1988 Jennifer Haigh (bio) In the winter of 1988, I saw New York City for the first time. I was nineteen, a freshman at a small, private college in Connecticut—expensive, but generous with scholarships—where I’d chosen, to the dismay of my hardworking parents, to study theater. I’d told them about my trip to the city, but not how I’d get there or with whom: a man named Alex Pappas, an associate professor of Dramatic Arts, who’d been my teacher for Stage Movement. Alex was the thing I most wanted to be, an actor. At my age he’d already appeared on a TV soap opera, a minor part that later turned into a major one. Film roles followed, though they weren’t films I’d heard of. We watched them together on videocassette, naked, in his bed. If it happened today, our affair would violate a half-dozen statutes in the University Code of Conduct, but in 1988—three years before Anita Hill—the rules had yet to be written. Still, Alex was cautious. He was about to go up for tenure, and his path was booby-trapped with human explosives that might go off at any moment: scheming colleagues, a crazy ex-wife prone to jealousy and unpredictable [End Page 136] rages. He thought it best to keep our relationship quiet, and I agreed, though this hurt my feelings and was difficult to do. Even more than I wanted to sleep with him, I wanted to talk about him, to make known to the wide world that he had chosen me. We drove into the city on a Friday afternoon. We’d be staying at his friend Christopher’s, Alex explained as we idled in traffic, a huffing bolus of cars and trucks crowding onto the Triborough Bridge. Christopher was out of town—for three weeks each month, he performed in a cabaret show on a Carnival Cruise ship—but Alex had a key to his apartment on Mott Street. The address meant nothing to me. “Is it near Central Park?” I asked stupidly—the only New York landmark I could think of. I had visions of Alex and me walking hand in hand, beyond the reach of campus gossip. “Not even close. Motherfucker,” he growled as a taxi swerved in front of us. ________ The weekend in the city was a late birthday present. Alex and I had been talking about it for months. That I would love New York was a foregone conclusion. The life I imagined for myself could unfold in no other place. Back home in Pennsylvania, I’d spent three summers doing community theater. The Saxon Valley Players specialized in affable comedies, Agatha Christie mysteries, and musicals by Rodgers and Hammerstein. I played a French maid in Death on the Nile. I sang in the chorus of Flower Drum Song—like the rest of the all-white cast, in a black wig and heavy eyeliner that were supposed to make me look Asian. The Players were a mix of adults (Bob Whitehead, who owned [End Page 137] the local Ford dealership; Sally Devlin, the organist at the Lutheran church in town) and standouts from the high school drama club (a few handsome boys of ambiguous sexuality and a flock of plain girls who wore lots of makeup). These two groups were outwardly friendly but held certain opinions about each other. To us teenagers, the Bobs and Sallies were a cautionary tale, having squandered their youth and whatever talent they possessed on nothing jobs in a nowhere place. I can guess how they felt about us. We dressed in a way that set us apart from other kids—the boys in scarves and newsboy caps, the girls as if we’d just come from dance class, in leotards and long skirts. We were constantly performing for each other, in what we imagined to be Scottish or Southern or Cockney accents. We were excruciating. I expected the college theater department to be like the Saxon Valley Players, and in one respect it was: the beautiful boys, the self-conscious girls who loved them unrequitedly. I was comfortable with this...
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