Odd Jobs and Nutjobs: Gupta Goes Berserk

I.

I had been auditioning for about eight months. Gone on over 100 auditions. My two successes: being cast in a commercial that was never shot and as an extra. Playing a guy sitting at a table. In an underground dump on West 57th Street. With no air conditioning. In the middle of one of the most torrid summers of the 20th century.

It was an 11 pm — 8 am shoot. They gave us a plate of rigid pasta and two-day- old swamp meat salad for dinner. And a dollar.

“Thank you so much for your work tonight,” said a production assistant… a pretty young woman with flaxen hair and a slim, in-shape figure.

“My pleasure.”

“And here’s your salary.”

Her warm hand caressed my sweaty palm as she gave me the buckeroony. Her tender touch lightened my heart. She had flawless white teeth and a smile that made my insides twirl.

Go for it.

“Uhm… would you like to go out sometime?“

I could barely gaze into her almond eyes.

“Sorry. I live with my boyfriend.”

Damn.

Who said actors are underpaid?

I trudged home, my head hanging down to my knees. Consoled myself with a large pepperoni pizza. And a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food. To cheer myself up, I watched Darkman.

Ugh.

A week later, a humid August Saturday afternoon found me drenched in sweat as I waited four hours outside a rancid studio on 22nd Street and Sixth Avenue. With 120 other actors and actresses. For a non-paying, non-union job. Rehearsal was from 10 am — 5 pm. Monday through Friday. The actors had to set up and break down the show. In a church basement.

I left my career as a Wall Street executive for this?

Flies buzzed around the studio door, which was painted a hideous shade of green. Heaps of garbage cluttered the curb. Cockroaches scrambled over the trash, fighting for pieces of stale bread.

After four and a half hours of unbearably oppressive heat, I got in. My t-shirt was drenched and my hair was soaked as I began my audition piece.

I was three lines into a monologue from Johnny No-Trump, a play that closed on opening night.

“Thank you. Exit’s on the left,” said the producer, scowling like I had just beaten up his mother.

Was I that bad?

The producer wore a scarf. In the summer. Who was he to judge anyone? And his play was about a bunch of chess pieces arguing over some sort of philosophical nonsense.

I could have been doing something much more productive today. Like daydreaming. Chasing butterflies. Or making phony phone calls.

I sludged towards the subway. I was lonely, unemployed and had just been rejected for a stupid ass play about chess pieces.

II.

Later that week, a friend of mine told me that I should join the 13th Street Theater.

“Will they take me?”

“They’ll take anybody! Pay ten dollars a month and work three hours a week and you’re in!”

“That’s a ringing endorsement. They don’t even ask you to audition?”

He chuckled.

“No! Everyone does their time at the 13th Street Theater.”

Two days later, I met Edith O’Hara, a kindly elderly woman who ran the place. Edith had a grey tomboy haircut and her sandals exposed bunions and hammertoes. The theater was riddled with holes in the ceiling. The 50- something seats were creaky and worn. But this was a place to hopefully do what I loved.

Edith welcomed me with a smile and said, “if you’re lucky, you’ll get a plum part.”

My first audition was for a play by Israel Horovitz. The Indian Wants the Bronx.

The play was directed by a curly-haired, enthusiastic Yale drama school graduate. I went into the audition room. I had no idea what I was doing, but he was smiling at my interpretation of the script.

That night, I got a call from my answering service.

“You’ve been cast in The Indian Wants the Bronx.” I hung up the phone. Jumped up and down. Bounced around. A kangaroo on speed.

“Wahooooooo! Yeahhh!!!!! Wahhooo!!! Someone likes me!”

The play is about Gupta, a confused middle eastern Indian who doesn’t speak English and gets lost in Manhattan while trying to find his way to his son, who lives in the Bronx. My role was one of two teenage thugs who terrorize Gupta.

The actor playing Gupta was six foot two. A mop of black hair. A thick New York accent. Big. Intimidating. Pretending he knew as much about acting as Marlon Brando.

“Know your beats! Remember your transitions! Do your homework! Moment to moment!”

The other actor, the one who played my friend, was a soft spoken guy. Handsome, with an ease about him. The kind of guy who never lost his cool.

“Your house is on fire!”

“Cool. I’ll get there in a minute.”

