"Greenroom"

by Patrick Kellogg

patrickkellogg@gmail.com

TGBC/ New York City chapter

I finally landed an offer for an off-Broadway gig. The show will run through Christmas, though I'm guessing it will close in January when all the tourists go away. It's called "The Glove", based on the book "Tim Stephens's Glove". You have probably never heard of it, even though all our publicity materials say "From the Beloved Children's Novel". Maybe beloved by English majors, but it's not like anyone else has heard of it.

I play "The Grandfather" in the first act. Only a few lines, but I get to dance around a bit. Then I come back in the second act as "The Spirit of Baseball". Yeah, the story is confusing. It is an 19th-century American story in the vein of the Tom Brown/Horatio Alger storylines which were popular at the time: a poor boy finds fame and fortune through hard work. They actually believed that was a possibility which anybody could achieve in the 1850s. Anyway, our plot is about an urchin named Tim Stephens who can't afford a baseball glove. Then, he finds one, and then Tim Stephens is allowed to play baseball, and that's pretty much the whole story.

There are only three adults in the cast, and a whole bunch of baseball-playing boys. And then more understudies for the boys. So, backstage is pretty loud and rowdy. And crowded, because every kid seems to have their own entourage of stage mothers, nanny, vocal coaches, and social media directors. Meanwhile, I barely have an agent. When the musical starts all the parents and the paid consultants have to leave backstage and go sit in the reserved box seats upstairs to watch the show. But the boys remain behind backstage, badly managed by Martin, who is our production assistant for the run.

I don't have my own space. I share a tiny dressing room with Albert, who plays Tim's father. Alexis, who plays Tim's mother, has an even smaller closet to change in, so I guess I can't feel so bad. The hoard of kids have a huge ballroom-sized changing room, left over from when the theater was a burlesque house. All the dancing girls were kept together with the door locked. Though I'm not sure if the trouble was locked outside or inside the room. But the boy's dressing room is bigger than all the other backstage rooms put together. Must be nice.

It's very cramped backstage, with people running by in a rush. A lot of boys yelling and phones going off. I'd stay in my own room, but the light is terrible in there, and when Albert is in there, he likes to talk a lot even if I'm not listening. Plus, my dressing-room chair is wobbly and about to fall apart - barely usable for as long as it takes me to get painted up. So usually, I sit in the greenroom and read a book between acts.

And that's the problem: it's a short musical, "eighty-and-out", so it's less than an hour and half with no intermission. Trust me, there's not a lot of plot in the book to explain. Any longer than that, and the audience, the elderly ticket buyers, would need a bathroom break. But in-between my turn as Gramps and my callback as Sports-Santa I have about an hour to sit and do nothing.

Usually, there are kids getting ready to go on stage, but there is a blissful half hour in the middle of the show where everybody is dancing back-to-back numbers without me. I've trained myself to take a nap and to wake up right before everyone comes offstage. I'm very good at it. But for some reason, I couldn't sleep that afternoon, and I wasn't enjoying the only book I brought along: a thick hardback copy of W.H. Auden poetry.

The only other person in the greenroom was Martin the PA, the children's handler, a twenty-something actor who seems happy enough to have a paying job in the theater, but I can tell he would rather be acting himself. Sometimes I see him mouthing words backstage, as if he's prompting the on-stage actors, and hoping for a slip-up. But that day, Martin was on his phone, like everyone seems to be nowadays. He didn't notice me get up and leave my poetry book on the seat behind me.

I decided to explore the theater. The Minot Theatre is a beautiful old house off of 50th street. It used to house Vaudeville, and then strip shows, before settling into two-hander plays and small musicals in the 1970s. By the way, "Off-Broadway" refers to the number of seats, not where the theater sits. The Minot seats about 400, though we are lucky to fill half that most performances, even with heavy papering. It has a proscenium stage with a huge 50-foot "fly" where huge pieces of scenery can magically lift unseen into the rafters. The theater was really a wonder when it was built. Now it just looks old and dark, with not enough room for too many actors.

