Bethesda Fountain

The Socko Sixties

New York! New York!

The Return

  A day in April, 1963, snow showers on the turnpike intrude on a clear, blue sky, as we cross into Pennsylvania. The blood quickens, the heart leaps. It’s been ten years since I’ve been in this part of the country so close to New York, and we’re almost there—just one more day! Snuggled with Frank, Lollipop and Daiquiri in a Harrisburg motel room, wrapped in a dream—tomorrow! Only two hundred miles to go, north through New Jersey, Fort Lee and across the George Washington Bridge to Frank’s home in Washington Heights.

  From the bridge on a bright, sunny afternoon, to the south—there it is, Manhattan’s skyline, a magic city rising from the earth like a mirage. As we reach 181^st Street in Washington Heights (ten minutes from Times Square on the A train express, I will learn), I’m surprised to see crowds of people on the streets. Has there been a parade? I’ve been too long gone from Manhattan, forgetting crowds and heavy traffic is the norm. This is not Beverly Hills. Finding a place to park isn’t easy.

  Making our way to one of many high-rise apartment buildings lining the south side of the street, a long open passage leads us to the entrance. We fumble our way into the elevator, Lollipop and Daiquiri beginning to bark and dance a celebration—home again, now home again—enough with strange motels and L.A. and no snow in the winter! Maria is at the door, ignoring us to greet the pups with a joyous cry, “Perritos sin verquënza!  Pobrecitos!”

  Maria Dunand, short and plump, eyes me somewhat cautiously, but it’s a friendly look. Frank’s dad, the Frenchman they call “Pancho” (I will never hear him speak one word of French), is some thirty years older than Maria—somewhat patriarchal and distant. In Los Angeles, anticipating our move, when Frank spelled out his “multi-national” background, I’d asked him which language I should concentrate on—French or Spanish—or German? His father’s mother was German. “Better make it Spanish,” he said.

  Maria has learned only enough English to get by. Working as a seamstress surrounded by Spanish speaking people—all her friends are Spanish, mostly Cuban, she’s had no need to learn beyond accommodation, and Frank’s not happy about this. With me and the language, she’s kind and patient, always ready to help me. Fortunately she was born in Cuba’s eastern, south coast city of Santiago, so speaks more slowly than the Habeneras, almost pure Castilian, unlike Frank’s friends from Havana who rattle off words fast and furiously—but often with humor and a smile.

  Maria has taken care of people all her life. She  would become my “New York Mother” for many years, always on hand, even in difficult situations—like taking in a Japanese ballet  dancer who made so  much rice in her kitchen she thought she was in a culinary competition—a boy who spoke not a word of Spanish, or English—only Japanese. Taking me in, in 1976 on one of my unsuccessful “returns” to New York, even though Frank and I were no longer together.

  Now she has us to care for. We take the small bedroom next to the large master bedroom—much too small, but we are anticipating a move soon to the heart of things on Manhattan’s upper Westside. Breakfast is ready every morning with New York’s popular classic music station, WQXR playing from a small radio on a shelf in the kitchen. Dinners rivaling a Cuban restaurant, black beans and rice, flan diplomatico, arroz con pollo—and paella—although this zestful  dish of assorted shell fish in a stew of veggies and rice, more likely prepared by Chris Mena on his frequent visits. Chris is from Frank’s home town of Banes and  long-time, close friend of Maria and Pancho.

  Chris Mena—near Frank’s age (who is now  30), is dark enough to suggest African blood. In summer he practically lives at the beach. We love teasing him as his  skin turns richly-hued black. One thing for certain, Chris loves men and is inordinately promiscuous. He and I get along splendidly for awhile, until he begins to complain to Frank that I’m too damned serious and a “wet blanket,” although we  share a love pf Bea Lillie, singing ditties from her songs—“Maude, you’re rotten to the core, it’s something you really can’t ignore!”

