the reality of doing

Stag leaping

The reality of doing

After taking care of school and housing, the next task was to locate the single most important component of this adventure, a bar. A couple of 2nd year guys recommended Joe’s, a local watering hole up on second avenue, with a friendly bartender, cute waitress, and icy cold draft beer. Here I could soothe my bruised dancing body, celebrate the occasional acting triumph, and get a little happy with my fellow dreamers. it became my ER room for the next year. Back at school it was time to experience my next nightmare, more dance classes. Next up was Jazz, the type of dance seen in Broadway shows. Matt Maddox, our dance teacher, had just finished choreographing “7 Brides for 7 Brothers” on Broadway. He taught us jazz dance routines, always keeping up a beat to the music, we would then count the beats in each routine, usually 15 to 20 steps long. We would then add the routines together and create a dance. This I could handle and found it kind of fun.

After lunch, which was delicious and purchased at the local Jewish deli around the corner, came Ballet. Taught by Pearl Lang, a world famous Prima Ballerina, who for those of us with zero dance skills, was a demanding taskmaster. So, after warm ups and some work on the Barre, with legs aching, I would perform my finest dance move, called a Stag leap. Let me set the stage, the class was 90 minutes long and 10 minutes in, I am already in agony. The dance studio was huge, with about 40 dancers in attendance, which fortunately created a lot of heat, which led to the backdoor being left open. On the other side of the back door was a fire escape leading down stairs. So the plan was simple, after making sure Pearl wasn’t looking, I would stag leap across the floor, and then pretending I was hot, stag leap out of the studio, sneak through the backdoor down the fire escape and into the boys locker room, where I could relax for the rest of the class. I did this several times a week. I always suspected Pearl knew, but she was happy to get rid of me, the Fred Munster of dance moves.

Next up was speech class taught by Robert Neff Williams, head of the speech department at Columbia university, and a lover of theater. A brilliant teacher, he taught us to open our mouths wide, unclench our jaws, like newscasters or opera singers. We learned that words have endings, like ing, as in go-ing, not goin, or doin. Next we had to lose any accents we had acquired, as good diction became our king. This was followed by a singing class, taught by Royal Hinneman, a renown vocal coach. Being at least what I thought was an accomplished shower singer, I soon learned what a weak and unsupported voice I had. Who knew you really sang from the groin area. We howled our way through the first class scaring away any stray cats.

Rounding out the day was our first class with Meisner, and the reality of doing. Our first exercise was to enter the room, and convince the audience that we were crossing a booby trapped, laser beam protected vault. I crawled, leaped and slithered my way across the room to mild applause. Meisner nodded. That meant I passed my first reality of doing test. Without even knowing what reality I was doing. Wondering what the rest of the year would bring, I headed to Joe’s bar for an icy cold beer, applause still ringing in my ear. I knew I could get used to that sound.