A Time Of Our Lives

I was about five. I sat transfixed, staring at absolute mayhem on our television. Dad leaned down, touched me on the shoulder, and said, “Those are The Three Stooges.”

Very soon after that first encounter, my mind adjusted to seeing Curly have his head crushed in a vice, a large-toothed saw dragged across the hairless top of Larry’s skull, and Moe, the perpetrator of most of these assaults, inadvertently being hit in the head with a sledgehammer—all synced to the sound of violin string plucks, grinding sandpaper, cracking walnuts, kettle drum hits, and woodblock whacks.

Often, and not nearly often enough, after the string of commercials for dolls and cap guns and Silly Putty, all the Stooge mayhem and brutality was disclaimed by the program’s fatherly and trustworthy host, Officer Joe Bolton, who lovingly warned us to never try this stuff out on our siblings or friends.

(Not much mention was made by the kindly Officer Joe regarding Moe, in just about every episode, often more than once, attempting to poke out Curley’s or Larry’s, or sometimes Shemp’s eyes with the infamous two-fingered poke maneuver.)

And once, when winter was upon us, he warned us to never lick the ice on a frozen lamppost, lest our little tongues would stick to it, and that would be very bad.

In the fifties and very early sixties, we had the pleasure of a TV phenomenon called “Million Dollar Movie,” where you could see the same film every weekday after school, three times on Saturday, and twice on Sunday. 

That meant crying very real tears and experiencing heartbreak ten times in one week as King Kong endured the airplanes with their angry pilots shooting him with machine guns until he finally, tragically, fell from the Empire State Building. 

Watching that fall was possibly my first heartbreak. “Oh, no, it wasn’t the airplanes. It was Beauty killed the Beast,” said the man as Kong lay dead on the street. Even as a little boy, I knew better. Yes, it was the planes and the pilots and the bullets, but it was really that horrible Kong-stealing man who spoke that closing line who killed the Beast. 

Something else little me knew: Kong wasn’t a beast—he was amazing, and I loved him. 

Great stories sweep you up and take you anywhere and everywhere. They make you laugh, and they make you cry. They open your mind and soul. They break your heart, and they mend your broken heart. Somewhere in a great story, you find something of yourself—the best of you and sometimes the worst of you. And that can change you. Stories have power. 

What especially influenced the course of my life was the first time I saw James Cagney in “Angels with Dirty Faces.” And it didn’t hurt that my dad was an Irish kid who grew up on Manhattan’s Upper East Side, just like Cagney, and had the Irish face and Dead End Kids DNA that pre-wired me for that movie. It’s still a marvel to behold.

And on and on it went as I marveled at Charles Laughton as The Hunchback… “Why was I not made of stone like thee?” 

Dorothy… “There’s no place like home.” 

George Bailey… “Atta boy, Clarence.”

Cody Jarrett… “Made it, Ma! Top of the world!”

Rhett Butler… “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Scarlett O’Hara… “As God is my witness, I’ll never go hungry again.”

Bacall to Bogart… “You know how to whistle, don’t you…?”

Groucho Marks… “If I hold you any closer, I’ll be in back of you.” 

And right up to, but far from ending with, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” And “Leave the gun, take the cannolis.” 

Those Million Dollar Movies of my childhood were a beginning for me. And once I heard the words belted out by Ethel Merman, I knew she was telling the truth. They planted themselves in my brain—they created and connected a synapse all their own—a special compartment in my mind, one which, years later, would light up and point me on my way. 

“There’s No Business Like Show Business!” 

In 1965 I was in the eighth grade. I was asked to be in a little stage production at Joseph A. Edgar School; the theme was, ironically, “A Celebration of Television.” And it seems that the footlights beckoned because days later, I was on a stage in the gym, standing behind a big television facade—being behind it, one looked like one was on television, if you get the picture.

The program consisted of portraying different TV shows of the time. My little brother was most fascinated by Uncle Fester in the Adams Family presentation. Imagine the cast for that one, all decked out and standing inside the painted TV.