  My audition for Joseph Papp, director of Public Theatre, is in a large auditorium on Fifth Avenue  in the 90s, above the Guggenheim Museum. Frank’s training pays off. I let go with Hamlet’s soliloquy “Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I!” Marc Antony’s “Cry Havoc!” from Julius Caesar. No applause, I don’t expect it, but as I walk up the aisle toward the exit, Papp stops me and says, “By the way, that’s the first time I’ve heard those soliloquies performed as they should be.”

  I never hear from him again. This is the time of transition in Public Theatre. Papp seeks to cast a greater mix—Hispanic, African American—Raul Julia, his most notable find. As for me, I’m ten years too late, and have I ever desired to become a gypsy, taking a job as a waiter, to study with Sandy Meisner, Stella Adler? live in the East Village, haunt Off-Broadway theatres, audition for Actors Studio? Or, for that  matter, do I persist with repeated phone calls to Papp’s office to follow up the audition? (The latter failure became clear to me in 1976 when friend Robert Lupone told me about his bugging Papp’s office—and assistants—for  months before winning his role as Zach in “A Chorus Line” which won him a Tony Award nomination.

  Some pretense of “being an actor” and doing the right thing comes with working temp jobs on Wall Street for insurance companies, filing and other menial tasks—on the A-Express at 8 am each weekday morning to Canal Street, jammed among other travelers, studying Spanish from a small paperback.

  Frank is soon working at the Metropolitan Opera Guild. Jerry Katz has introduced him to the Guild’s Director, Robert Tuggle. When Tuggle hears about Frank’s photographic skills, he says, “Right now we’re buying photos for our slide program from Louis Melançon.” Melançon has been the Met’s photographer for many years.

  April—Opera season at the Old Met coming to a close, but  not before Frank gets me into a dress rehearsal of Wagner’s “Die Meistersinger”—fully staged, singers belting out arias full strength. From the moment the resounding overture rocks the rafters, grand opera has got me hooked forever—more especially as the overture comes to an end—no in-concert codas here! rather fusing into a four-square chorale as the legendary gold curtain lifts to reveal the interior of a church with tall Gothic arches. And who could forget the close of Act Two as the Night Watchman goes through the narrow streets of a medieval city following a near riot; or the stirring quartet concluding Act Three, Scene One—Hans Sachs, David, Walter, Eva singing their hopes for a successful outcome of the song contest in a glorious quintet; or entrance of the Meistersingers in the next scene; the tribute to Hans Sachs—Hans Sachs! Hans Sachs! Beckmesser bungling and Walter’s ringing tenor, Morgen, es leuchtet mit rösigen gedacht. The concluding triumphant sound of the chorus.

  The Old Metropolitan Opera House resided in a building at Forty-fourth and Broadway with an unimpressive exterior from the last century—but inside, a huge theatre with two rows of gilded boxes circling the auditorium, Grand Tier closest to the stage, Parterre above; then balcony seats, then Family Circle where watching the action demands opera glasses. Standing room behind Grand Tier boxes or at the back of the orchestra seats was a good option—and only a couple of bucks.

  A bit seedy and faded, that Old  Met. sight-lines obscuring the stage in several locations. But what a tradition it had—how many great singers and conductors had spun their magic in that grand old house through the years. How many Saturdays in the late 1940s when at U.C.L.A., my close friends and I had listened to the Saturday afternoon broadcasts beamed out to California and around the country. Because of those broadcasts, I was already familiar with stars I would now see perform—Ljuba Welitch as Salomé, Bidu Sayao’s Marguerite in “La Traviata,” Licia Albanese’s  Mimi in La Bohème, Ezio Pinza’s Leporaello in Don Giovanni.  And here I am seated in the orchestra within these hallowed walls, falling apart at a performance of “Die Meistersinger.”