“Your mom is in there! In a wheelchair!”

“Lemme finish my cigarette.”

I was so unsure of myself. I had only taken classes for a couple of years. We had three weeks of rehearsals. The director was kind and supportive.

“Pretty good, guys! Pretty good! I love what you’re doing!”

Opening night drew near. My mouth was dry and my knees were rubber.

I hope I remember my lines. I have a two page monologue! Please, God. DON’T LET ME SUCK!

Opening night. Quivering and shivering. I’d never been in a play before. And I had a seven minute monologue.

BAM! We go out onstage.

Murphy and I play wrestle. He’s twisting my arm. I fight him. Gives me a noogie. I return the favor. We’re gettin’ into the flow.

Yes! I AM KICKIN’ ASS!

When five minutes in, somewhere in the third row, some guy mumbles loudly. Probably on purpose..

“He’s TERRIBLE.”

Now… I knew I wasn’t close to being Al Pacino or Robert deNiro, but he really pissed me off. His insult pierced my soul. Flew through the back wall into the street where it hit a drunken college kid.

I flew into a rage. At the perfect moment. When I launched into a tirade against Murphy.

We fought like Godzilla and King Kong. A choreographed mano y mano battle. Spun him around, spitting piss, vinegar and fire. Threw him offstage. And into the green room.

That’s called “using it.”

That got me through the first performance.

III.

About midway through the run, Gupta’s mind shriveled into brittle pieces of insanity.

It started after a Saturday night performance. Murphy and I talked it over in front of ol’ Gupta. Decided we’d come out even more wired than usual.

We had a good, fun night. Or so I thought.

We got backstage. Began to sit down at our dressing room tables. Gupta exploded.

“You wanna be wired? HUH?! YOU WANNA BE WIRED? I’LL SHOW YOU FUCKING WIRED!”

I backed away, my feet moving on their own accord.

Is he going to punch me?

He smashed his fist into a locker door. Pulled off his Indian costume. Got into his worn blue jeans and work shirt with a couple of missing buttons and stormed out.

Murphy and I were stunned.

“What the hell was that about?” he asked.

“I dunno. Maybe he got mad ’cause I almost poked him in the eye.”

“Whatever. Let’s grab a frosty.”

The next Saturday, it happened again. We took our bows and headed offstage. Gupta ripped off his Indian garb and raged.

“Your voice is supposed to rise when you say ‘thank you!’ You keep saying your lines a different way! You’re messing me up!”

“It’s called spontaneity! My teacher said never deliver a line the same way twice. As long as it’s in the same ballpark.”

There was more drama happening offstage than on. If there was a Tony Award for Best Dramatic Performance by an Actor in the Green Room, Gupta would have won it. Hands down.

“Worms have eaten his mind,” said a deadpan Murphy.

The next show, his face turned six shades of crimson:

“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU’RE DOING OUT THERE! WHAT’S YOUR OBJECTIVE IN THE PLAY, GODDAMMIT!”

My eyeballs popped open so wide they dissolved into my forehead.

Gupta was fuming. His fists tight, eager to punch something, anything.

Gupta slammed his locker shut, Then… “Fuck this. I gotta go home and bang my wife.”

Murphy shook his head and said, “Class act.”

Gupta quit the show after a couple more weeks. Before he did so, his litany of misery included making goofy faces at Murphy and me. Onstage. Sneering when taking his bows. Getting into his busted up Chevy after the play and hitting on a pretty female friend as we walked by.

IV.

A few years later, I ran into Gupta in the Equity Lounge, which is where actors go to audition, connect, commiserate and brag.

I sat next to him. By accident. My heart rate flew up to 100 beats per minute.

He leaned over. Grasped my hand and shook it firmly. Looked me deeply in the eye.

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you during the play. It was my insecurities.”

I took that to heart and appreciated it.

“And I’m sorry I almost poked your eyeball out.”

We shared a laugh.

“Can you imagine if we did that play now? Woah!”

“It would be much better,” I said.

His name was called. He got up, straightened himself out — adjusted his cashmere sweater and as walked into the audition room, he raised his right hand and saluted me.

That was the last time I saw him.

Epilogue:

The Indian Wants the Bronx takes place a block away from Central Park. So it was believable when water rained down on our heads.

In an indoor theater.