Running in Place- Chapter 4

 RUNNING IN PLACE 

Running in Place- Chapter 4 

 

For those who know—or for those who don’t—ADHD is Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, OCD is obsessive-compulsive disorder, and Anxiety is… anxiety. ADHD makes me unable to concentrate and constantly hyperactive. OCD makes me put everything in place and count. And anxiety is—well, anxiety.

I also learned that dopamine is something I needed for my very survival. You can get dopamine in several ways. Dictionary definition: Dopamine is a chemical messenger in the brain that affects movement, motivation, and reward-seeking. It’s also known as the “feel-good” hormone because it can create feelings of pleasure and motivation.

So, getting angry creates a pleasant feeling. Eating cookies gives you a sugar rush—and dopamine.

As a child, I had a crippling fear of heights. I couldn’t go upstairs in the mall because of the huge open area in the center that looked down from the second floor. The mall was called Colonie Center, anchored between Macy’s and Sears.

My magic counting number was 13. Now I know what you’re thinking 13 isn’t an even number. But if you count it twice, it balances out to 26. And 26 is smooth, comforting, and equal. To achieve this, I’d tap 13 times with my right hand, then 13 times with my left.

Thirteen represented Jesus and his apostles. The only odd thing about this was that I was raised Presbyterian. We believed in quick, one-hour church, Sunday school, and cocktails.

As early as I can remember, my grandmother told me a story about Jesus and the 12 apostles, and I think it just stuck in my brain. She was slightly crazy and neurotic. She saved the comics page from the newspaper. There were stacks and stacks of newspapers throughout her house. She would read the Hollywood magazines and talk to me about “who was doing what with whom” as if I knew them.

My adopted grandparents on my mother’s side lived in a two-story, three-bedroom, one-bathroom house in Syracuse.

In the basement was my grandfather’s woodworking shop. He used to work for Brannock Devices—the company that makes those shoe-sizing tools. He made us wooden toys. My grandfather was a kind, strong man with a wonderful smile and a wicked sense of humor. My mother adored him.

My grandmother, on the other hand, was cold. She loved her cat, Miss Cat, and her son—who we now call “Uncle Shit Stain”—more than she loved my mom. My grandmother had been born into a wealthy family. She grew up with furs, cars, and plenty of money—until the Great Influenza of the 1920s took her father. She married my grandfather; a man deemed below her standards and had two children: my mom and my “Uncle Shit Stain.” My mom was left out in the cold by her mother, who was jealous of her daughter's closeness with her father.

They had a one-car garage in the back with a little driveway. A swing hung from a tree, and her cat, Miss Cat had a zip line that grandma could see from the kitchen window. “Arthur!” she’d screech out the window anytime she saw anything—and I mean anything. She was always yelling for my grandfather.

Across the street lived Mrs. Maxfield, an old woman whose house was filled with salt and pepper shakers. Every kind imaginable, arranged in huge sections. “Here are all the food salt and pepper shakers,” she’d say, holding up a ceramic cheeseburger and fries. We visited her collection every time we were in town.

During those visits, I learned to walk on stilts and played hopscotch with my sisters. We watched scary movies on the old black-and-white TV that had a red vintage lava lamp sitting on top. My mom would shut off the TV on her way by and tell us to put our feet on the footstool, which was piled with newspapers. “Dang it,” Grandma would exhale, running over with another newspaper anytime someone touched, sat on, or breathed on her furniture.

They had an old-timey organ. Grandpa would sing “In the Good Old Summertime” and “Bicycle Built for Two.” We would pump the pedals and Grandma would hiss, “Now stop fooling around.”

On the screened-in front porch, Grandma would spy on her neighbors and talk about them as if we knew them. “That one over there rats her hair,” she’d say, letting the blinds snap shut.

Grandma had a ganglion cyst on her pencil-thin arm. She told me that when she was a child, it was considered a sign of the devil. The only cure? Hitting it with a giant Bible. She was also left-handed, another supposed “devil sign,” so she was forced to write with her right hand.

Grandma had the scariest photo of Jesus above the bed we slept in. Have you ever seen the movie, Carrie? The Jesus that Piper Laurie puts in the closet for Carrie to pray to? That’s the one. My grandmother had that Jesus above my bed.

As she closed the door and said goodnight, the light from the hallway would illuminate the picture and make his eyes glow. That room had two doors—one a closet, the other to the attic. I was convinced monsters lived in the attic. I constantly checked the knob, ready to jump back into bed. The attic door was always unlocked.

