Notes on a Banana

by David Leite

  From then on I was so desperate to be onstage—any stage—that when Michael Brusella, a former student of our drama teacher, was looking for two actors for a “gig” and approached Trudy Lima and me, I said, “Yes—absolutely!” without even knowing what it was for. When we pulled up to a Catholic nursing home, Trudy and I shot each other looks behind his back.

  “Come this way, children.” Michael was always calling everyone at school “children,” even though he was only a few years older than us. He was affected that way; he liked to flutter his hands in the air and then step back, index finger pressed against his lips like he was shushing someone, as he fitted me for my Marco costumes, which he had designed and sewn himself.

  In a large activity room, he instructed me to slip on a shimmery white tunic he’d brought along from the costume room at school.

  “But don’t I need to learn any lines or something?” I asked, as he fixed the hem of the tunic.

  “Nope.”

  “Does Trudy?” I looked over at her. She was wrestling with a coarse, unflattering tunic of her own.

  “Nope.”

  He magically procured a small stepladder, which he snapped open and instructed me to climb. Grabbing my arms, he spread them out, palms up. “Now,” he said, pointing to the ceiling, “look up adoringly.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him flouncing Trudy’s tunic around her as she knelt, her hands clasped together in prayerful supplication.

  What’s going on? I mouthed to Trudy.

  She shook her head, flummoxed.

  Finally, the door on the far wall opened, and three women, one of whom was drooling and working her toothless gums, were led to seats in the audience. Once they were settled, Michael hit the “play” button on his boom box, and the song “Jesus Christ Superstar” blared. The women looked on, heads bobbling, lips moving in silent prayer, while Trudy and I looked away to avoid cracking up. When the song was done, the women were escorted out of the room, while we were instructed to remain frozen in ecclesiastical wonderment until the door closed.

  “What the hell was that, Michael?” I asked, shirking off the tunic.

  “What? They needed to feel closer to God, and you wanted another acting credit. I think that’s pretty fair.” I had to admit, the thought of adding Jesus to my résumé did have its ironic appeal.

  That autumn at RIT, the theater club’s show was, of all things, Jesus Christ Superstar. By that time, I’d spun the story of my statue-still appearance into a full-fledged, knock-it-out-of-the-park performance so many times that I’d convinced myself I was the perfect Jesus. “After all,” I was fond of saying, “how many guys can say they have a carpenter father and a saintly mother?” I was so cocky, I didn’t even bother to prepare a song for the audition. When I opened my mouth to sing the rock music, the director stopped me after a few bars.

  “You know, I think you’re better suited for the other theater on campus.” A few sniggers floated from offstage. What other theater? I wondered.

  Across the Quarter Mile, an actual quarter-mile path that separated the academic buildings from the dorms, which was a bitch to cross in windy snowstorms, was the National Technical Institute for the Deaf. The school had significant government funding and a far better theater, and, despite that smart-ass’s comment, it was where I would spend most of the next three years of my life—learning sign language and lending my voice to deaf actors in more than half a dozen shows. I even sang the role of El Gallo in The Fantasticks. Badly, but I sang.

  No matter how much I tried to focus on my classes, month after month, the theater kept stealing my attention. Finally, with just a few weeks left in freshman year, I dropped out of figure drawing, one of the core classes of the program, to audition for Syracuse University’s acting program. Not long after, an envelope arrived. It was thin, containing only one sheet of paper with several short, impersonal paragraphs telling me I could always apply again next year. My father demanded I return to RIT for my second year and finish at least my associate’s degree. “Son, maybe acting is something you can do on the side,” he said on the phone, trying to soften the blow, “for fun.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I slammed down the receiver in my dorm room and flopped facedown on my bunk.

  I limped through sophomore year, putting in just enough work to pass. Sometimes in class, or alone in my room, I experienced an unnerving inversion in my head and felt like I was standing outside of myself, watching, wanting to reach out, to whisper something comforting in my ear. At those times I could sense my anxiety on the periphery, like dark flashes in the corner of my eye, waiting. It’d never gone away completely—more like been pushed back into abeyance. I judged how good my days were by how little I thought of it. Rehearsals and performances at NTID, with their adrenaline and distraction, usually stamped it out for the night.

