Playworld

—

That beautiful, blessed, first short week of classes, we grieved summer’s loss and begged its forgiveness, having taken it for granted. That first Tuesday back at Boyd was a blur of new teachers and syllabi and early dismissal; of patrolling the halls during free periods, on the lookout for the freshman girls everyone was talking about. I was taking biology, modern European history, Spanish B, geometry, and English, and as my arts elective, which I picked out of inertia, I’d signed up for Theater II with Mr. Damiano. But the highlight of the week was meeting our new wrestling coach.

The team was told to gather in the locker room, where Assistant Coach Tyrell greeted us. “You’re going to weigh in first, my dudes, and then head to the gym.” We began to strip. “No, no,” Tyrell said, “lose the blazers and shoes but not the shirts or pants, please, and I’ll record your weight in those.”

Tanner, Cliffnotes, and I exchanged quizzical glances.

In the wrestling gym, we slid down the wall to take our seats, I between Cliffnotes and Tanner.

On the latter’s still-tan wrist, I noticed the pale outline of where his sailor’s bracelet used to be.

Then the double doors opened and our new coach walked to the mats’ edge, stepped out of his sneakers, took his place on the center mat’s bruin, and looked up and down the line.

He was slab-headed, and there was something decidedly gladiatorial about his appearance, as big-browed and knob-chinned as he wasall he was missing was a centurion’s helmet.

His neck started at his ears, but it was his torso that was far more intimidatingit was as broad as a shipping crate.

He was wearing shorts, and his calves were nearly big around as his thighs, and it was this uniformity to his mass that projected a combination of irresistible force and steadfastness.

To pick him up, to separate his feet from the earth, you’d need a forklift.

“Gentlemen,” he began, in a heavy, up-Island accent.

“My name’s Aiden Byrne and I’m looking forward to working with you this season.

A bit about myself: I’m a second-generation Irish Catholic, grew up in East Hampton, New York, a place I know some of you are familiar with, and where my family has owned a small business for over three decades.

I wrestled at East Hampton High, then at Iowa State, where I was a starter all four years and an academic all-American my senior year.” He seemed a bit abashed at the mention of this accolade.

“A few words about my expectations.

You’re gonna get out of this program what you put into it.

This is an individual sport, but our job as team members is to make each other better.

My number one value is mutual respect and my number two is hard work.

As for my individual goals for each of you, I have only this one: by the season’s end, you’re able to beat the wrestler you were at its start.” He paused to nod, which we’d soon learn was what he did when he knew exactly what was coming.

“There are several other changes to which I’ll call your attention.

First, as you know, Assistant Coach Tyrell just recorded your weight.

You will remain within five pounds of that number, no sucking down and no rubber suits.”

Grumbling and hisses.

“I know, new coach, new rules, but this is to protect your health. Also, three new tournaments have been added to our schedule”Tyrell had us pass this down“that are in much tougher leagues than I’m guessing you’re accustomed to, no disrespect. Also, note the scrimmages with some of the New Jersey and Long Island public schools, which is a different shark tank altogether. Finally, I’ll be running an optional weightlifting program three days a week. I stress that this is optional, I know you all have serious academic responsibilities or are doing other sports or both. That said, once the season begins, all practices are mandatory unless you have a written excuse. Any questions?”

We eyed one another up and down the line. No one raised his hand. Did they, like me, feel the same sense of solace? That this person was exactly what he was. That he was a help as opposed to a hindrance. That these facts, taken in the aggregate, meant we were safe. They must have, because almost everyone seemed as stoked as I. Because what occurred to me, as I considered our team, was this: we were deep with talent. And maybe not this year, but certainly by the next, we’d be a force.

Theater class met in the basement rehearsal space.

Damiano had the lights raised, which made the room seem smaller.

“Our first semester production,” he announced, “will be The Tempest.

” The senior dramaramas eyed one another knowingly; they small-clapped and cooed.

The entire semester, Damiano explained, would be dedicated to the play, with a string of performances beginning in early November.

“This first week, we’ll hold auditions.

Parts should be assigned by Friday, and we’ll be well into rehearsals by the month’s end.” He flapped a sheaf of handouts and then distributed them.

I reviewed the rehearsal and production schedule. From my book bag, I pulled out my wrestling schedule and did a side by side.

Damiano said, “We have a bet in the teachers’ lounge who can keep you for the shortest amount of time today, and I intend to win, so off you go.” As everyone was exiting, Damiano stopped me and said, “Hey, Griffin, walk with me, would you?”