Also in the room was a vintage baby carriage with a hard roll-top. Inside sat a giant ceramic doll whose eyes closed when you laid her down. “Mama,” she’d cry.

So, if I tapped 13 times with my right hand and 13 times with my left, I would be protected. Anyone I did 13 taps for would also be protected by the magic of Jesus. That’s what I believed.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 with my right hand.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 with my left.

Now that’s 26. I’m protected. They’re protected.

But ADHD speaks up: “Did you do thirteen with the right hand?” Maybe I didn’t. Just to be sure—again:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13.

Now to balance it: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13.

Jesus plus all the apostles. Twice.

This was normal to me. If I tapped my right foot, I had to tap the left. Always lead with the right. That was the rule. If I started with the left, someone might die—and I’d have to undo the curse by tapping.

Every Sunday growing up, my parents took us to church. My sisters and I wore our Sunday best and sat in hard wooden pews, facing the minister. Behind him was a giant clock. I stared at that clock, watching the second hand slowly tick away our hour of torture. If he went even one minute over, I’d hiss, “He’s supposed to stop!” and my mother would pinch me.

To alleviate the boredom of the stories—magic fish and bread, traditional hymns, bowing, standing, sitting—the church had beautiful stained-glass windows. Each was a different Bible scene. The sunlight beamed through and scattered colored light on the floor. It was beautiful.

We’d have to stand and sing hymns. I gave up trying after my mother once pinched my arm and hissed in my ear, “You sound terrible.”

After service, we’d go to Sunday School—a babysitting service that talked about Jesus. It was in the building next door. On the way, we’d pass the church bell. If you asked, they’d let you ring it. I was afraid of heights, so when the rope lifted me up, it terrified me.

Sunday School had little chairs in a semi-circle and a felt board. We’d stick cutouts of Jesus and the apostles on it.

Every year the church hosted a flea market—spin art, games, food, and junk for sale. I once bought a plastic suit attached to a vacuum. The box said it would suck the pounds off. I hid it, imagining the day I’d show up slim and surprise everyone.

My parents used to leave during Sunday School and come back to pick us up. I think they went to Friendly’s—my mom’s favorite. Sometimes we sat waiting for 30 minutes.

My mother often took me to the minister to “correct” my behavior. I’d sit across from his desk while he lectured me about the evils of homosexuality. I met with him as young as I can remember. My parents also sent me on many religious retreats.

Every summer, I was dropped off at Camp Hebron while the rest of my family went to Disney or the beach. In the beginning, I went with them, but that ended around age eight.

The first house I remember was on Ann Drive in Guilderland, New York, near Greulich’s Market—a grocery store famous for the giant cow on its roof and, as my dad would proudly say, “A real butcher.”

We grocery-shopped all the time with my dad. He was happiest in a grocery store. His handwriting looked like a serial killer’s—impossible to read. If my mom wanted something, we’d jump in the car and go. I loved flipping through the National Enquirer at checkout.

At home, my mom would go through the bags. My dad always forgot something, so we’d go back. My sisters and I had a theory: grocery shopping was his escape from Mom.

Early on, my mom was kind and funny, dressed to the nines, very Laura Petrie. Everything had to be perfect. She dressed my sister and me in matching outfits. I wore jackets, hats, and bowties.

But when my little sister came along, things changed. I always thought it was because I was adopted. I now believe it was because I was getting older—and harder to control. And maybe, because I was a boy who didn’t fit the mold.

I was rough-and-tumble but loved Barbie, Hot Wheels, and dressing up. I once played football with Elvis Presley playing on a record player stretched outside on an extension cord. My dad was puzzled. “What are you doing?” he asked. Probably the first time he’d seen football played to Elvis.

As a child, I believed I’d meet my real mother someday—she would love me and take me away. I believed she was always looking for me. I had high hopes after seeing Annie on Broadway.

My father, meanwhile, did my mother’s bidding. If she called him at work to report my behavior, he’d pull into the driveway at 6:00 p.m. full of rage. Off came the belt. I’d make him chase me around the house. My mother would knock over chairs. “Get him!” she’d yell.

When my dad traveled for work, a dark mood settled over my mother. She’d chain-smoke True cigarettes, blowing smoke in my face. “You’ll never be like your sisters,” she’d say. “What am I going to do with you?”