  In time, my social life turned away from RIT, as I spent more time with the deaf community. Entering spring term, I was one class short (technically only a few weeks short) of my associate’s degree: the freshman figure-drawing class I had dropped. The studio hours conflicted with my schedule, and I asked if I could take independent study so I could finish sophomore year on time.

  “Absolutely not,” the teacher said, plucking pushpins from the critique wall. I wasn’t surprised; he had been pissed off when I’d told him I was dropping his class.

  “That means I have to wait one full year just to take your spring class—and I’ve taken three quarters of it already.”

  “I didn’t tell you to drop out, Mr. Leite.” He didn’t even bother to turn around.

  College, I came to learn, had little to do with art history and design theory, and everything to do with who I was and, especially, who I wanted to become. Away from the claustrophobia of my family, I was beginning to rewrite the rules, and some history. I was discovering the shape and edges of me in the absence of my parents, what I liked—and didn’t—without the norms of Swansea and my heritage insisting themselves.

  Over those three years in Rochester, I gave an ass-whooping to all the confusion and doubt about my sexuality that had dogged me. Well, ass-whooping might be a little too bold. I didn’t come out, technically. That signifies a single decisive act that can never be taken back, like being unfaithful, or declaring oneself a Barry Manilow fan. Rather, I arrived at RIT faux-straight, and left gay. In between, I emerged. First were innocent crushes on upperclassmen. Then I spent nights slumped low in my car, staring at the door of a gay bookstore from across Monroe Avenue. Eventually, I drummed up the nerve to slink in; toss a tight, nervous smile at the guy behind the register, who barely acknowledged me; and buy the first magazine within reach. Something about cowboys—at least I think it was; all the men wore chaps and had their asses hanging out. I used it once and, ripped with shame, shoved it under my mattress. When my roommate, Steve, was asleep, I walked out behind our apartment building and chucked it into a dumpster, making sure to plunge it deep beneath used diapers and spilled garbage. Then came the occasional drunken nights a fellow actor and I steadfastly refused to remember. I even went to gay bars, albeit slipping in, heart thuttering, and then dashing out the minute any man clamped eyes on me.

  While I waited to take figure drawing—again—I managed to date this sweet guy named Gordon Rossiter for a bit. On our first date he said, “We’re two young bucks going out for a night on the town!” Who says things like that? A WASP, that’s who. And just like that, I wanted to shrug him on like a coat. To wear his easy charm, his propriety, his deep sense of entitlement, as if they were my own. In time, though, Gordon’s religious upbringing thumped on his conscience, and he suddenly became too busy with classes to call, or return my calls. Heartbroken, I burrowed into my bed earlier each night and slithered out later each morning. I couldn’t rally as I’d used to. I had never been affected before by the dark-nickel skies of November, but now they were impenetrable. The air seemed to pull at me, invisible fingers that dragged me back. My sadness began outliving my mourning for Gordon
.

  A goal—something to accomplish that would forever be proof that I had won, had overcome—was what I needed. In January 1981, I threw myself into preparing monologues for that year’s college auditions, held in New York City. I camped at the public library every day, thumbing through piles of scripts. Afterward, I headed to Wegmans, the local grocery chain, and detoured around platters of prepared Kung Pao chicken, lasagna, shepherd’s pie, and towering carrot cakes on my way to that sonofabitching produce section. I had to lose about twenty pounds for the planes in my face to find their angles again.

  In late spring, I opened the mailbox to find a satisfyingly fat envelope from Carnegie Mellon University, which had one of the most prestigious acting programs in the country. On top of that, I had also been accepted to Washington State University, and wait-listed at NYU. At twenty-one, I was going to be a freshman. Again.