We made our way out of the theater, up and out of the swimming pool’s zone of chlorinated humidity, into the main lobby, and down the upper school’s long hallway that ran parallel to the gymnasium. We took a left, up an exposed half flight of stairs fashioned of concrete with a metal railing. Beyond this, a door led to the wrestling lockers and the five flights Kepplemen used to make us run at the end of practice. Atop these was the school’s main theater.

“I wanted to wait till we were out of earshot of everyone.” Damiano nodded at me, hesitant, like he still wasn’t sure about what he was going to say.

In other words: a dramatic pause. “I want you to play Prospero,” he said, as if that meant something to me. When he saw that it didn’t, he continued: “I want you to try out for the lead.”

“I don’t”

“Make no mistake, you’ve still got to earn the role.”

“Mr. Damiano, the rehearsal schedule conflicts”

“I know,” he said, and raised his hand, “it’s a big commitment, but here’s the thing.

Take Two comes out in, what, a month? I think I just read that in Variety.

” Not even my dad read Variety.

“And when it does, you’re going to have all sorts of opportunities come your waylife-changing ones.

And what a lot of people probably won’t tell you is this: you’ve got talent galore, Griffin, but you’ve got no technique.

And a year from now, when those adult roles start coming your way, you’re not going to be ready.

You won’t be able to cross over.

You get what I’m saying?” He placed his hand on my shoulder.

“There’s a moment when an actor moves from naturalism to craft.

So,” he said, and made an emphatic, shaking gesture with his closed fists, “let me teach you.

Give me the chance.

That way, you don’t end up out of work one day, like nine-tenths of the actors in that failed musical your father was just in.

He got a good writeup, I saw.”

I thought for a moment about punching him in the mouth, but that would get me expelled.

Then an even more beautiful thought presented itselfone that made me smile so serenely, Damiano couldn’t help but smile too.

“I’m flattered,” I said.

We shook hands.

Later that week, I read for Alan Hornbeam at his Upper East Side town house.

He had a home theater, the first I’d ever seen, and when I met him there, the producer of Take Two, the film’s editor, and two studio executives were also in attendance.

They’d just reviewed the final cut and were discussing it.

“Let me show you something,” Hornbeam said, and gave the projectionist instructions and then asked me to sit.

The lights went down.

The scene when Hornbeam and I are discussing love rolled.

We have our baseball mitts, and then Amanda and the extra playing her mother walk by, and Amanda smiles at me so warmly, her reaction caught so perfectly in the shot, that I was reminded of the promise it contained, which, if it was acting on her part, was Academy Award–winning stuff.

And in the reaction shot I could see the hope in my expression, which was also not acting, especially when Hornbeam and I watched the pair of women make their way toward the park.

When the lights came up, Hornbeam asked, “What do you think?”

“It’s great,” I said.

“You did beautiful work, Griffin.”

“Thank you.”

“I love in that crane shot how the trees’ shadows are playing on the sidewalk, so that it’s like Bernie and Konig are walking through entanglement and complication. It’d make Josef von Sternberg proud.”

I hadn’t noticed. I had also promised myself that if I didn’t know something, I would ask. “Who’s Josef von Sternberg?”

“Only the greatest framer of the shot in film history,” Hornbeam said. “I’ll have you back here soon, we’ll watch The Blue Angel together. I have an original print.” He got up and waved me to join him. “Let’s go talk privately.”

He led me upstairs to his living room.

It was as big as my family’s entire apartment, long and rectangular, with a white rug that framed the space, from the fireplace on one end to the bookcases on the other.

In the center, there hung a gorgeous, very modern chandelier with arced arms, whose fluid curves made it look like a candelabra from the distant future.

Nearest where we stood was another seating area, arranged around a set of built-in bookshelves, with picture lights illuminating the spines.

Adjacent a recessed bar was an accent chair made of creamy brown leatherthe reading nook of my mother’s dreams.

Oren, I thought, would also love this place.

In the corner, I noticed an upright piano, which I could imagine Dad playing.

Hornbeam indicated we sit on the couch, in front of the fireplace, where several birch logs were piled atop its grate.

He gave me some sides and explained the scene.

I put eyes on it for a few minutes, and we read.

It was very relaxed.

He made several suggestions and we read once more.

After which he thanked me again.

