Call me Al

I lived in New York. Therefore, I took acting class. Yes, that, along with seeing a shrink, are - I believe, required credentials for residing on the island that lies within the bridges and tunnels. As it is required, I “took class.” (“Whose class are you taking?” “Gotta go. I’m late for class.” This jargon, “taking class” is understood by all Manhattanites of a certain age and inclination. It ALWAYS means “acting class.” Now you know.)

My teacher was Warren Robertson. I’ll save you the trouble of Googling:
http://www.warrenrobertson.org/en/bio.html
I LOVED my acting class, although I am certain that I was and am an awful actress. Theatrics run in my family. Acting is another thing entirely.

My classes were small, but filled with juicy and eager students. I won’t name drop but I will say that the class included a person featured in the most popular show on TV at the time; the husband of a world-famous couturier (a dashing leading man, Latin lover-type); a hilariously funny stand-up comic; a former Deb of the Year; actors REALLY serious about honing their “craft”; and me.

Warren was smart and a great teacher, although he might consider my failure to become a good actress a rare failure on his part. This failure was not for lack of trying or caring by either of us. I was simply untalented, especially when compared to my classmates.

That didn’t stop my enjoyment. My favorite exercise was improvisation. Warren would ask a few of us to go up front, give us a situation or lead sentence, and call “Scene!” We’d start doing who knows what. It was generally amusing and humorous, or poignant, or awkward. All provided teaching moments for Warren. And, hopefully, learning moments for us.

The thing is, for all the attention and personal interaction he had with each of us, he couldn’t remember my name. This has happened to me before, and I think I’ve figured it out: I am introduced as Jay. This registers in the mind of the recipient of the introduction as “A 3-letter name that is gender neutral.” And what often comes out of that thinking is the conclusion that my name is Lee. I don’t mind, now that I have solaced myself with a reasonable explanation.

With Warren, it wasn’t Lee. He simply didn’t remember my name. He called me “Hair”, or “Legs”, or “Tall Girl.” These references to my physical characteristics worked well enough to identify me so I knew when to respond. Had I been a serious actress, I definitely would have wanted him to know my name. But I was there “just for fun”, and I didn’t mind.

In one class, four of us were called up to improv. The direction we were given was “You’re back stage getting ready for a fashion show. Scene!” Without discussing it with one another, we each immediately assumed a role. I just stood there, casting myself as “the model”. I figured that way I wouldn’t have to say anything. I would stand there and act like a hanger. The handsome South American assumed the role of designer. The funny comic appointed himself the director of the fashion show – all frantic and rush rush rush. And the beautiful star of the popular TV show cast herself as stylist. She kept walking around me, tugging on my imaginary garment, adjusting my stance, standing back and evaluating, holding up imaginary accessories to see if they worked, flipping my hair on and off my shoulders, crossing her arms. The designer just nodded, mumbled and gracefully paced around the space waiting for the stylist to pull it off and show his gorgeous garment to its fullest advantage so he could make a lot of money and rest up in Cote d’Azur before beginning work on next season’s line.
(I made up that last bit, just to fill out the actor’s characterization. That may not have been his “motivation” at all. I never asked.)

Finally, the beautiful star stepped slowly away from me (with her back to the audience), threw up her arms and announced with certainty and emphasis, “Roll EVERYTHING!” This was side-splittingly funny because early ‘80s fashion included rolling up the sleeves or pants cuffs on one’s clothing for a je ne sais quoi throw-away-style.

The class cracked up, applauded appreciatively, and Warren called “Scene!” I hadn’t said a word the whole time, just played my role of mannequin through body language and a blank stare. But as we all walked back to resume our seats, Warren took my hand and said “Wonderful scene, Rory.” Rory! I just let it go, pleased that he had at least not called me by my body parts and actually complimented me. But, Rory?

At the end of class, I went up to him and said “Warren. You can call me anything you like, but why did you choose Rory?” He said, “I saw you up there with all that hair and realized that you look like a lion.” A-ha! He meant “Roary” with an “a”. Clever! As I am a Leo through and through, I was pleased and actually considered calling myself Roary from then on.
But Roary Young, or even Rory Young, didn’t sound quite right. Besides, my parents had thoughtfully named me so that my initials would become my nickname. So Jay, or more properly, J.A.Y., I stayed. But I was tickled by Warren’s mental associations.

PS: long after I had stopped taking class, I saw Warren walk toward me on West 57th street. I smiled and slowed. He kept walking at his smooth yet jaunty pace, nodded and said “Hi, Jay!” Sly. Smart. Memorable.