  A few weeks later, I was accepted to the University of Rochester Summer Theater program as an intern. In between building sets and making props, I had a supporting role in Molière’s The School for Wives. The morning after the show opened, I drove to the nearest convenience store for the newspaper and flipped open to the review: “David Leite, who plays Sparkish, the gay delight with a busy little kerchief and cute little bows, is one of the most sensational apprentices to come out of this or any other theatrical season.”

  A chorus of brakes. “What are you, an asshole?” bellowed the guy who had almost plowed me over in the parking lot while I was running in circles, screaming with excitement.

  I held the review over my head. “No. I’m David Leite, superstar!”

  15

  BLONDE AMBITION

  Her eyes were what got me. Enormous blue-gray gooseberries, framed by blond hair that kept falling in front of her face like drapes, and that every once in a while she hooked behind her ears. There was a sweet sadness in them, reminiscent of those paintings of kids with saucer eyes everyone had hanging in their houses when I was little. When she watched you, her gaze level and still, you felt seen, sometimes unsettlingly so, as if she alone were watching some private movie of you. She sat diagonally across from me in the circle of beat-up writing chairs, waiting like the rest of us for our first acting class at Carnegie Mellon University to begin.

  Our teacher, Angela D’Ambrosia, a tiny hunch of a woman, motioned for us to introduce ourselves. As everyone spoke, I sized up my competition, because that’s what they were: Of the sixty or so of us accepted that year, only a fraction would graduate, according to the gossip whispered through the vaulted halls of the College of Fine Arts. I was damn sure I’d be among them, because I had an advantage: At twenty-one, I was older than most of the rest, and certainly more experienced. They all rattled off their résumés, each subtly trying to intimidate the rest with their achievements. But with the Big-Eyed Girl, there was no one-upmanship, no trying to knit more from nothing. She spoke as if what she had done was enough, and enough had landed her here. When it was my turn, I threw down my credentials, too, but instead of lead roles in high school, I topped that by mentioning my three years of college. Instead of nonspeaking walk-ons in summer stock, I told of my role as Sparkish at the summer repertory theater. The only person who trumped me had been a child actor in a Disney movie. I predicted he’d be cut by the end of freshman year, and I was right. In all, no one impressed me. Except her.

  For the next two weeks, said Angela in between coughs that sounded like a clogged sump pump, we were going to be crammed together in that sweltering classroom for text analysis—parsing theme, structure, mood, characterization, and action—before we were allowed anywhere near an acting class. Flunk text analysis, and we’d better have our bags packed.

  She passed around handouts on Chekhov’s The Seagull, the first play we were to have read before class began, and asked if anyone had thoughts on the main characters.

  A quiet guy raised his hand. Angela nodded at him. “Well,” he cleared his throat. “Ark-a-deen-a—”

  “Ar-kar-din-a,” she corrected him.

  “What?”

  “Honey,” she said, exasperation written across that tanned, tight skin of hers, “the character’s name is pronounced Ar-kar-din-a. You do know this is a Russian play, right?”

  The class laughed while the poor guy melted into his chair. Bitchy, funny, sarcastic—as comforting and familiar as the Sisters of the Spatula. Once we understood who we were dealing with, the class tried to outdo one another in answering her questions. They lobbed their comments, which Angela backhanded out of the discussion—wrong, wrong, wrong. Not the Big-Eyed Girl, though. She offered her insights and opinions like carefully wrapped caramels. Me, I waited for the precise moment when Angela was most exasperated, her eyes rolling, her sighs dramatic, and said something about the need to look beyond the script, at the artifice of it all. Neither the house nor the people inside ever fulfill their potential. It’s all hollow. Angela looked at me a good long time. With that statement, I was permitted to take one giant step closer. To what, none of us knew yet, but in the race to get there, I was in the lead, and that was all that mattered. I looked over at the Big-Eyed Girl, who was watching me. Caught, she flustered and began writing in her notebook.

  On the way out of class, I introduced myself. “What’s your name again?”

  She stepped back a bit. “Bridget Orloff.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bridget Orloff. Want to grab some lunch?”

  She blinked. “Um, no, but thanks.” She said it like a question, her voice rising, like she wasn’t sure being polite was the proper response to an invitation. She waved as she headed for the stairs.