“We have a commitment from Kurt Russell for my next picture,” he said. “You’d be playing him as a teenager in an extended flashback. We’d be shooting it in Paris. Have you been?”

“No.”

“Russell was a child actor. He was in Gunsmoke , The Fugitive . You have the same eyes. The hair. You carry yourself with the same confidence. It’s winning.”

“It’s an act,” I said.

Hornbeam chuckled. “At least you can admit it. I’m going to send the script over to your agent. You read it, and we’ll talk next week. How does that sound?”

“When would we shoot?”

“Mid-November through early December. You’d be home in time for Hanukkah.”

Here was the moment of which my agent, Brent, had spokenthe moment of being made. It was no more complicated than that. The oddest part was this: I hadn’t gone looking for it.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said.

Later, as I was unlocking my bike, I looked up toward Hornbeam’s second-story window, at the room where we’d sat, and I paused. From this angle, I could spy only the chandelier. The space seemed to shine with a unique vividness, a deep focus, one I would recognize in later years as I walked through other luxurious neighborhoods in distant cities, knowing full well how remarkable they were inside.

I told Elliott about this meeting with Hornbeam in our session that Saturday. We were sitting at the diner’s counter. When he ordered coffee, I asked for the same.

“Well,” he said, after I laid it all out, “that’s something. What are you gonna do?”

When I turned to face him for a suggestion, he said, “Don’t look at me.”

“I’d like your advice,” I said.

Elliott smiled. “You can’t make the wrong decision. Not if you choose by your lights. It’s a cliché, but everything else is contingent. You know what that means?”

“Subject to chance.”

“ Good man. I bring no news here, by the way. The old truths are still the goodies. But they bear repeating. You take the part, you go to Paris, you have experiences. Other opportunities present themselves, and then you make more decisions. It’s a very different sort of education than the one you’re currently set upon. It’s all very…professional.” He placed his cup in its saucer. “Do you know the etymology of the word ‘decision’? You learn that in Latin?”

“I didn’t learn anything in Latin,” I said.

“It comes from decidere . It means ‘to cut away from,’ like a boat from a mooring. A decision, then, is simply the beginning of a journey. If it seems fateful, it’s because it is. If fateful seems too heavy, subtract the weight from it by recognizing you will make countless such decisions in your lifetime.” He raised his hand toward the waiter for the check. He produced his billfold. “Want to know the hardest thing about making a decision? In my experience, of course.”

I did.

“You already know the answer. You’re just not quite ready to admit it. Are you ready?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “Do you know the answer?”

“Yes.”

“There you go.”

The waiter waved Elliott off, so he plucked a five-spot and slid the money toward him. “What else have you got for me?”

Amanda had called me the evening before and asked if I could meet her that Monday, while she was babysitting. I’d said yes, of course.

That Saturday night, though, after my session with Elliott, I joined Tanner at Dorrian’s Red Hand. It was an Upper East Side bar, nondescript apart from its red-and-white-checkered vinyl tablecloths and the fact that the place served next to anyone with a fake ID. It reminded me of my evening at the Quogue Field House, except for the fact that, apart from the bartenders and a waitress or two, there were no adults anywhere, just wall-to-wall kidsa speakeasy in Neverland. Tanner and I were on our second Long Island iced teas when his sister Gwyneth, back for the weekend from Princeton, walked in on the arm of Rob Dolinski.

“My little brother!” she shouted to Tanner when she spotted him. “And my adopted brother!” she said to me. She gave me a hug, then held me at arm’s length and squeezed my biceps. “Someone’s been doing push-ups.”

Rob upnodded at us then went to get drinks.

“I didn’t know you two were dating,” Tanner said.

“Do I look like a masochist?” she said.

“You look like a movie star,” I said.

“You’re so sweet,” she said to me, “unlike this one,” she said to Tanner. “Or this one,” she said, thumbing at Rob, who had returned and handed her a gin and tonic and nodded at both of us vaguely. “Plus he’s spoken for,” she said to him, “aren’t you?”

Rob sucked at his straw and shrugged.

“Where is Elsa, by the way?” she said to him.

“She’s meeting us at Studio later,” he said, and, producing a pack of cigarettes, offered us all smokes.

Later, in the bathroom, I held the walls to keep the room from spinning and, like some fool, walked home afterward through Central Park, pausing for a minute in Sheep Meadow to appreciate the skyline.

“Paris,” I mumbled as I swayed, “is always a good idea.”

