How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater

by Marc Acito

  I pull a copy of Salinger from the shelf where it sits next to a volume of poems by Sappho, whoever he is. “It's in the part where he's sleeping at his English teacher's apartment.” I move next to Mr. Lucas and hand him the open page, leaning over his shoulder. “You see, right here, after his teacher makes a pass at him, Holden says: ‘That kind of stuff's happened to me about twenty times since I was a kid.' Twenty times! I'm sorry, but I've got just two words for Holden Caulfield: Ho Mo.”

  Mr. Lucas hands me back the book, but I remain where I am, my crotch close to his face. “If you ask me,” I say softly, “I think Holden would have been a lot happier if he'd slept with his teacher.”

  Mr. Lucas clears his throat and rises, placing his hand on my arm to steady himself. He takes off his glasses. His eyes are soft and pretty, like a deer's. “I don't think you're right, Edward,” he says. “I think sleeping with his teacher would've screwed up Holden even worse.” He pats me on the shoulder and takes a step away. I grab him by the arm.

  “Even if Holden really wanted it?” I say. Just kiss me. Please, please, one kiss.

  Mr. Lucas sighs. “I know you won't understand this, Edward, but a student places an enormous amount of trust in a teacher, more than the student realizes, and more than any teacher even wants. But no matter how tempting the offer . . .” he smiles at me “. . . the teacher just . . . can't.” He touches my face lightly and I sink into the chair.

  Can't. Why is it always can't?

  Mr. Lucas hobbles over to the bookcase and scans the shelf. “I'm going to tell you something important, Edward, and I want you to listen closely.”

  “Will there be a test later?”

  “I'm serious.”

  I sit up.

  He pulls a book down from the shelf. “After I had my accident, I thought my life was over. I was bedridden for a year and in muscular therapy for a very long time after that. I wasn't sure I'd ever walk again. My acting career was over, and as far as my love life was concerned—well, I had suddenly become invisible. I'll be honest with you, I wasn't entirely certain I wanted to go on. But what I did have was books. Some mornings I'd wake up and the pain would be so great I wanted to end it all, but then I'd think, ‘No, Ted, you can't kill yourself today. You're right in the middle of a really good book.' I know it sounds crazy, but I'm one of those people who, once they start a story, has to find out how it ends, even if I don't like it. So I kept reading, just to stay alive. In fact, I'd read two or three books at the same time, so I wouldn't finish one without being in the middle of another—anything to stop me from falling into the big, gaping void. You see, books fill the empty spaces. If I'm waiting for a bus, or am eating alone, I can always rely on a book to keep me company. Sometimes I think I like them even more than people. People will let you down in life. They'll disappoint you and hurt you and betray you. But not books. They're better than life. Even before I got hurt I relied on them. Back in the early seventies, there was this ridiculous ritual where you could signal to other gay men what you were into by what color bandana you had in your back pocket or by the way you wore your keys on your belt. I refused to take part in it, of course, but it did give me the idea to always carry a book with me. I'm sure it sounds ludicrous and terribly theatrical to think of me standing in a bar with a copy of Ginsberg poems, but it was my way of telling the world what I was into, that I was a reader. And believe it or not, it worked. It attracted other readers to me, men of substance and sensitivity. It didn't always get me laid, but it led to some very interesting conversations. So don't ever let me hear you say you're not in the middle of reading a book. It might save your life someday.”

  He tosses the book he's holding at me in his usual offhand way. “Start with this.”

  I look at the title. A Boy's Own Story by Edmund White.

  “I think you'll like it better than The Catcher in the Rye,” he says.

  “Thanks,” I say. I suppose he's got a point. If I can't be well hung, I can at least be well-read.

  Mr. Lucas turns off the light in the living room.

  “Hey, Mr. Lucas, can I ask you somethin'?”

  “Yes, you may,” he says.

  “How did you, y'know, get injured?”