From behind the black side curtains, I heard the first number without me start up, and saw the ASM - the assistant stage manager - set the props for the big "11 o'clock number" where all the kids play a fake game of baseball on stage. That takes forever, as the book has them go through the full nine innings for the audience, with a scoreboard and everything. They even explain the rules of baseball, just in case somebody has never seen a game. Even the stage manager looked bored. Near the back, I saw the security guard sitting on a stool at the stage door, sleeping because nobody was going in or out at that hour. Everybody was sleeping except for me.

I turned down the narrow hallway as if to head to my dressing room. I thought about maybe sitting in Alexis's room, but I didn't want to mess with her stuff, and besides, I don't think she likes me. Everyone thinks maybe she and Albert have a thing going: they are "married" on stage, so maybe they'll hook up in real life, who knows? Sometimes I see her looking at him, and there's a vibe. You know what I mean. Instead, I turn towards the kids' cavernous dressing room at the end of the hall.

The same key opened all the dressing rooms - they told us that when we moved in. All the actor's spaces were on one key, the admin areas on another, and the costumes and props in the basement weren't locked at all. Besides, the theater is so old that just about any key and some downward pressure on the knob opens the door. So, it's not quite like I broke into the dressing room, not really. I opened the heavy door enough to slip through.

You have to believe that I didn't intend on stealing anything. I wouldn't do that. And I wouldn't go through any of the kids' things, although I was envious of the amount of laptop computers, ring lights, phones, and video equipment was in the room. It seemed like every kid had tens of thousands of dollars of electronics in front of their dressing tables. Every kid had a streaming channel of course, and I had heard that Rogie Mayhew, the actor who plays "Tim Stephens" has a TikTok following in the millions. I wouldn't know, I don't watch those.

I marveled at the space: compared to Albert and my tiny dressing room, this place was a palace. Natural light shot in through an old glass skylight high above. I love to see dust swirling in the shaft of light from the ceiling, like a natural spotlight. I turned off the fluorescent lights, partly to set a mood, and partly because the darkness made it feel like I wasn't going to get caught. In an instant, the atmosphere changed, and I felt some of that old magic I felt when I got my first acting gig.

My first paid job was as "Boy" in Henry V. I Think that role has more lines than I have now. But even now I can still repeat every word of that play. Even though most of my lines were in French, and I still have never learned any other languages. Oh, I loved Shakespeare back then! I thought it was the height of sophistication. Now I just find it boring. I thought that at the age of sixteen I was already performing the best plays ever written. I guess it's all been downhill from there.

Up until now, I hadn't acted on stage this millennium. A few television roles, a guest part on NCIS. I was fairly well known in the New York community as a dramaturg, and lately got paid as a consultant to fix new plays that weren't quite working. It's part ghostwriting, and part babysitting a director who has a mess they need to clean. I wish I had been brought in to fix "The Glove" before our production started. I think I would have just told them that the musical was hopeless, and to just give up. Put on a different musical instead, or better yet, nothing at all.

I was sitting on a futon-like thing in front of a coffee table. Most of the dressing room had little desks side-by-side, with an array of extension cords, extra chairs, and mirrors to form a line of dressing tables. One side of the space was carved out into a little sitting area, with a few old chairs in a circle. There was crap everywhere: a sleeping bag draped over a chair, some really nice headphones just sitting on the floor. They were probably worth as much as I make in a week, and they were just sitting there. My eyes couldn't quite settle on any object, there was just too much clutter around. So, I just sat there for a minute, kind of feeling sorry for myself for some reason.

I saw a book underneath the coffee table, one corner sticking out. Again, please understand that I wasn't snooping or anything. I thought maybe the book was propping up the table, like it was stuck under a table leg or something. So, I pulled it out. It had a brown plastic cover on it, like old an photo album, but I knew it couldn't be one of those, because nobody takes photos anymore. Maybe it was an autograph album? Do kids still do that - collect signatures, or is it all digital now?

I opened the first page, and it said: "She said she is pregnant and I dont know what to do..."

There was more, a lot more. I didn't read any further, but this was some sort of diary, written in a blue ballpoint pen by somebody who had bad handwriting.

I closed the journal. I wanted to read more. But I didn't. But I thought about it. For some reason, I started to breathe heavily, like I was scared. Like somehow I was involved in all of this and it was my fault. Which would be a silly thing to think.