  Then, miracle of miracles, the Old Met hosts Rudy and Margot’s mind-boggling partnership New York debut; Rudolph Nureyev and the divine Margot Fonteyn, premiere ballerina of London’s Royal Ballet—Margot and the Royal Ballet itself with a host of avid fans in New York. But the supreme Margot will be forty-four in May—has she lost her marbles? Long time fans, Frank assuredly one of them, anticipate disaster. Will she dance with Nureyev the roles she’s famous for in “Giselle,” in “Swan Lake” both black and white swans (many ballerinas do not dance the black swan); most anticipated of all, the miraculous Rose Adagio in “Sleeping Beauty” with which the Royal Ballet has traditionally opened its seasons at the Met; Margot standing balancé, unsupported as she goes down the line taking roses from her suitors.

  Frank tells the story that after Russia’s Bolshoi Ballet (all thunder and lightning and beefy male dancers) had made their first appearance in New York in October, 1949, the following spring on opening night of the Royal Ballet in the midst of full-company curtain calls for “Sleeping Beauty,” Managing Director Ninette de Valois, clever woman that she was—she knew her New York audiences—walked  through the crowd of dancers to the footlights, and to a hushed audience said, “We didn’t think you would like us after the Bolshoi came!“ Needless to say the hysterically devoted crowd went totally off-center with a standing ovation.

  Gala opening night, April, 1963—standing room is all we can afford, two bucks a shot, joining other would-be aficionados at the rear of the orchestra seats, all rabid Margot fans and holding their breath anticipating the Rose Adagio. Frank says,  “I can’t take it anymore, Margot’s too old to be dancing “Sleeping Beauty.” How wrong he was! She was fantastic! at least to this neophyte. Could detect nary a wobble in the balances. The aficionados breathed a sigh of relief.

  Rudy and Margot would dance “Giselle,” “Swan  Lake,” “Le Corsair,” a new role for Margot, and on the same night as Corsair, “Les Sylphides,” in which Nureyev allowed himself to be hardly noticed as her partner, a subtle presence, squelching rumors that he is all flash and show-off. (I was to have an intense argument with Frank’s friend Chuck Gerhardt about this—Gerhardt did  not like Rudolph Nureyev! But then I don’t think he was too happy with Frank’s taking up with a new lover sharing a bed each night.)

  The night of “Les Sylphides” and “Le Corsair” opened with Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” without Rudy and Margot. This night Frank and I had seats on the  right in the third row balcony with excellent and  close enough view. “Les Sylphides” affirms Rudy and Margot’s extraordinary partnership élan, perhaps only an echo of their soon to come White Swan pas de deux—poetry in motion. As Rudy would say, “The difference in our ages didn’t matter anymore. We were one body, one soul. Audiences were enthralled.”

  “Le Corsair” – Nureyev leaps into the scene in pantaloons, bare chest, head band with feather, defying gravity, twirling in the air, circling the stage in turns and leaps, legs extended, feet tucked into his small, lithe body, flying into the wings to thunderclap applause, bravos.

  The house is silent now, not breathing as Margot appears upstage left, looks out at us with those dark piercing  eyes, “which make you want to cry” as Robert Helpman, her first partner in the 1930s. puts it.

  We are  not disappointed—we are astonished and thrilled—joy in the land!! as Margot tops off her variations in a series of turns downstage, each ending on point in unsupported balancé, holding the last for several seconds without a waver, closer to us now, her eyes challenging, Here I am! still here! and what do you think of that? (Was I really there to see this? Or is it a dream?)

  Rudy and Margot finish off the Corsair with sensuous splendor. We are seeing a performance that will not be seen again for generations, if ever. Now, stamping feet shake the Hall. In front of the gold curtain, Margot takes a rose from the bouquet and hands it to Nureyev. They disappear . . . solo bows . . . together again. Now the forestage, empty. gold curtain closed—much too long! forcing a surge of rhythmic applause, “Rudy! Margo! Rudy! Margot!” After a full fifteen minutes, the gold curtain parts for the final offering—the only way the ovation can be stopped. I do not remember the name of ballet following.

