zipping my pants. “Will I be okay without a tie?”“I’ll take you any way I can get you, dear boy,” he says, igniting more hoots and hollers from castmates behind me.“My car and driver are outside the stage door,” he instructs. “Marlene and I will be waiting for you at the curb.”ey head towards the stairs.My buddies go wild deciding how I should behave with Coward and Deitrich. After debating the options, I’m shoved, half-dressed and fully unprepared, into the hallway. I run down the steps towards the stage door.A trio of Jet girls stop me, demanding to know what strings I pulled to get a visit from the one-and-only Noël Coward?
“Ask the guys in my dressing room!” I shout. “ey have the answers to everything!”Approval from my buddies roars down the staircase. e girls dismiss them, insisting information from jerks doesn’t interest them.When You Want MeFifteen minutes later, Coward, Deitrich, and I are seated at a table laden with candles and glasses of rose wine. Minutes afterwards, Coward is at the piano, singing a romantic Barnaby Slade song, titled “When You Want Me.” I’m completely enchanted.I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. In the ickering glow of candlelight, I imagine familiar faces positioned behind Coward. Grandma Ammon, Mary Lou Steele, the Jasper family. All of them as enchanted by Coward’s song as I am.Suddenly, Noel’s face transforms into a younger man. Clasping the gold coin at my neck, I recognize that Tony Perkins is singing the song:WHEN YOU WANT ME, IF YOU WANT ME, CALL ME, CALL ME, I’LL BE THEREWas it only six days ago that Tony and I held each other in our arms? Was it only six days ago that we said goodbye with a handshake? Emotionally, I’ve already moved in and married him. Helen Merrill and her security system won’t bother me a bit.Nor do the tears sliding down my face.Mr. Coward dabs my cheek with a napkin. “Dear boy,” he sighs, “I didn’t know you’d be so moved by my song.”“It reminds me of feelings I haven’t had for a while,” I admit softly. “May I ask when rehearsals start, Mr. Coward?”“In six weeks,” he responds, oering me a copy of the Sail Away script. “I hope these scenes touch you as much as my song did.”
“I can tell you right now,” I gasp, hugging the script, “my grand-mother always said that when miracles show up, don’t waste time wondering if they’re going to do anything good for you, just grab ’em.”“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Coward replies. “As Barnaby Slade,” he assures me, “you’ll have plenty of miracles to deal with. One will be performing alongside the formidable Elaine Stritch. Her billing will be bigger than yours, but you’ll both be featured on the poster.”As we leave our table, I sweep up the cork from our bottle of wine and stow it in my pocket.A delirious Snowboy stands on the sidewalk sharing goodbyes with Noël Coward and Marlene Deitrich as they climb into a limo. Longing to tell my buddies about my new job, I run to Chez Regine.An hour later, I’m still searching for them. Nobody’s around. I’m pacing the sidewalks of Paris with an amazing new job and no one to share the news with.Back at my hotel, stretched out in bed, I stare out the window at the night sky. I recall another orange-colored sky that Grandma and I watched as we dribbled pued rice into the alley. If that’s the kind of closeness I want, I’ll have to provide it. With ngers stroking Tony’s good-luck charm at my neck, Iwhisper the words of Noël Coward’s song.“WHEN YOU WANT ME, IF YOU WANT ME, CALL ME, CALL ME, I’LL BE THERE...”
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