Was it Rogie, our lead? Selfishly, I thought, "Would that force our show to close?" I could imagine the bad press. Sex Scandal in Children's Theater. I'd lose my job, and right before Christmas, too. My imagination spiraled, but then I realized how stupid it would be to think only about myself. There were dozens of people depending on this gig. Of course the theater would replace Rogie. The extra publicity might even extend the run.

We don't have any girls in our cast, so who could the author be talking about who is pregnant? Alexis? She's the only woman, except for the director and most of the theater staff. There's a female tutor for the boys during the day, and few women in the crew, I think. To tell the truth, I don't know any of the workers. But all of them are over twenty-five, surely. That doesn't really make any sense, now does it?

There are twelve other boys in the cast. I search my mind thinking how old they are. At least fourteen years old? I know they had to be in high school in order to qualify for the evening work hours and taking the afternoon off for the matinee every Wednesday. Is that old enough to...? Oh Christ! Could it be Albert? Albert and Alexis, maybe? That was a thought too terrible to think. Plus, I found the diary in a place where the adults in the cast weren't supposed to go. Unlike me, who went there, and is still sitting frozen in place wondering what to do.

I looked down and saw the book still in my hands. I could show this to someone, maybe give it to the ASM to take care of. Then it wouldn't be my problem. Or, I could read a bit more of the diary and figure out which actor it was who wrote it. I could give the diary back to them, maybe slip it mixed with some of the crap on their dressing table... but I had no idea whose table was whose and there weren't any signs.

I could figure out the writer, and give it to their parent or guardian, except that during the run I hadn't really met any of them. Or actually, I met them once or twice, but I still didn't know who any of them were. I didn't even really know the admin staff; I think we had an HR person. Tim, the director, would know, right? I should give the diary to him?

Which means I would have to explain how I found the diary. Which means I'd have to admit I broke into the boy's dressing room. What I SHOULD have done is slip the book back under the table and pretend that none of this happened. But what I ended up doing is I stood up, bolted out the door, and returned to the greenroom. I tried to act cool as I burst into the room, scaring Martin the PA. He looked up and saw me, panting and sweating. I sat down, accidentally sitting down on the book that was already on my seat.

Which made me realize, I still had the diary in my hand. The next thing I realized, the audience was applauding, and they only did that once a performance: right after the showstopping number where Tim Stephens hits the game-winning home run. And then he sings about it. For about ten minutes. And then I come on as the Spirit of Baseball and tell him that he has correctly figured out sportsmanship, and then I finally get a song.

Which means I had less than a minute to grab my "Spirit" cloak (covered with fake holly and red berries) and get on stage. I looked around the room, and there weren't a lot of hiding places. About a dozen stuffed chairs, and a sofa that looked like it housed a pull-out bed. All the tables were too high to hide anything underneath. And Martin had stopped texting and was looking up at me, as if wondering if I was on drugs.

Our greenroom empties out into a staging area where set pieces move in and out. I thought maybe I could stash the diary there, but all the props are used in the second act, and the book would instantly be found. I had a nightmare of somebody bringing it onstage, and the book falling to the apron and sitting there, audience and cast looking at it, the musicians suddenly halting.

I had a minute to spare, and this was my stupid idea: I saw that the book of poetry in my right hand was way larger than the diary. So, I arranged one on top of the other, maybe at a slight crooked angle to look "natural", and I placed both books next to the chair I was sitting in, pushed toward the back so nobody would notice.

The ASM had my cloak, and I heard my music cue. I whipped on the cloak, and with my music cue, breezed onto the stage. I like to think my size and the motion of the cloak gives me a good entrance. But I don't remember anything of that performance. I congratulated Tim Stephens on his sports talent, said a few lines to the audience that it's not about winning or losing, and then I sing, "You Gotta Win". As I said, it doesn't make a lot of sense.

I remember thinking I would rush back after the song, but I had to stand in the back and hear Rogie prattle on and on, and then Alexis/Albert have a song, and then all the boys break out into a finale. And then there are bows and a closer.

So, it's twenty or so minutes before final curtain, and I get a head start offstage to beat the rush into the hallway. I turn into the greenroom, and Martin's not there. He's probably in the boy's dressing room helping them out of costume. I'm alone in the greenroom and I look behind the chair, and then books are gone.