  Spring! May, 1963. Frank longs to show off New York’s outdoor wonders, especially the eastern reaches of Long Island, its multiplex of cities, beaches, communities with romantic names, history dating back to the 1600s. Lollipop and Daiquiri, brother and sister from the same litter, were born in distant Springs, close to East Hampton, bred by two of his “run-around with buddies,” Pookie and David, boys who have lived together many years. Not unknown to me are Patchogue, in 1950 meeting Julia Evergood’s artist husband, Philip; 1952, clamming with Daisy’s daughter Ruth and husband Alonzo in Great South Bay at Ocean Beach, Fire Island.

  Frank’s tour begins with weekends at Maria and Pancho’s small summer house in Shirley-Mastic, fronting an inlet which could harbor a small boat. Houses in Shirley couldn’t compare with the more elegant houses to the east in Moriches nearby with their large, dark and brooding framed mansions, coves and ponds, or Quoque with its lush trees and gardens. Most Shirley houses were small, displaying plaster Madonnas and ducks in front yards, compensated in spring by magnificent red azalea bushes, wild climbing roses in June.

  Shirley-Mastic is just east of Patchogue—Mastic Beach, a short ride from the house across a bridge to a spit of land on the Atlantic, beginning just east of where Fire Island ends, and extending to the Moriches inlet on the east. Our explorations will extend beyond the Moriches to Quoque, Shinnecock and the Hamptons, Sag Harbor, and as far as Montauk Point; to Riverhead and North Fork’s farmlands—cauliflower and potatoes mostly; cities with Native American names—Cutchogue, Mattituck—steamed clams, Heineken beer and two pound lobsters at the Barge in Southold on Peconic Bay—to North Fork’s Orient Point where we will catch the car ferry to New London, Connecticut, through Boston, south to Cape Cod and Provincetown.

  First weekend in Shirley, however, is troubled by our uncertain futures, especially mine. Frank doesn’t want to live in the East Village in a run-down flat while I pursue and acting career. “It’s not really what you want, is it?” Frank asks, “and it’s certainly not what I want. I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in standing room at the Met, or living in a hovel on Avenue B.”

  For me, the same old story—career or comfortable home life shared with another guy? Perhaps it takes growing older to discover one’s “mission” or “original intent” in life. Seen in the perspective of years, how can one regret or  complain about roads taken, paths followed, if eventually they reveal what the original intent of destiny has been all  along? Hopefully, we’ll remain healthy and of sound mind when the time comes to fulfill it.

  And thus, in the early summer of 1963, I segué from temp to permanent at a Wall Street insurance company—salary, ninety dollars a week. Frank has  found a home for one hundred and ninety dollars a month, a ground floor, newly remodeled brownstone garden apartment, one bedroom and separate bath, kitchen on one side of a large living room; a great location on West 69^th Street only a block from Central Park West and Central Park’s Sheep Meadow, soon to become Daiquiri and Lollipop’s playground, and several years later, summer concerts, and eventually gay pride celebrations.

  Carol Burnett’s friend (and mine) from U.C.L.A., Beverly Dixon, is still residing in an apartment in a brownstone down the street west of us, shared with Carol before Carol ascended to stardom. Carol’s autographed photograph hangs in the window of the neighborhood cleaners. Beverly and I try to put together a scene for an audition at Actors Studio, but never carry through, never schedule it.

  Our building is owned by Mr. Rothschild (not related to the rich and famous Rothschild family), a tall, enthusiastic man near retirement age, all fired up about the neighborhood, telling us that in the same block on West 68^th Street writers and painters have lived for years. (Philip Evergood had a studio there.)

  We’re well aware of the upper Westside’s beginning transformation from the West 40s all the way to 100^th Street, triggered by construction of Lincoln Center For the Arts at 68^th and Broadway (where Columbus Avenue begins). Newly completed New York State Theatre will house New York City Opera and Ballet; Avery Fisher Hall, the New York Philharmonic. The new Metropolitan Opera House, still under construction; a theatre complex, soon to open. “Hell’s Kitchen” of “Westside Story” is vanishing fast—sadly many of the Kitchen’s large Puerto Rican population are forced to move to Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn, resulting in interracial riots there in a few years.