Hospital dramas were big back then, and in the role of the very popular Dr. Kildare was me. To help nail the character, I was costumed in a pale blue Ben Casey doctor shirt; they were very popular at the time and readily available. And I had two costars—my very first leading ladies. Standing on my right, Valeri Valucci convincingly took my pulse, and Ginger DuBari, on my left, measured my blood pressure with a toy stethoscope.

Even in my show business debut, I silently wondered why I was being dealt with as if I were a patient. After all, I was no stranger to the workings of plot and exposition—Million Dollar Movies saw to that. But, when the lights came up, and the Dr. Kildare theme played, and I got my first glimpse of an audience, the shaky concept of the piece was more than fine with me. The roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd Show Business synapse that was baked into me early on flickered; it lit up—a little bit.

CUT TO: Port Jefferson High School. Four years later. 

The idea of being a high school Thespian had never occurred to me; I was too busy finding my way around the wonderful world of teenage life and love and mischief. I never went to a Port Jeff High play; I was barely aware that there was a theatre department. It was as if, after being Dr. Kildare, my Showbiz synapse blew its fuse. 

Senior year was rolling along. It was 1969, and I was flying high, often really high. I had my beautiful girlfriend, a bunch of great best pals, a nice car, and life was grand. 

Our school was idyllic in every way: a beautiful main building (with a cafeteria in the round!), on a perfect property in a perfect little historic seaport town. I still can’t get over how blessed we were to have that magical place as the setting for those wondrous years. 

But all things must pass, and the end of our Port Jeff High life was fast approaching. Class rings were ordered, prom plans were underway, and the Class of ’69 was on its way out the door—but not without a shot of razzmatazz before the curtain went down. 

Port Jeff High was a friendly place. We all got along just fine. It seemed we always had a smile for each other. I didn’t play sports or go to the games, but I casually knew most of the “Jocks,” as they were affectionately referred to. We were a cordial class. The Port Jeff High vibe was as cool as its pictorially perfect surroundings. 

One day, near the end, I believe it was our class president, a very cool guy named Bill, who approached me in the cafeteria. I’m thinking the conversation went something like this:

“Hey, Kenny, what’s up? 

My reply was likely, “Not much, Bill, what’s happening with you?” 

(Like I said: friendly all the way.) 

Bill said, “So listen, we’re putting together our senior class night show, and your name came up, and we were thinking that you’re a pretty funny guy.” 

(Cool, I must’ve thought.)

Bill continued, “So we were wondering if you’d like to write something for it.” 

I probably replied, “Wow… jeez… I dunno. Can I think about it? 

“Sure,” Bill probably said. 

I write this as dialogue to get into the spirit of what comes next.

(And unbeknownst to me at the time, “what comes next” would be a recurring question throughout my life in the Show Business. As I write this, it still is.)

That day and night, I gave the prospect some serious thought—mostly my undivided attention. And the more I thought about it, the more the idea sparked my sleepy Showbiz synapse. Plus, Laughton and Gabel and Judy and Cagney and Jimmy started speaking to me, telling me to go for it—to join the ranks. Even Dr. Kildare might’ve chimed in. They were a tough bunch to ignore. 

So, yes! I proclaimed to them and myself. I’m in! Let’s do this! 

The next day I had a meeting with the boys—the producers of the gig. I asked what it was they wanted me to write, and the answer was: 

“A Fractured Fairy Tale. It’s the theme of the show… what the night is all about. Pick whichever one you want, just let us know soon, so we can assign you that one. And try to keep it about twenty minutes or so and make sure it’s funny.” 

 (That was the first and maybe last time I ever had such a sweet offer.)

I proclaimed an enthusiastic “I’m in!” Again.

Fractured Fairy Tales was a clever television cartoon show of the time, so I had an idea of what was called for. I must admit that I was feeling some seriously theatrical angst. Self-doubt kicked in, big time, but I really wanted to do it—I was really excited to do it. Now all I had to do decide which fairy tale to fracture. 

And then it happened: creative juices I didn’t know I had started flowing. And what I didn’t realize at the time was that my Muse had come to me. If I had known what a Muse was and that she showed up, I would have welcomed her with profound gratitude and mystical elation. Despite my unawareness of her lovely presence, I believe she stuck around anyway. 

