My brother David, sister Caryl, and yours truly in Lincoln Center, NYC
Our Champion of the Arts Indeed. Enjoy this chapter from “A Cup of Tea on the Commode: My Multi-Tasking Adventures of Caring for Mom and How I Survived to Tell the Tale.”
I’d be hard-pressed to recall a dull moment growing up in Mom’s world. It was always full of surprises; some welcome, some not so much. Like early morning boating and swimming lessons in the arctic waters of Ridgewood’s Graydon Pool. I learned to appreciate those only after thawing out.
She always kept us busy. In between her shopping marathons and our various odd jobs, Mom took us on kid-friendly cultural excursions in New York City, thirty minutes away—or thirty hours, depending on traffic. We’d visit Radio City Music Hall to see the latest Disney film and behold the Rockettes’ toes, in unison, pointing to the sky. Or we’d take in a Broadway play, hop on the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, or cruise around Manhattan on the Circle Line. At the 1964 World’s Fair, I saw a “Jetson’s-style” future and heard for the first time but unfortunately not the last, “It’s A Small World After All.” I have yet to get that damn song out of my head.
When I was ten years old, Mom took a gamble and hired a famous New York photographer to shoot test shots of all of us kids, hoping to ignite a modeling career or two, or six. After a full day of wardrobe and location changes, the only one the camera showed any affection for was Caryl, my blossoming teenage sister. But when only lingerie offers flooded in, she stuck with ballet. My only fond memory from that long day was a black-and-white photo of Louis Armstrong hanging in the bathroom. He sat on the toilet—the same toilet I sat on—holding a pack of cigarettes, while flashing his world-famous pearly whites.
Years later, after placing second in the Man of the Eighties contest in Columbus, Ohio—you made the finals if you owned a suit—I began my professional modeling career. My first gig, like Mom, was as a hand model. Or as my friends liked to say, “My first job was a hand job.” That job led to more modeling jobs, which led to commercials, which led me to Hollywood. So, that early gamble was not a total loss for Mom.
She also shared with us her love for painting. Mom studied art before getting married. One of her oils hung in our living room, and I always thought it to be quite good. I’m sure if having six kids played a part in halting her dream, but she never gave up supporting others. As a member of the Art Barn—a local gallery featuring artists from near and far—she’d take me to view the latest works and to help choose which painting to take home.
However, we didn’t need to leave the house for our fine arts fix. On Sunday nights, we huddled in the living room to watch the Ed Sullivan Show. The Beatles, the plate twirlers, and that irresistible Italian mouse, Topo Gigio, were among our favorites. The dancers—ballet, modern, jazz, tap, flamenco—always got us on our feet for impromptu performances, much to Dad’s chagrin. But when choreographer and local celebrity, Peter Gennaro, introduced his dancers, we sat right back down and focused. His creativity and talent always inspired us. Perhaps it was Peter who motivated Mom to sign all of us up for ballet lessons.
My dancing career started with a bang. Hollywood couldn’t have written it any better. I was seven years old, visiting David and Caryl, who were performing with the Royal Danish Ballet at Lincoln Center in New York City.
A man stormed into the dressing room and shouted, “We need another kid.” He locked eyes with me. “You, kid, wanna be in the show?”
I hesitated, not knowing what to say.
He quickly followed up with, “We’ll pay you.”
That was all I needed to hear. Now a professional, I’m off to my first makeup session and wardrobe fitting. In no time, I emerged dressed in a sweet swashbuckling costume with a frilly lace-up shirt, red sash, and a long plume in my cap that would have made Errol Flynn jealous. The only thing missing was a sword.
I soon joined my siblings atop a bridge towering above the stage filled with other professional dancers. However, we didn’t do much dancing. Other than acting like we were having the best time—which we were—we, on cue, tossed paper flowers into the air and watched them cascade down onto the stage below, all for five dollars a show. I thought, Why do they say a career in the arts is so difficult?
Now, forty-seven years later, considering the last equity-waiver play I did in Los Angeles paid the same—five dollars a show—you can understand how right they were. In today’s dollars, my showbiz debut turned out to be one of my best money-making years in the arts.
Though my Lincoln Center debut lasted only three shows, I was hooked. I started ballet lessons soon after and was thrilled by all the attention that came with being the only boy in my class. In fact, David and I were the only boys in the entire school. But what began with a bang ended with a thud three years later when my prima-donna attitude got me fired from The Nutcracker, two years running.
Irene Fokine’s annual production of The Nutcracker drew a lot of talent from New York City. It was a big deal to be part of it, especially for a young dancer. In my first year, I played a boy at the opening party, the toy soldier who shot and killed the first mouse—I beat out a veteran for that role, no doubt due to all of my experience with mice at home. I also played a gnome who pulled the sleigh upon which the Prince and Clara traveled to all the magical lands. I had an issue with the gnome. First, I hated the green costume and curly-toed shoes with their glittery, bouncing balls. I couldn’t let my friends see me dressed like this. Second, David played the Prince. I found no joy in pulling my brother around that stage and, worse, in that costume. Third, he sat in the sleigh next to Julie, who played Clara. I had a big crush on Julie. Every boy had a big crush on Julie, with her sparkling brown eyes, irresistible smile, and long wavy auburn hair. She was perfect.
On Sundays we did two shows: a matinee and an evening. In between, the cast changed into street clothes and grabbed a quick dinner. During the first show, after killing the mouse, I got ready for dinner, except I wasn’t finished. My gnome part remained. Ms. Fokine—our strict Russian teacher, choreographer, and disciplinarian—caught me before I escaped to the great outdoors.
“Get back here. You’re not done.”
I was in no mood to change clothes or get back into makeup. “Let my understudy go on,” I said. Those words actually came out of my nine-year-old mouth.
She was not amused. “If you don’t get in that costume, you’re out of the show.”
And that was that.
The next year, she cast me again as a gnome, and again, I left the show early. I wonder if my understudy became a big star like in the movies. If so, it’s all thanks to me. Soon after, I quit ballet for good. Retired at ten years old.
But ballet gave me a lovely parting gift. During one of my last recitals, the lead dancer pirouetted off stage for a quick costume change, unaware I stood in the wings with an unobstructed view. There I caught my first glimpse of a woman’s bare breasts. I stared in awe at the magnificent sight. Was this enough to keep me from quitting? No, but I’ve had an affinity for dancers and boobs ever since. Thank you, Barbara H.
So, my ballet career, though short, was not a total loss for me.
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