When she dragged me to psychiatrists, they’d conclude she was the problem. She’d storm out, dragging me behind her. In the car, she’d mutter, “You’ll never be any good,” lighting another True with the car lighter.

She controlled what I ate, wore, read, listened to, and did. Yes, that’s what moms do—but not to this extent. The more she controlled, the more I resisted. It was like laying down in chalk—she wanted me outlined and stuck. I couldn’t move an inch outside the lines. I was told I was no good. Every day.

We had birthday parties, Christmases, visited Frontier Town and Story Town. We fed deer at the Catskill Game Farm, rode the train, and got ice cream at Hoffman’s.

Life was good when Mom was happy.

Things got worse when we moved to Red Pine Drive. Everything I did was wrong.

Running in place – Chapter 3

 RUNNING IN PLACE 

Running in place – Chapter 3

This is the story I know—at least, what I know right now, as I write this book.

The year is 1963. My mother is 14 years old and out on a date. The man she’s with—my father, allegedly—is older. When she gets pregnant, everything changes. Nine months later, at the age of 15, she gives birth to me.

Shortly after I’m born, I’m taken away and placed in a foster home. People come to see me, to consider adoption. Finally, after six months, I’m chosen.

I was born in Watertown, New York, in Jefferson County. My adoptive parents were a young couple with one daughter already. But after four miscarriages, they were desperate for a boy to complete their “perfect family.” So, they chose me—chubby cheeks and all.

One year after I was adopted, my mother gave birth to another daughter. Ten years after that, she had twin boys.

Growing up, the only information I had about my birth mother and her family came from a single piece of paper from the adoption center. It listed my mother’s age, my birthplace, and my original name: 

Christopher James Varney. It said I had two aunts, two uncles, was of English/Scottish descent, and that my grandfather had lived a long life. That was it. That’s all I was told. That’s all anyone knew.

I was a fat, gay kid. That’s who I was. I loved musicals. I loved singing. I loved dancing. And I really loved sugar.

Looking back, I’ve had—and still have—an eating disorder. Binge eating, mostly. My mother had a “cookie drawer” in the kitchen. It was literally a drawer full of cookies. I loved cookies. Cookies loved me. They made me feel happy, and the sugar gave me a high. I’d steal entire packages, shove them down my pants, walk upstairs, and eat them alone in my room.

“You’re trying to fill a hole in your soul,” my mom said once, snatching the cookies out of my hand.

School was hell. Gay face, ADHD, OCD, and severe anxiety made learning nearly impossible. I dreaded school, but I dreaded Parents’ Night even more. Every time my parents went, the teachers said the same thing: “He’s smart, but he can’t focus.”

I’d get punished until my grades went up. But how could they? I couldn’t understand what the teachers were saying. I could only concentrate when I was doodling. But doodling wasn’t allowed. Teachers constantly snatched my drawings away and threw them in the trash. It was the only thing that helped me turn down the volume in my head.

My father used to drill me on multiplication flashcards every night. I’d stare at them like they were hieroglyphics. “Memorize them,” he’d say, growing frustrated. Eventually, they put me in a special reading class because I couldn’t read.

I always sat at the “special table”—the one for kids who couldn’t focus. It was placed right next to the teacher, as if proximity to authority might fix me.

In the 1970s, they tried to teach us the metric system. America gave it a half-assed attempt. They’d roll in a giant TV with a VHS player into our liberal arts class, turn out the lights, and we’d watch puppets baking bread and building roads using metric measurements. It might as well have been in French.

Everyone else learned it. I didn’t. I was too busy drawing.

My emotions always lived at the surface. Frustration? Tears. Publicly. Which made me an even bigger target for bullies.

And I couldn’t stop talking. I had no impulse control. Thoughts popped into my head, and I had to say them—at home, at school, wherever.

I also stole. I’d take money out of my mother’s purse while she napped. The thrill of it made me feel high. I stole from piggy banks. I’d ride my bike to the garden center and buy supplies. Then I’d go to the flea market, twenty minutes away, to buy vintage movie magazines with the money I’d taken. It wasn’t about the things. It was the act of buying that gave me a rush. I couldn’t stop.

To keep me busy, my parents built me a workshop in the basement. I built robots out of coffee cans, attached skates to their feet so I could wheel them around. I made lopsided birdhouses, crooked bookshelves. I drilled, sawed, hammered. My dad’s workbench was next to mine.