(As I write this, I’m depending on her still going the distance with me.) 

My inner voice or her voice or both voices seemed to whisper this in my ear: “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” 

Yes! That’s it! I was elated. 

Well, I had the Fairy Tale, and I knew the basics of the story. I remembered watching the Disney movie when I was a child, likely focusing mostly on the Dwarfs while probably relaxing in my pajamas—maybe the Roy Rogers ones. (Life, back then, was also good.) It had been quite a while since that viewing, but I still had the gist of the story. No further brushing up would be necessary. 

And at that moment, another synapse connected—the one assigned to my starting to think as a writer. I realized this story checked boxes I never knew I knew about. The story, at least my shaky memory of it, had a beautiful girl, comic relief in the Dwarfs, a heroic quest, and a wise and benevolent character who helped the story along… the ah… ah… Good Fairy. Check, check, check, check.

But still, as Shakespeare said, “The play’s the thing,” and now I needed to write the “thing.” And then, find a cast. I would need one Snow White, seven Dwarfs, and one Good Fairy. I was officially at the helm of my first production. 

I had never written anything like this or really like anything; love notes to my girlfriend and holiday cards and basic school stuff and so forth were about it. And honorable mention should go to rewriting my grades on many a report card. 

(I was at Port Jeff High primarily to have a good time. And, finally, as it turned out, to get some laughs on Senior Class Night.)

So, this was the story in its fractured form: Snow White was a lovely young, damsel in distress, the Dwarves were to be seven good-hearted juvenile delinquents who really liked her and wanted to make sure no harm came to her, and The Good Fairy was to be a good fairy whose mission was to bestow guidance and grace and wisdom and good vibes to all, while lovingly keeping the Dwarves from fucking things up. The End. 

I remember the fractured story flowing out of me effortlessly. This baby practically wrote itself. And there would be no Prince Charming, who I remember forgetting about. And if I had remembered there was a Wicked Queen, I would have left her out as well. And anyway, Snow White and her Seven burley Dwarfs and a Good Fairy took up a lot of stage real estate. To say I played fast and loose with the original story would be an understatement, but I believed I had it nailed—I felt confident that I found a clever way of moving from a beginning to a middle to a climax and eliciting mayhem and hilarity along the way—and all within my loosely allotted time. 

Turns out there was no Good Fairy or Fairy Godmother or anything close to a character of that nature in the actual story. This, I found out years later. It seemed no one in the cast or on “the committee” was aware of my invented Fairy, and if they were, they didn’t care. Their memory of the tale was apparently as weak as mine. Or, I was given carte blanche. Either way, it seems I had “Final Approval” on the script. Again, quite a sweet deal. So, my version was extra fractured.

With the play written (it took about an hour), now, casting began. Fortunately, many of the jocks wanted in, and their being eager and burley worked for me. I had my Dwarves! Seven boxes checked. Next was my quest for the perfect Snow White. After a reasonable amount of thought and checking out the available talent pool, the role of Snow White would be played by the lovely Eve Cotton—one of Port Jeff High’s only African American seniors. She was a doll and was as game an ingénue as any new playwright slash director could hope for. We were styling. 

Now, all we needed was our Good Fairy. Casting that role proved to be more challenging than I imagined. For reasons I’m not a hundred percent on, I wasn’t getting many takers, and time was short. Maybe the girls I approached were afraid to embarrass themselves, maybe it was stage fright, maybe they didn’t want to place their careers in the hands of a first-time director, maybe they were purists and wanted nothing to do with my invented Good Fairy. Maybe I didn’t sell it. I really don’t recall. Maybe, somehow, they just knew better. 

So, I hoped for a chance to have Kismet find her. As it turned out, Kismet found me. A few of the producers, most of whom were now Sleepy and Dopey and Doc and Grumpy and Bashful and Sneezy and Happy, came up with the idea that I should play The Good Fairy. I remember thinking, “that’s some funny joke,” but they weren’t joking. They insisted. I resisted. They said it would be a riot—and Eve was one hundred percent on board with the idea, as well. They all proclaimed it to be a casting stroke of genius, as was the casting of all the characters. After some discussion (this was a collaborative enterprise), the idea started to sound pretty good. It had, as they say in the biz, “legs.” Very hesitantly and with a reasonable amount of anxiety and fear, I decided to do it… for the “good” of the production—and a lack of other takers. 

