Performing in my first Broadway show was fun, but it was intense, requiring me to focus my entire being on my performance. Most days, I would wake up around three in the afternoon, eat, stretch, and in order to open my lungs power-walk to the theater. After warm-up and vocalizing, I was on stage and life began. Everything fell into place for me once the conductor raised his baton. It was exhilarating: the music, the dancing, the response of the audience. Nothing else existed when I was standing in front of that many people. I could feel the energy from their eyes, hear the thump of their heartbeats. In these moments, I could read their souls and sense their innermost emotions. When you are good, you will deliver precisely the right performance for the audience at hand. In turn, the audience will deliver your reward—applause and adulation. Whew!
It felt exciting to become part of the black Broadway community. There was always the show after the show, and I soon found myself hanging out with towering figures of the theater—the likes of Hinton Battle, Ethel Beatty, Nell Carter (who at first was not having my young, Afro-wearing ass!), Armelia McQueen, Vivian Reed, Ken Page, Marion Ramsey, André De Shields, and on and on. Initially I would “eggshell” around these grand idols, but usually within ten minutes I’d have them all laughing.
We “gypsies,” meaning anyone who has been on Broadway, especially in the chorus, had our own world, our own language. “Chile, you peed all over that stage!” meant your performance was incredible. And if you were truly extraordinary, well then, “Girl, you turned that shit out!” We spoke only of show business, quoting old movies, singing in piano bars, and telling jokes. I felt embraced, a rightful part of the crowd even though one or two dismissed me as just the newest sweet young thang. Believe me, I have never been sweet and there was not a damn thang young about my talent.
Case in point: I understudied Alaina Reed (remember Olivia from Sesame Street?) on two spirited Blake songs: “Roll, Jordan, Roll” and “My Handy Man Ain’t Handy No More.” When Alaina was out for a few performances, I took the stage in her role. Later, she returned to backstage gossip that I had gotten standing ovations singing “her” songs. She didn’t speak to me for a week! Now, up to this point Alaina had been cool; she had even invited me to her place in Harlem for collards and cornbread. So my feelings were hurt. Okay, not that hurt, but y’all, this was not All About Eve! I wasn’t trying to take her part. Okay, maybe I was. So sue me.
Making that steady Broadway money in Eubie! allowed me to leave Mark and Bobby’s place and move into my first apartment. In mid-September I rented a cute studio in the La Premiere, a new building on the corner of 55th Street and Broadway. It was a great location, right in the heart of the theater district with the Applejack Diner conveniently located a few steps around the corner (we are talking ten-minute delivery, y’all). Rent was $450 per month. I loved telling people that I lived in a “luxury high-rise,” but failed to mention I was on the lowest floor in the smallest apartment. It was fun to take my friends to the rooftop, where there was an incredible panoramic view. You could look down on the Winter Garden Theatre, Times Square, and the Hudson River, and to the north was a partial view of my beloved Central Park. Nobody could tell me I wasn’t right where I was supposed to be.
But let’s not forget that New York City can be a nasty two-faced monster, too. It will serve you diamonds with dirt, caviar with shit, pleasure with pain. I learned this firsthand after I’d been living in the city a few years and the New York Times crowned me the “reigning queen of high camp cabaret” for my one-woman show, How I Spent My Summer Vacation, which was selling out every night at Don’t Tell Mama, the hottest cabaret in Manhattan.
As a result of the show’s success, I was selected by the New York Daily News to be a Wingo Girl. There I was in a full-page picture, cheesing it up in my Vacation costume of a white bikini, fishnets, and white sunglasses.
Nearly one million New Yorkers bought the Daily News that day. I awoke around noon to the phone ringing and John, the doorman, buzzing up to say Western Union was coming up with a telegram and that there were two bouquets waiting for me at the front desk. I opened the door smiling, as I took the telegram. I had worked hard to make Vacation a success and felt on top of the world.
I lit a scented candle that I kept on the bed stand next to my open Bible and went into my small bathroom to run a steaming aromatherapy bath. As I bent over to tap two drops of essential peppermint oil into the water, my little Maltese, Genta, jumped up and bumped my elbow, causing me to dump in half the bottle. I was quickly overwhelmed by peppermint fumes in the thick steam, and when I opened the bathroom door, the pungent fog filled my entire little studio apartment.
Just then, John buzzed again to say a delivery guy had a package for me. “Okay, send him up.”
I opened the door to a young man holding an envelope with “Don’t Tell Mama” in childish handwriting across the front. He looked quickly to his left and right and within seconds was inside my apartment holding a kitchen knife to my throat.
As I stood in paralysis, the cloud of peppermint fumes took quick effect on the man, causing him to wince and blink, clearly taken aback as his senses were invaded.
“What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
Genta started jumping up happily on him.
“Put the dog in the bathroom.”
“Do you mind if I cut the water off?”
“Yeah, cut if off.”
I did so and then closed the door, leaving Genta in the bathroom, worrying she would become sick from the smell. By now, the peppermint fumes were overpowering the room. He put the wooden-handled knife back at my throat and led me to the window.
“Are you expecting anybody?”
“My boyfriend is on his way over.”
“Close the blinds.”
As I reached for the blinds, like so many assault victims, I thought, Is this really happening to ME? Dear God, what have I done to deserve this? I couldn’t think of a thing I had done to warrant this moment. Then all the stuff I had been reading about past life regression kicked in and suddenly the image was clear as day for me. In a previous life, I had cut off this boy’s head in one swoosh with a medieval sword. Now his soul had returned to take revenge.
Shock descended and everything went into slow motion as I closed the blinds.
“Take your clothes off.”
I did so, feeling as though I were moving through cement.
“Get on the bed. On your back.”
I followed his directions and then watched as he pushed his dark polyester pants down his legs to his shoes.
He lay down on top of me, putting his head on my shoulder and holding the knife in his left hand. In an almost gentle way, he slowly rocked back and forth. Not rough. Not urgent. He struggled quietly to get his huge penis hard. We both seemed to be miscast actors in a horrible movie scene. He seemed unsure, as if he was new at this. The thick peppermint aroma surrounding us was almost calming. When I turned my head to the right, I saw our reflection in the mirror next to the bed. The young man almost seemed to have forgotten me as he tugged at his limp flesh. In the mirror, I saw his left hand relax briefly, silently dropping the knife on the bedspread.