  Unfortunately, the walls and floors in Rothschild’s building are not sound-proofed—much too thin, and it doesn’t help he’s leased the apartment in the floor above to entertainer Ronnie Graham and his blonde girlfriend, and her pink toy poodle. At four o’clock in the morning we’re serenaded with either Ronnie on the piano, or panting sighs as they hump in the bedroom directly above ours, “Get that damn dog off the bed! I wanna make babies. . .” “Oh, Ronnie . . .”

  Affecting the good neighbor police, we rap politely more than once on Graham’s door, greeted with surly snarls. Graham looks in person as he does on film, his face gray and leathery like a man who’s never been out in the sun. He almost slams the door in our faces. We appeal  to Rothschild who makes an attempt to arbitrate, with no success.

  Complicating matters, Lollipop and Daiquiri do not like the mostly dirt outdoor garden, so Frank hires an attorney and we succeed in breaking the lease, moving to another garden apartment on West 70^th Street, still only a block away from Central Park, although not as close. The whole area of five-floor brownstone houses on the Westside continue to be renovated into one floor apartments and we’ll learn of an exception. Across the street on our block closer to Central Park, a brownstone lived in and owned by actress Maureen Stapleton.

  Daisy Belmore once again will  haunt me at Food City on Columbus Avenue. Maureen appears behind me in the  checkout line.

  “Pardon me,” I venture, “you look just like Maureen Stapleton.”

  “Probably because I am,” she says, close to a  laugh.

  “You remember Daisy Belmore in the Rose Tattoo. I was studying Shakespeare with her then, she  was a close friend.”

  Maureen’s large, dark Irish eyes widen, trancelike. She says, “Ah, yes, Daisy. . .”

  My groceries bagged, I move  away.

  Hardly any time at all to wile away at Smith Point beach in Shirley-Mastic. Frank’s closest and long enduring non-Cuban friends in New York, David Meeker and Stanley Zaneski, once upon a time breeders of poodle litters in Springs, now their summer home, a cozy cottage with two bedrooms and outdoor patio behind Zaneski’s family home in the unfashionable side of Southampton; Pookie’s father (Polish) in the construction business. David a step above in class, his family owns a house in Quogue, and apparently “come from money.” He  and Stanley, or  rather “Pookie,” have lived together for several years—not a smooth relationship—Pookie loves sex and drinks heavily; David, somewhat of a  martinet and unsympathetic, although he adores Pookie. We call David the Nazi sometimes, and he only laughs.

  They live in town most of the year. Pookie, as decorator at the Design Center on Lexington Avenue, David as liaison with movie theatre chains, setting them up, managing their finances. He travels a lot. They have always lived in luxury apartments on the upper Eastside—and wouldn’t think of living anywhere else in Manhattan. (Adam, one of their friends, also decorator at the Design Center, will tell me he wouldn’t go the West Side if Christ himself was there.)

  And so, weekends in Southampton, staying in Pookie and David’s cozy cottage, alcoholic—vodka-tonics with lime twist (can taste them now), blurred dinner parties, barbecues—days at Two Mile Hollow beach in East Hampton, with their large coterie of friends—Eastsiders to the core.

  I’ve had it with the stifling atmosphere at the insurance company, but will never forget November 22^nd when we heard via radio that President Kennedy had been shot, and soon was dead. We closed for the day. Waiting for the A-Express at Fulton, crowds drifted aimlessly, silently, stunned, staring into space—until the A train’s horn blasted a  death  knell as it roared out of  the tunnel.

  In December I begin interviewing for a job  in public relations—any job that will  take me away from Wall Street. A creative job—one that is challenging.

  I get my wish, and never in my wildest dreams could have imagined what a strange, exotic world was about to draw me  into its net for the next two years.

  And only in New York.

Next – Kochiro Koso – Working with young university students from Japan.