  Stuck up, I muttered.

  A few days later, the same. “I think I’ll pass,” she said, suddenly taking a self-conscious and labored interest in the beat-up bag slung over her shoulder. I hope she’s a better actress than that. For the rest of text analysis, every time I approached her, she had an excuse: I’m busy, I’m going with my roommate, I have to go to the library, but thanks, thank you, ’ppreciate it, maybe next time?

  I was emphatically not interested in her. Sure, I’ll admit it: I was uncharacteristically charmed by this soft-spoken, bug-eyed creature. Her intelligence, her creativity, and, especially, her social restraint were what I found attractive. She was barely eighteen but had the self-possession of someone twice her age. But that’s where it ended. So why did I stand there, stung, every time she walked away?

  Maybe she’s a homophobe, I told myself. Or intimidated. Whatever it was, Bridget proved formidable—and frustratingly consistent—and I eventually took the hint and stopped asking her to lunch. One afternoon a few weeks later, a different bunch of us were sitting in a circle on the Kresge main stage. We had to stand and introduce ourselves, yet again. A handsome black guy stood up and swatted the grime from the butt of his jeans. He looked around, and in a deep James Earl Jones voice said, “My name is Denton-Foster Labette—that’s Labette, with two T’s.” A round robin of amused glances made its way along the circle. I caught Bridget’s eye, and she gave me her crooked grin. She couldn’t deny it: She thought it was just as funny as I did.

  On the way out, I sidled up to her. “Bridget Orloff, may I escort you to dinner—that’s dinner, with two N’s.” She let loose a great loopy laugh and rolled her eyes. And, as with Angela, I was allowed to take one giant step closer.

  After text analysis, we had to clear one more hurdle—freshman projects—before we were sorted into various acting classes. Unlike other teachers who had their sections perform plays, Angela had us create story theater. We brought “The Wolf and the Fox,” “The Fisherman and His Wife,” “Chicken Little,” and other fables to life through hours of improvisation. She sat there with an unlit cigarette cocked in her hand, electric and engaged. If she liked what you were doing, delight crackled across her face, her laughs punctuated by hacking, phlegmy coughs that she’d wave away with her hand. Mess up, and she could be brutal. She’d halt rehearsal and walk up real close to you. “Honey, that
was caca,” she’d say, her jaw locked, her head upturned toward yours. It was her most damning criticism. The Disney Kid and this guy who looked like he forgot to bathe got the brunt of it. The rest of us would back off and turn away, but always with one ear straining, trying to pick up on what not to do.

  I played the Wolf and turned him into a gluttonous, boozy frat boy. Angela beamed, a five-year-old in front of Saturday-morning cartoons. Apparently, the newspaper review earlier that year, from when I’d been an apprentice at the University of Rochester Summer Theater, was true. And now, with Angela’s Canada-goose laughter as proof, I was staggeringly, indomitably, Son-of-Freaking-God gifted.

  Her reaction to Bridget, who played Goosey Loosey in “Chicken Little,” was the same. Bridget was one of those actors who captivates you. She played Goosey like Edith Bunker, all scattered and clumsy but well-meaning. Nearly every class, she’d bring in something different: a new walk, like she had elastics for muscles, every limb having a mind of its own. She created dialogue that swooped through the scene, adhering to its own brand of logic—dotty and oblique like Edith’s. The others chuckled, but I busted out laughing, big and unselfconscious, and Angela glared at me. Bridget smiled, appreciating my compliment—as well as Angela’s rebuke. I suddenly wanted to huddle with her on a park bench, Annie Hall and Alvy, cracking her up as we goofed on people walking by.

  After projects ended, and we were handed over to a different acting teacher, Bridget and I met with Angela at a bar in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh, away from CMU. The place was ugly. It could have been someone’s paneled basement from the seventies, and it stunk of smoke and urinal cakes. We huddled around a pitcher of beer, trying to shout over the music.

  “This meeting never happened, got it?” Angela said. We nodded. “So what’s the problem?”