He had a pull-cord light above his bench. You’d pull it, and the whole room would light up. But there was a twelve-foot stretch of darkness from the stairs to that cord—and I was terrified of the back room. I believed something evil lived in there, just out of sight. I’d sprint from the stairs, arm outstretched, racing to that cord like my life depended on it.

I had phobias. My bedroom closet had an attic entrance in the ceiling, and I was convinced that something waited on the other side of the door. I’d sit in the closet to prove to myself I wasn’t afraid—but I was.

I had a Brady Bunch poster on my wall. I wouldn’t undress in front of it. I thought they could see me, so I’d go to the bathroom to change.

Books were my escape. I had a red beanbag chair I’d curl up in, rolling around while I read. It was the only time my mother left me alone.

I barely slept. I was always up at 6:00 a.m.—even Saturdays. I’d turn on the TV and watch the test pattern until cartoons started. My mother would come downstairs, cigarette in her mouth, and slap off the TV:

“Get out of the house and enjoy this day.”

So, I did. I’d hop on my bike and ride to the garden center. I lived in Guilderland, New York—the suburbs. It was safe. I rode everywhere.

On Sundays, it was Davey and Goliath at 6:00 a.m., then church. After church, my sisters and I would listen to Casey Kasem count down the hits.

My mom napped every day, like clockwork. During that time, she locked me out of the house. She’d talk to me through the window:

“Don’t come back until the six o’clock firehouse alarm sounds.”

That alarm went off every day at 6:00 p.m. Everyone in the neighborhood raced home when it sounded.

In winter, she’d lock me out to shovel snow. Once I finished the chore, she’d unlock the door. I cried a lot on the other side of that glass—cold, tired, alone.

My sister never shoveled. I had to do all the “boy” chores.

“Equal rights for women!” my mom would shout.
“Then get them to shovel!” I’d scream back.

I’d pause while shoveling and stare through the window at everyone sitting in the warm house.
“Mom, he’s looking in the window again!” my sister would yell.

My mom would bang on the glass or wave me away.

I got even by jumping out of closets or hiding under beds to scare my sister. It made me laugh so hard. She’d cry and run to tell. I’d get punished.

Mom locked me in the garage a lot. One day, I took a barbeque fork and stabbed her car tires. I was so tired of being treated like garbage.

We hated each other. She told me I couldn’t be tamed or broken—but by God, she was going to try.

She always demanded something right now, on her time. I spent every day doing chores. She once said she should send me to the Moonies. “You’d break up a cult,” she laughed, “because you’d never do what they told you.”

I hated being home. I stayed at school until the last bus left.

At five o’clock, it was cocktail hour. My mother drank two Manhattans every night. On weekends, they went out both Friday and Saturday, and she came home drunk.

She’d call my father at work—slurring—then send me to my room.

“Wait ‘til your father gets home,” she’d warn.

When he did, she’d tell him what a nightmare I was. He’d come upstairs and “teach me a lesson.” That meant with a belt. Fists. Being thrown against a wall. Then he’d go back down to finish his drink with her.

“I hate you, you miserable witch!” I’d scream.
I’d slam my door so hard the pictures jumped off the walls.

He’d come storming back, kick in the door—and it would start all over again.

Holidays? A nightmare. My mom had rules for everything.

Christmas was a militarized operation. Stockings hung in birth order to Here Comes Santa Claus. You had to sit on the stairs until she had coffee. Then stockings, then breakfast, then presents—one at a time, in birth order.

Wrapping paper and ribbons had to be saved and reused. The attic was full of boxes and folded wrapping.

And yeah—some kids don’t get Christmas. I get it. But ours was joyless.

Any gift I loved was taken away as punishment. I wasn’t allowed to play with Barbies, only GI Joe or Action Jackson. But I wanted Barbie. I was obsessed.

My mom drank, smoked, and preached her philosophies while my dad hit me. The more she tried to tame me, the more I fought.

She signed me up for sports. I cried every time.

I was always last in a race. Came in an hour late in swim meets. Couldn’t catch, throw, or bat. I only ran if someone chased me. I was a fat little gay kid who wanted to watch musicals.

They put me in Little League. My mom said I asked for it. I didn’t.

On the field, I was “fat,” “fag,” “loser,” “double fag.”
Even the other team’s coach would shout, “Move in!” when I came up to bat.

