There I was, in-between careers, sort of, not really, maybe – looking for love as per usual in all the wrong places – working as a theatre concessions manager for Polygram, which company was dabbling in investing in Broadway musicals. The show I got started on, Jelly’s Last Jam, was their first venture, I think, in the Virginia Theatre on 52nd Street, renamed the August Wilson in 2005. A friend of mine was involved with Polygram as a concession salesperson, hawking tees, hats, programs, keychains etc., mostly going on the road with rock bands (there is serious money in souvenirs), as well as working at various venues in NYC. She was working at Jelly’s, but it was a grind, eight shows a week, including every single weekend; she preferred being on the road, so would I be possibly interested in filling in occasionally, or taking over? Yes, yes I would.
It was interesting, seeing the world I had been involved in as a talent from another perspective. Was I done performing? Not quite – but – while I tried to figure shit out, why not work in a relatively mindless way on the periphery of the theatre. Jelly’s was a terrific show; Gregory Hines was a deeply talented human, as were and are Savion Glover, Tonya Pinkins, Keith David etc., etc. and even if Hine’s wife at the time (Pam Koslow) decided to treat me like the enemy (easier than looking at the women in the chorus, where her very charismatic husband was certainly making hay), I made some good money and had my days mostly free, which – at the time – mattered.
From there – after making Polygram more money, they said, than any other concession person, ever (I suspect the others were filching a lot of the cash as well as selling merch under the table) – I was asked to run Polygram’s concession for Damn Yankees. This show was in revival at the Marriott Marquis Theatre inside the Marriott Hotel, with Victor Garber and Bebe Neuwirth appearing as the Devil and Lola. I didn’t know the musical, but an actor I’d done a regional theatre play with was in it, and it was a fun cast, well done and a blast to watch. In other words, hot men, and plenty of them.
Next up? Victor, Victoria with Julie Andrews, Michael Nouri, and Tony Roberts starring, also at the Marriott, with a handful of the same actors and dancers from DY involved, including one with whom I was having an idiotic, demeaning affair. This relationship was and is much regretted, but great, great fun in a handful of minuscule moments I will never forget no matter how hard I try, and yes, I try. These fun AF moments in no way make up for the many, many other painful instances the same affair provided me, as in a lot.
The Marriott Marquis on Broadway was built in 1985, and is famous for its 48-story interior atrium, which – I stayed in the Marriott Marquis in Atlanta, also built in 1985, this past winter – is copied, with modifications I have to imagine have long been installed in the Broadway version, at least – I sure hope so. I worked there on and off for three years, I guess, but haven’t been back. I used to roller-blade there and back home again in good weather, taking the train to 42nd street (exit on 44th!) in bad. I didn’t like the style of the hotel, or much of mid-80s architecture, which was like mid-80s hair: big for the sake of big-ness, bling-y, difficult to heat or maintain, poorly designed with lots of white and orange, and stupid.
But why mention the modifications? And why spend five minutes, or even one minute writing about a couple of years spent selling merch in a midtown hotel? Because this blog is about many things, including emptying my brain out of things I no longer wish to retain, a form of purge via…typing-therapy? Sure. Yes. Anyway, worth trying, and thus, the Marriott. The problem – and this happened four times while I worked there, was that the vast, gorgeous indoor atrium was perfect for dramatic suicides. In one instance, I came into work and once again, shit, a jumper. I knew the signs by then: yellow police tape and squad cars in the drive-thru under the lobby, lots of people standing around, unable to access their rooms, or the lobby – but this time was significantly different. This time the individual who committed suicide was a large male of over, reportedly, 300 or even 400 pounds, and because of this, the force and wild drama of his drop, there were still many blood splatters all over the place, on all sides of the atrium. This was not what I or anyone else working there had signed up for, yet was unavoidable, sad, horrible, and terrible. See why I might want to get it out of my brain?
He had checked in with his wife and child, possibly with more than one child; I know he was there with his family, and was a businessman from California. I had long wanted someone, anyone, to come into that space and clear the painful energy of these tragic acts of self-destruction, and now, with blood stains above our heads still being discovered and omni-present every single time we entered the building for weeks and months after the act, it felt like a pressing need. Something. Anything. Sage. Drumming. I’d even have been okay with a pastor, priest, imam, or rabbi, FFS.
Nope. I was so glad to get out of there permanently. This was during a time when I too struggled with thoughts of killing myself, but – this way? Publicly, messily, sensationally? No. Never. A long time ago, and those old beliefs and impulses, those thoughts are, thankfully, healed. May the whole world know peace, and healing. May the whole world know peace, and healing. May the whole world know peace, and healing.