  His face is silhouetted and I can't tell how he feels about my asking, but he sighs and leans against the door frame. “I was at a cast party for a production of Henry the Fourth, Part One. I had too much to drink and I fell down a flight of stairs.”

  I'm not sure what I was expecting to hear, but that certainly wasn't it.

  “I'm sorry,” I say.

  He flips off the light in the hallway, plunging us into complete darkness.

  “Not as sorry as I am,” he says.

  The rattling of Marley's ghost wakes me, and I stagger into the bathroom, hunched over like a question mark, trying to figure out how I was able to turn my skin inside out while I was sleeping. Every part of me aches: my back, my head, even my hair. I flip on the bathroom light and squint to see myself in the mirror. Mother of God, I look like Sylvester Stallone at the end of Rocky. I turn on the faucet, but no, no, water loud, water bad. Not only am I totally hungover, but I'm also wide awake. And hungry. Great. The digital clock says it's 5:45 A.M. I don't want to wake Mr. Lucas. As a matter of fact, I don't even want to see Mr. Lucas. Not after the way I acted last night. I creep back into the living room and put my Serious Young Actor clothes back on. They smell of stale smoke, as does my skin. I let myself out, forgetting to take my copy of A Boy's Own Story.

  The fog is so thick I can't see the other side of Washington Square Park. The sky is turning from black to gray and I stop to remember this melancholy moment for my acting. I huddle on a bench in my big thrift-store overcoat and my painful hair, watching my breath make clouds and thinking Holden Caulfield-y thoughts, like how come you never see any baby pigeons? This is what those people on black-and-white French postcards must feel like. I find myself craving a cup of coffee and a cigarette despite the fact that I neither drink coffee nor smoke.

  I wander back to the diner where we ate last night and sit in the same booth. I figure maybe a little food will make me feel better, but when I get there I can only eat part of a muffin. I look at my ankle to see what time it is: 6:45. Three and a half hours until my audition. Maybe if I just put my head down for a few minutes. If I could just lie down on this banquette and rest for a while, I'm sure I'll be fine. I just need to sleep for a couple of minutes.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the hell kind of diner lets you sleep in their booth for three goddamn hours?

  I dash through the tangle of Greenwich Village streets, certain that they've been rearranged just to piss me off and make me late. The entire city, no, the entire universe is conspiring with Al to keep me from becoming an actor. Where the hell is the goddamn subway, or a bus or a cab? My kingdom for a cab!

  There's not one part of me that's not sweating. My eyelids, my knuckles, the tops of my feet—every bit of me is wet. I finally find the subway, but from the top of the stairs I can hear a train coming. Like a nightmare, the stairwell seems to telescope in length. I'll never make it.

  “HOLD THAT TRAIN!” I scream like a madman as I dash down into the depths. I thrust a sweaty, crumpled bill under the Plexiglas to the woman in the booth and see a young Hispanic guy on the train lean against the door to hold it open. I leap through the turnstile and into the car.

  I bend over to catch my breath. “Thank you so much,” I pant at him. “I've got to be at Lincoln Center in five minutes.”

  He shakes his head. “Then you need the northbound train, man. This here's the southbound.”

  SHIIIIIIIT!

  I throw my Sinatra hat on the floor and yank on my painful hair, while I grit my teeth and growl (yes, actually growl) in frustration. A tiny old lady with one of those little two-wheel shopping carts New Yorkers use reaches into her purse and quickly tosses a dollar in my hat, like she's afraid I'll bite her. I want to scream, “I'm not homeless, you stupid bitch,” bu
t then I realize I kind of am and, what's more, I suppose I could use the dollar. Her kindness calms me for a moment and I kneel down to pick it up. I smile weakly at her and say, “I'll put this toward college.”

  “Or medication,” she says, frowning.

  I switch trains and start the long ride uptown to Lincoln Center. At this point, there's no way I can be on time. I'm doomed. They're going to think I'm a complete fuckup. My hair is greasy and matted, I haven't shaved, I smell of sweat and stale smoke. My only chance of being accepted is if Juilliard wants actors who look like strung-out junkies.