The kids would chant: “Whiff, whiff, whiff—come on, fag, you’re gonna whiff!”

The catcher laughed. Even the umpire laughed.
Then the obese kid from the other team would launch a fastball straight at me. It always hit me. At least it got me to first base.

“Fag on first!” someone would shout.

In the outfield, I picked dandelions. Nothing ever came my way—except when that pitcher came to bat and launched it right at me.

After the game, we lined up to shake hands. As I walked past, each kid whispered: “Fag. Fat. Fag.” Like a prayer.

But then—then I got a chip for the concession stand.

And for a moment… sugar made it all go away.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "Up my Rain Barrel." It cannot be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Running in Place-Chapter 2

RUNNING IN PLACE 

 Chapter 2 – Running in Place

The main reason I hated being a performer is Stage fright.

Not just a little nervous energy—I’m talking full-blown, paralyzing terror. Before, after, and especially during every show.

If I had a performance that night, the panic would kick in the moment I opened my eyes. The alarm goes off and I immediately think: “Oh no... I have to be onstage tonight.” From there, the anxiety would snowball. The entire day became a countdown to doom.

By the time I got to the theatre for half hour, I’d already be on my second- or third-bathroom trip.
The Stage Manager calls “15 minutes!”—and I feel like throwing up.

“5 minutes!”—gotta pee again.

“Places!”—straight back to the bathroom.
It was like my body was trying to escape by any means possible.

One night, a friend backstage thought he had a solution. During an offstage break—our characters were out of the scene for a few minutes—he offered me a hit from a joint.

Desperate for anything to dull the fear, I said yes.
We returned for a big, highly choreographed number. The lyrics synced with the movement, so there was no room for error.

Suddenly, I froze. Panicked. I whispered to him, “I feel like everyone’s looking at me! ”Without missing a beat, he shot back: “They are, you dumbass.”
Not helpful. But fair.

Auditions weren’t any easier. Honestly, getting the job was sometimes harder than doing the job.

Imagine this: a room packed with 300 of the best male dancers in New York, all fighting for maybe five roles. Everyone’s sizing each other up, eyes locked on you, analyzing your every move.

Choreography was always hard for me to pick up. My brain would... rewrite it. I'd learn it one way in the mirror, then spin around to face the table of casting directors and suddenly, everything fell apart. Left was right, up was down, and panic was screaming in my ears.

Then, of course, they'd make you do it again—in groups of four. On display. Every time, I wanted to light myself on fire and roll offstage.

It wasn’t until I was 55—yes, mid-fifties—when I was finally diagnosed with ADHD, OCD, and severe anxiety.

And suddenly, my whole life made sense.

Once I started medication, it felt like someone had turned on the lights. I could finally see and understand what people were saying. I could follow dance combinations. I could grasp song lyrics. I could even leave the house without touching doorknobs in a sequence or counting floor tiles.

The OCD explained so much. I needed everything in its place. Nothing could be out of order. Everything had a “home,” and if it didn’t, I was a wreck.

Even as a child, I was obsessed with order. Everything had to be aligned—squared, symmetrical, visually pleasing. If a painting was crooked, I fixed it. Furniture got rearranged constantly. I color-coded, alphabetized, packed and unpacked like a seasoned Tetris master.

I drove roommates insane.

Imagine coming home from work for the third day in a row and finding the entire apartment reorganized. Again.

Now, if you’ve ever worked in live theatre, you know: nothing ever goes as planned. Some people thrive on that chaos.

I didn’t.

Lights blow out. Sets collapse. And yes, sometimes people get set on fire.

That happened. On tour. A wig caught fire from an overhead light. We were somewhere in Europe. But I’ll get to that later.

Now, I think we need to start at the beginning.
My beginning.

Because if you want to understand why I am the way I am...We must go back to where it all started.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "Up my Rain Barrel." It cannot be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.

Running in place-Chapter 1

 RUNNING IN PLACE 

Chapter 1 Running in place

I googled “We are beings of light.” the other day as the thought came to me. Indeed, we are beings of light!” responded google. Recently this thought has come to me and at the writing of this sentence, I am one week out of spine surgery. They fused my L4 and L5’s from slipping but in some weird way, they opened my mind.

This is what I remember. A light shot out of me when they cut into me and I suddenly knew that the body I am in, was having a human experience. I knew I was on the table, and I was now viewing from above. I am a being of light and when this is over, I move on with the light when I finish my human experience.