A resounding “YES” rang out! We had a show! And pretty quickly, I settled into the entire crazy situation. This was, without any doubt, the last thing I imagined doing as my swan song at Earl L. Vandermeulen High School—a.k.a. Port Jeff High. 

Let me tell ya—this was no Dr. Kildare inside a painted cardboard and wood television eighth-grade production, though hats off to that team; they did pull off a helluva cute show. But I was all grown up now, and this was the big time: a professional stage, lights, music, some shaky scenery, costumes and makeup—the works. And on this baby, I was wearing all the hats: writer, producer, and director… and actor—with wings! Welcome to Show Business, Mr. Murray.

And, as my confidence grew, I made my first wild and daring directorial decision: The Good Fairy was a winged Fairy, so, of course, that Fairy would have to fly!

I must say, the Port Jeff High Thespian Society gang and the other volunteers gave their all. The entire Senior Class Night production was high-end. (Though I didn’t get to see or appreciate much beyond our production, except for some overlapping rehearsals.)

Our costumes were a riot. I gave the Thespian costume girls some ideas, but they immediately took complete ownership of their gig. Snow White was a glory to behold—Eve was perfect and resplendent in her Snow White gown. (I can still see her.) And the Dwarves were quite a sight in their tattered glad rags, each one with their own personality and pizzazz. And then there was The Good Fairy: I was in a white leotard, ankle to neck, and cut-off jeans cause, we’ll… just cause, and slip-on white sneakers (Keds, my own), really cool white sparkly wings, excellent fairy-ish make up, and white powder and sparkles in my hair. I was quite a sight. And here’s where the production upped its game. 

A harness was designed or invented or procured or thrown together for me to be a flying Good Fairy. It was fitted like a parachute crotch and around the waist deal with a heavy-duty metal or rope ring-loop deal about midway up my back. 

Here’s how I flew: Once strapped in, I would climb almost to the top of a ten-foot ladder (one or two rungs down) and, hidden in the wings off stage-right and secured by two guys, a.k.a. stagehands. A rope was attached to a pulley system rigged high above center stage. One end of the rope was hooked to the harness (me), and the other end was held by a big and very strong guy named Frank. 

The idea was that with me hooked up and in position on the ladder, Frank would take up the slack on the rope, and when I dove off the ladder, he would release just enough slack for me to sail across the stage toward the pulley and about six feet above the floor. And then he would release just the right amount of slack for me to land perfectly, right where I needed to. As Cagney would say, “No Strain.” Turned out, it was a strain; it was a disaster, at first, and there was a legitimate element of danger in this flying business—I was launching myself off a ten-foot-high ladder! 

(It would appear that the school would have some concerns about the danger of such a stunt. But we didn’t tell them, though you would think the word of this flamboyant extra-added attraction would have made its way to their ears and, eventually, their eyes. And presuming it did, maybe they didn’t worry about me breaking my neck, and lawsuits, and a minus-one ex-Good Fairy at the graduation ceremony; maybe they just thought it was a great idea, as well. Either way, with no authority figure putting the kibosh on our reckless endeavor, it was “On with the show!”) 

We took a very slow and low practice launch and flight approach at first, but pretty soon, being young and invincible and fearless and reckless, and remembering the showbiz phrase “time is money,” we went for the real deal. After hours of practice and flying beyond the pulley to the far end of the stage and back, trapeze style, we were finally nailing it. It got to where Frank could land me wherever we needed me to land. It’s like he was in the flying-people-on-stage union. Talk about finding the right guy for the job. And I was finding my wings, so to speak, and actually appeared to be sort of flying.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the sheer velocity. Once I left my launchpad, I was moving! I made it from stage right to stage left lickety-split. It literally took my breath away. And my flight home to the launchpad was mostly flying backward. Trust me, it took a little getting used to. We humans, I discovered, are not really wired for the sensation of (almost) free flight. Very soon, though, it was as if those cardboard and wire wings were the real deal. 