Then I barfed my guts out on the lawn.

On Monday, Amanda hugged me at the open door of the garret apartment. She was wearing her school uniform. Her skin was still tanned from the summer. Her hair was lighter than I remembered. Suzy lay in the same position as the last time I saw her: belly on the floor, chin on her hands, close enough to the television to reach the antenna. Amanda sat on the corner of the couch and patted the cushion next to her. If there were any remnants of my hurt and anger from my visit in Westhampton, they were revealed by my hesitation before taking the seat next to her. When I did, she turned to face me and crossed her legs on the tiny sofa.

“I haven’t seen you in so long,” she said. And if her keenness and excitement weren’t disarming enough, she added, “Not since you came to see me last. Oh my goodness, I was so mean to you. You probably hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she said. “I’m really sorry.”

Here, my mother’s voice spoke through me. “I accept your apology,” I said.

“Tell me about the rest of your summer.”

The rest of my summer.

I have given a lot of thought to how I must have reported on myself, on the events of my life back then.

Because I still lacked the language to describe what had happened to me.

I told her that my parents had separated and had mostly been apart since July.

I didn’t explain to her why, in part because the reason was cloaked in shame and I couldn’t say exactly what was going on.

My father had been on tour when they split, so I’d gone to live with friends of the family.

I told her my father’s show had premiered and spectacularly failed.

That I’d finished Griffynweld.

When she asked to see, I produced one of my D and she, at times, was the sort of young woman who took the time (but almost only when we were alone) to look at my maps and drawings and admire them.

“This is so amazing,” she said, flipping through the pages, and meant it.

And she didn’t.

Because she too was driven by other impulses.

And she needed me to play a certain role, one I was coming to understand.

Still, I was determined to get to something more solid.

I had made a decision, after all.

“I was hoping you’d let me take you to the premiere of Take Two at the end of the month.”

“Really?”

“You can hold my hand during the scary parts.”

“I thought it was a comedy.”

“You can hold my hand during the funny parts.”

I reached out my hand to her, and she took it.

But I was different, I had changed, at least a bit, because I leaned in, slowly; I pulled her toward me and she let me kiss her, properly. And she kissed me back, not briefly. Long enough, rather, for the both of us to know what actually kissing each other was like. It was, as Oren might have said at that moment, Old Testament: it was good. To me, at least; I cannot speak for her. And then she touched my shoulder and, like Naomi used to, gently pressed us apart.

“I can’t do this,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’m still dating Rob.”

I thought for a moment about how to respond to this, knowing what I knew, and then said, “I thought he’s at college.”

“He is, but we’re still seeing each other.”

She waited. And here the relentless hope and dedication in her expression reminded me of my mother.

“Break up with him,” I said. “Date me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can. I’m here. He’s there.”

“He is.”

“You like me.”

She lowered her voice. “Of course I do. I always have.”

“And I like you.”

“And I take advantage of that,” Amanda said. “Sometimes.”

“Think about it,” I said.

The 4:30 Movie was just ending. Suzy rolled onto her back in exasperation. “News,” she groaned, “now for hours all that’s on is just news. ”

On the way home, I ran into Dad on Seventy-Second Street and Broadway. He was coming out of the train station, a big Dean an apron around his waist was filled with dinner setups rolled in paper napkins as well as straws, and he was carrying an enormous serving tray, full of entrées, over his head, confidently, athletically. We watched him deliver the food and then take the tray and snap the stand closed. Coming down the stairs, he spotted us and upnodded, coollyone of those rare occasions when Oren was actingas if he’d been rehearsing this encounter.

We met at the foot of the stairs, by the busing station. We had to turn our ears to each other when we spoke to hear what the other said.

“This place is so excellent,” I shouted.

“It is, right?”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Since Mom left.”

“What about now that school’s started?”

“I’m gonna keep taking Wednesday through Sunday shifts, plus doubles on the weekends.”

“When will you do your homework?”

He shrugged. “Before.” Then he brightened. “I’m making over two hundred dollars a night.”

“Food’s up,” one of the cooks shouted below, and rang the bell.

I watched Oren hustle downstairs. He read the dupe, then arranged the plates on the tray, cross-checked the ticket dangling in the window, then raised the tray over his head and raced up both flights of stairs.

When he came back, I said, “I thought you were gonna play D and what I asked myself, walking home later, was whether he had made a decision, or if he felt a decision had been made for him.