I move the chair, look under the chair. I look under the other chairs. The greenroom is pretty tidy - nobody is allowed to leave personal items there. The ASM is in the prop hallway putting away things for the next night's performance.

"Uh," I ask her, "did you see my book?" I notice to myself that I said book singular and not books plural.

She looks up at me, seemingly a bit busy. I don't think she likes me. "No. What books?"

"Never mind," I say, and run off to our shared dressing room. Albert is already in there, almost done changing into a tan suit and blazer. It's funny that his street clothes look almost identical to his costume.

"Good show!" says Albert.

Christ, he's always cheerful. "Did you see a...," I start, "a journal, or a diary or anything like that?"

"In here?" asks Albert.

"Yeah," I say, "or anywhere."

"No." He looks at me quizzically.

I start to undress in a huff. Albert senses this and says nothing, leaving quickly. I finish undressing.

This is my least favorite part of the night: I have to take off my costume, the neck collar and cuffs stained with base makeup, and put the dirty clothes back on hangers, so the costume assistant can make sure everything is there, and take them off the hangers to clean everything. And then half the time the hangers are all mixed up for the next performance and I have to do it all again. I am sitting in my underwear (which I own myself, thank god, they don't make us wear period underwear like some shows), and every time I think this could be the last time. This SHOULD be the last time I do this.

I go back to my apartment and spend the rest of the night thinking about the diary. The next day was dark, so I had a whole extra day thinking about it, but I thought about it less. The next performance was a Tuesday, and I waited until the very last minute to get to the theater. I don't know why. I'm usually one of the first ones there. There are actors who breeze in at the "half" (a half an hour before the performance) and still waste time talking and fussing around. But I'm always in the greenroom in costume even before people show up.

But not that Tuesday. It was barely minutes before call time - the time stated in my contract that I had to be at the theater. In fact, the Production Stage Manager called my cell phone just as I reached the stage door. I paused a minute, looking down at my phone. I don't know if I was considering answering it, or if I was just surprised. He had never called me before. Of course he had my number - if I wasn't there soon, my understudy would need to be notified to go on.

Instead, I went through the door. I passed the security guard on his stool. He started to say something, and then stopped. "Hey, its..." but I was past him by that time.

Four actors were milling about in the hallway as I stormed by them. They stopped talking and looked at me, which was spooky. My dressing room door was shut, Albert already standing in there half-dressed. I startled him as I swung the door open and slammed it behind me.

"Christ!" yelled Albert, startled. Then, shut his mouth quickly and said nothing. Which for Albert, was uncharacteristic. He usually tells me about one stupid thing or another as we dress. He looks away from me, his "Dad" tie in his hand, a cardigan sweater over the back of his chair.

I look at what Albert is looking at. On top of my dressing table next to my makeup are two books. My copy of Auden. And THAT book. The diary. Arranged neatly on top, the lower covers of the books perfectly in line with the edge of the table.

"I, um," Albert started. "I mean we."

"We didn't know," he said.

I sat down in my chair, not really processing the moment.

"I mean, we're sorry," Albert said. "If there is anything we can do..."

Albert whipped his tie around his neck as if to tie it, then thought better of it, and picked up his sweater to leave. He took one step toward the door.

"I didn't read your diary," he said, turning back to me. "Martin did... it was him. He just read a little bit of it."

Martin read just the first line? A paragraph or two? I looked at myself in the mirror; I looked really old.

"I know what you must feel. I did something like that once... or we..." Albert trailed off. "I was in college..."

I scowled at Albert through the mirror. Even at my age, I know how to kill with a look.

Albert opened the door and paused. Then he said one more thing: "We all thought you were gay."

And with that, he was gone. The room was still for a second. I exhaled. I inhaled again. And exhaled, like I hadn't been breathing before now.

I looked at myself again in the mirror. An old man in a rickety wooden chair. An old man who smiled a little bit. Just a bit.

I arranged myself in front of my desk. I scooted the chair up close to the desk. Ten minutes to curtain, twenty minutes before my first scene.

I opened up the diary and started to read.