I recall the Dwarves wanting to give it a go, but we were afraid it might somehow screw up or break something (they were pretty big boys), so they had to fly vicariously through me. Plus, we couldn’t eat into our rehearsal time. And they had to promise to not play with it after hours. 

We had a few days to rehearse—each show getting a couple of hours. Needless to say, but I will anyway, we were having the time of our lives playing on that stage. Those were a few of the most golden final days that our wonderful school gave us. 

And then, just like that, about three weeks after the conversation in the cafeteria, the day had arrived.

I fondly remember me and the Dwarves cruising lower Port Jeff in the back of a pickup truck and knocking back a beer or two a couple of hours before the show. It was magic—pure and simple, a final fling of joy and adventure just days before we would be sitting on the football field wearing our caps and gowns. 

This is where the full life in the theatre allure really kicked in: It was when I found myself sitting in the makeup chair getting the close-up and focused attention of some seriously lovely costume and hair and makeup babes. That No Business Like Show Business wiring that Cagney and Company planted in my soul so many years ago was now lit very, very bright. And wow, did I feel at home.

8 PM Saturday. Showtime. 

The theater was packed. There were mimeographed programs and a billboard kind of deal in the lobby area. And, somewhere off stage, a girl named Mindy was checking the placards she would display, introducing each skit.

The place was humming with students, teachers, staff, and family—all there to see what the Class of ’69 came up with.

It was about a two-hour extravaganza, and Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs was the last to go on. Likely because of its complex production consisting of a rope and pulley and a flying Fairy. 

The audience was seated and buzzing with conversation and laughter, and anticipation. As per tradition, the house lights flickered, signaling all stragglers to take their seats. Moments later, the house lights dimmed, and I’m pretty sure Bill, our class president, took the stage as a spotlight found him. I recall a fun introduction was made, followed by applause as he left the stage.

The house lights faded to black, and the curtain opened on the night. The evening and all of the work and commitment and camaraderie and joy was underway. No business like it.

The Snow White cast was not a witness to any of the sketches other than ours, though, from deep backstage, we heard applause and laughter—the show, thus far, seemed to be a hit. 

Our time was spent preparing for our spot, which included getting into costume, our time in the makeup chair, and finally, me getting into the harness. I don’t remember any butterflies, though I’m sure they were there for me and all of the performers and the crew. But I’m quite sure my taking flight situation was accounting for a serious percentage of whatever opening night jitters I was experiencing. I can only imagine my copilot, Frank, and what his preflight checklist jitters were like. 

So, it was our turn to take the stage. Amidst a chorus of “Break a Leg,” we took our places—mine being the almost top of the ten-foot ladder. I looked down on Snow White and the Seven Dwarves standing on stage and then fixed my attention on my copilot and our ladder stabilizer boys as we prepared for the curtain to open, for lights up on the actors, and then, a couple of minutes in—my flight across the stage, my landing in their midst, and the delivery of my first line—one which I’ve never forgotten.

The curtain opened on the scene. Snow White and her Seven Dwarfs were discussing the fractured business the opening scene called for—establishing some sort of jeopardy they could surely use some Magical assistance with. 

Cue The Good Fairy. 

Frank got his iron grip on that rope, checked the slack just as he had a hundred times, the guys secured the ladder, we all gave each other a nod, and I launched myself into the air. 

It turned out that the opening night first-flight pressure might have been too much for Frank (and me) or, maybe, he just misjudged my descent, or I might’ve launched too soon or not with much grace and aplomb—bottom line: as I sailed across the stage, the floor started to get closer than it should have. About halfway to my landing zone, I hit that stage floor like an anvil, face down, and then slid the rest of the way to Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. It was kind of like in the movies when you see the crashing airplane skid along to a stop. In that instant, I learned what the mantra “The Show Must Go On” was all about. The audience went nuts. Nuts like this was the funniest thing they had ever seen. Pretty quick into the uproar, most of the crowd probably realized this wasn’t supposed to happen—no one more than my poor copilot, Frank, and me. 