  I get lost at Lincoln Center (Why, why, why didn't I plan this ahead of time?) and go dashing around the complex looking for the right entrance, my overcoat flailing behind me in the wind. I finally find it and go banging through the double doors into the lobby of the theater building. The clock on the wall says 10:30.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I see Paula across the lobby. She bounds across the room, waving her arms. “My God, what the fuck happened to you last night? I was petrified. I thought for sure . . .”

  I push past her and head straight to the check-in table, where a woman gives me a look like I'm some street person who wandered in by mistake. “I'm Edward Zanni,” I gasp.

  She glances down at her list. “You missed your time.”

  “I know . . .”

  “You'll have to wait until we can fit you in.”

  “That's fine,” I say. “I'm really, really sorry, I . . .”

  “Fill out this card and sit down over there,” she says, waving to a group of young actors mumbling their monologues to themselves like patients in an insane asylum.

  Paula puts her arm around me and leads me away. “You're going to be fine,” she says, opening up her purse. “Let me put some drops in your eyes.” She's just squirted Visine at me when I hear the woman behind the desk shout “Edward Zanni!”

  I stumble across the room, half blind like Oedipus.

  “We've had another no-show,” she says. “You're next.”

  “But I haven't even filled out my . . .”

  “Go down that hallway and the monitor will let you know when they're ready for you.” Dazed, my overcoat hanging halfway off my shoulder, I sleepwalk down the hall. This can't be happening. I see a bored-looking student with a clipboard.

  “You Walter Mancus?” he says.

  “Actually, I'm . . .”

  He thrusts the door open. “You're on.”

  I can't fucking believe it. After all my hard work, after sacrificing everything, it comes to this. I stagger into a low-ceilinged room with acoustic tile and fluorescent lights. I'd expected a darkened theater; instead I'm facing a firing squad just a few feet away. Sitting in front are a middle-aged man with a magnificent mass of hair that swoops across his head like a crashing wave, an older tweedy-looking guy with a walnut face, and, in the middle, tall and erect as a dowager empress, a woman who appears to have been carved from stone. I don't know who the others are, but I'm certain that the woman is Marian Seldes, the grande dame of the American theater and the Juilliard Drama Division.

  “Walter Mancus?” she asks.

  “No, I'm Edward Zanni,” I hear myself say in a phlegmy voice. The room is frigid—the heat's probably been off during vacation—and my sweat feels cold and clammy against my skin.

  Marian Seldes scowls and shuffles her papers like she's annoyed at me for not being Walter Mancus. The man with the wave of hair folds his arms and sighs. The tweedy old guy smiles a kindly shopkeeper smile and says, “And what have you prepared for us today, Walter?”

  “I'm not, uh . . . you see . . .”

  The wave man rolls his eyes. “Your monologue? What is it?” he says impatiently.

  I flinch and hear myself say, “Haemon from Antigone.”

  Why did I say that? I'm supposed to do “Bottom's Dream.” Take it back. Take it back, Edward, before it's too late.

  The wave man gives me a look like, “Well, what are you waiting for?” and I hear myself say, “Father, you must not think that your word and no other must be so. For if any man thinks that he alone is wise . . .”

  But I can't remember the next fucking line.

  In an instant my face is blazing hot and my crotch gets sweaty. My feet begin to itch and burn so badly I want to bite them off and smack them against my head. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Marian Seldes is still shuffling through her papers, the wave man is staring out the window, and the tweedy man just blinks at me through his thick glasses. Think of something, Edward, anything, anything.

  “. . . for if any man thinks he alone is wise,” I say swallowing hard, “then that man is totally fucked up.”

  Marian Seldes and the wave man both look up.

  “Yeah,” I say, “that man is totally fucked in the head. 'Cuz you might think because you're my father you can just roll right over me and tell me what to do, but I am here to tell you, old man, that I am fed up to HERE with taking your shit.”