I recall a couple of the stunned Dwarves helping me up. The notion that this wasn’t in the program was certainly driven home by the very well lit bright red blood beginning to ooze through the white leotard were only my unscathed knees were supposed to be. I remember the roar of the crowd being slightly infused with a percentage of nervous laughter. 

(I also remember spotting my best pal, Randy Galtieri, sitting in the third row, towards the right, looking me over and shaking his head in disbelief and a certain amount of mortification, either for being my friend or, I like to believe, on my behalf.) 

The duration of the uproar taught me another staple of a life on the stage: “Hold your line till the laughter slows.” It seemed to take some time, but finally, I said this to a pretty rattled Snow White:

“I am the Good Fairy, and I have come to save you.” 

The crowd, again, roared—long enough for the red circles on my knees to increase their diameter. But, in the best tradition of the theatre, the show went on as if all was just fine. And I recall with a certain amount of gratification that, as the story progressed, the audience locked in and started laughing only when they were supposed to—which was often. 

There was no provision for me to fly off stage, so the curtain closed on Act One. There were three acts, so that meant two more flights for me and my very shaky copilot—each of us trying to move on from the trauma of our first, and hopefully only, crash landing. 

The curtain rose on Act Two to thunderous applause. We were a hit. I’m sure skidding along the stage on my face added an extra thumbs-up to our production and heightened the anticipation for my next flight. I talked Frank off the ledge (we had more flying to do) but quietly wished I had a tad more padding between me and that stage floor. So, as the story proceeded…

Cue the Good Fairy. 

This time it was a reasonably smooth flight with a less than perfect landing—just shaky enough to keep the crowd on the edge of their seats. Plus, there were Seven Dwarfs to help me stick the landing. 

Eve Cotton was doing great. She was charming, funny, and getting plenty of laughs. And The Seven Dwarfs were a riot. And I, after my grand entrance, could do no wrong. All I needed to do was stand there looking ridiculous, say my lines, and continue to bleed a little. We were having the time of our lives. Even poor Frank was laughing and smiling in the wings. Bless his Soul. One more act to go.

Snow White was nearing her quest (whatever that was), the Dwarves were about to fulfill their mission (protecting her), and a disheveled Good Fairy with crooked wings, red knees, and skid-burned hands, once again, would fly into their midst to help save the day—oozing actual blood in the service of the character. 

Looking down at the cast of new friends from my perch on the ladder, I knew Act 3 was the ending of more than a play. And leaping into the scene one more time, I trusted that my landing would be soft and sure. I believe it was. 

As the entire cast of 1969’s Senior Class Night stood on stage to take our curtain call, the decision was for me to make one more flight. As I sailed back and forth above the cast, hands reached up and caught me. Dangling overhead, steadied by Frank The Copilot, they began to spin me in circles. The crowd loved it. I didn’t. Eventually, Frank had the grace and presence of mind to lower me till I was standing, quite dizzy, but steadied on the stage of an amazing school among wonderful friends on a magical night. 

And out there in the darkness, the audience cheered for a night well spent, watching their friends, their children, and their students have a moment under the lights. I’d like to think that we applauded the audience who shared that memorable night with us, the crew who pulled it off, a very shaky copilot who, at that moment, earned wings of his own, and everyone who made the night happen. 

As we reveled in the applause, who would have thought that a collection of silly and quite Fractured Fairy Tales would stir such a magical moment—and create a bittersweet night that helped to mark the end of our time at Port Jeff High?

Sitting on the football field in the blistering heat of graduation day, I hope we were all as thankful for the wonder of our time there as I am now, all these years later, and with some knowledge that as wondrous as what was to come might be, nothing ever again would feel like those few golden years. 

Time is such a mystery. Those days seemed to last forever, while the time since has passed in the blink of an eye. 

Life is but a stage, and during our final few hours on that hallowed ground, we, the graduating Class of 1969, were its players, all about to make our final exit. 

As I sat in the afternoon sun, waiting to accept my diploma, my knees were sore, and my heart was full. I got to fly in that place, as did each of us — on the wings of youth, in that oh-so-lovely place and time.

The End

And the Beginning