  I feel snot drip out of my nose and I make a horrible hocking noise as I suck it back in. “I'm sick of you judging me, I'm sick of you lording your money over me, I'm sick of . . . sick of . . .”

  I feel a churning inside my stomach, like a volcano about to explode and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. I think I'm going to throw up. Or have a heart attack. Or shit my pants.

  “I'm sick of not being good enough for you,” I howl. “Why can't you . . . why can't you . . . oh, God . . .” I shove my fists against my eyes, trying to push the feelings back inside of me, trying to get a grip on myself and remember something from the goddamned monologue. This isn't acting. This is a nervous breakdown. Promising Young Actor Goes Mental at Audition, Film at Eleven.

  “Why can't you just love me the way I am? Why can't you accept me the way I am?” I scream. My vision clouds over. Everything goes blurry and the room begins to spin. My face crumbles into tiny pieces and I begin to choke on my phlegm. I can't stand being inside myself and I start beating my head with my fists as if it were a punching bag. “I hate you, don't you see? I hate you for what you've done to me, I hate you for how you've made me feel. I hate, hate, haaaaaaaate you, you goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad!”

  I stop and cover my face with my hands to stop myself from falling over. My hair hurts again. My kneecaps are going to pop off. And someone please, please tell me that I didn't just say “goddamned fucking asswipe shit-for-brains pussy-whipped toad” at my Juilliard audition. I look up and see the entire panel staring at me, their mouths open and their heads tilted, like I'm some kind of abstract painting they're trying to figure out.

  “Which translation of Antigone is that, exactly?” Marian Seldes asks.

  Say anything, Edward. Any name. Say Ted Lucas. Say Doug Grabowski. Just say something, Edward, and save your goddamned life.

  “I dunno,” I say.

  Marian Seldes turns to each of the men next to her. “Well,” she says, “I think we've seen all we need to see. Thank you.”

  That's it. They're not going to ask to see a second monologue. Why would they? I wouldn't be surprised if they got security to escort me out. My only consolation is perhaps they'll think I was Walter Mancus and they'll never know who I was. I don't say a word, but just turn, my overcoat dragging on the ground, and stagger out of the room. It's over. I've failed. I'm going to live in New Jersey and work at Chicken Lickin' the rest of my life.

  I limp zombielike across the lobby of the theater building, where I see Paula waiting for me. I push past her, bang out the double doors, and in full view of her, the people at the desk, and all the other actors, proceed to throw up all over Lincoln Center.

  I spend the whole next week in bed. I don't have any particular ailment, just a sort of generalized frailty, like the consumptive heroine of a nineteenth-century novel. I sleep most of the day, and Kelly and Kathleen kind of tiptoe around me like I'm the cryent they're trying not to disturb. I can tell from the worried looks on
their faces that I must be in bad shape. The only plus is that I have an excuse not to fool around with Kelly. There's no way I could handle the pressure.

  Paula leaves a number of messages, as does Natie, who finally admits, somewhat apologetically, that he's been accepted to Georgetown early decision. I don't call anyone back but instead spend my few waking hours watching children's television. Mr. Rogers likes me just the way I am.

  I rally a bit on my birthday, even though there's still no word from my mom. You'd think she'd at least have sent a card. I try to comfort myself with the thought that maybe she mailed it to Al's house and Dagmar threw it away out of spite, but no matter how I look at the situation, there's no denying that my life sucks. But still, it's my day and I'm determined to wring some joy out of it. The fifth of January always has a bleak, dead-Christmas-tree-by-the-curb kind of atmosphere, not to mention the whole this-is-for-Christmas-and-your-birthday thing, but I like the symmetry of being one age for practically the entire year. That way, the year takes on the character of that age, instead of being split awkwardly like if you were born in May or October. It's simpler. The year I was ten: 1976. The year I was fourteen: 1980. The year I'm eighteen, a legal adult at last: 1984.