Heady stuff like that in the beginning of the book? Believe me, light a candle and hold my hand. It’s time to take a journey.

I’ve lived a thousand lives and years ago, I was a performer. That’s where I want to start and give you my perspective. Now this is not a story like Shirley Maclaines life. My performing life started at age five, when I followed my little sister to tap class at Jack Ferrars studio. It was behind a glass door in a strip mall. This is Guilderland New York, technically Schenectady New York. My parents allowed me to take tap because that’s what boys did. They took tap and played sports.

Guilderland was big on Boys sports. I liked dance.

I wish this book could be about country fairs and stolen kisses and avoid getting deep. Or just maybe my story can help other kids and parents, or not. It’s a funny story full of crazy moments in time. 

I did become a professional dancer by age 15. It was a necessity after I was removed from my childhood home, but that’s what my first book is about. This second book is going to jump around. I want to talk about being a kid and growing up. Growing up in upstate New York and then in the second section add more stories from life and work that I have experienced.

But let’s first talk about being a performer. We need to get it out of the way. I’m still doing it. I’m weaving together anything that I can. Who is going to stop me?

People are worried that you can’t make money as a performer but being a performer was the only way I found that I could make a living from very early on.

Over the years I’ve learned that I have never enjoyed being in the spotlight or on stage in front of everyone. I prefer being behind the scenes, away from people’s eyes—and their judgment. It’s the best place to be.

My fear of being judged has followed me my entire life. There’s always someone with something negative to say or someone who feels the need to tell me how they could have done what I did—only better.

“You’re show is good, but have you thought about this or that?” Ironically, most of these unsolicited critics never do anything themselves.

As a gay kid in upstate New York in the 60s, 70s, and 80s. I was in a hell all its own. I was Gay. I had gay face and I like gay things and I especially liked boys. Everybody told me what to do.

I am Gay. I was born gay. Gay. I can’t apologize for who I am and as I have never apologized in the past. I have walked out and proud my whole life. 

I’ve learned a lot over the years. One of the most important lessons I’ve learned is: sometimes you must work at a job you don’t want to do in order to do the job you’ve dreamed of. It pays the bills, is another way to look at it. I discovered that I can, produce a show one night, and the next I’m back waiting tables in New York City. Success to me means being able to create whatever art you want to and being good in doing that. 

Now being a performer usually means a lot of travel. If it’s a tour, you’re on the move weekly, sometimes daily, going from one venue to the next. I love traveling. I love seeing the world, visiting different cities and countries—all on someone else’s dime—while getting paid to do it.

But here’s what many people don’t understand about a career in theatre: if you book a touring job, you're not just working with your cast—you’re living with them, 24/7. That can be fun... if everyone behaves. Spoiler alert: they don’t.

Dealing with people’s personalities is exhausting. Everyone is on their best behavior when a contract starts. Give it two weeks, and the masks come off. The longer you're together, the more real (and sometimes unbearable) people will become. There are difficult people in every industry, but show business seems to magnify the chaos. I think if you make good art, people will forget the person making it.

Then there are the romances that start on the road—what we call “showmances.” A showmance is a romance—with sex—on the road. They start and (usually) end with the job. Every production I’ve ever worked on had at least one. I’ve worked on/and with cruise ships, national tours, international tours, regional theatres, and dance companies. I’ve even created my own companies and projects—and still, the showmances happened like clockwork.

One lesson above all: never go on tour with someone you're dating. Don’t do it if you value the relationship.

I made that mistake once. I took a job with my then-boyfriend, thinking we’d be like the Lunt-Fontanne’s (a theatre couple who lived on the road). It was on a tour of A Chorus Line. My boyfriend was the one who had set the show, served as the dance captain, assistant directed, and would step into any role when needed and always did.

We did the show together, rode the bus together, shared a room together, and—yes—even had conversations through the bathroom door. There was no peace.

He vented about everything: his frustrations, the cast, the show. Our lives and business were on display for everyone, 24 hours a day.

After each performance, his favorite thing to do was give me notes about my performance that night—while we were lying in bed.

Not sexual notes. Notes on my onstage performance.
And after that? Who’s in the mood for sex, or talking or anything?

Our arguments were intense. I just wanted him to stop talking; he always wanted to talk more.

Half the cast loved him; the other half couldn’t stand him. I was the go-between for anyone who needed something from him. He was talented, laser-focused on detail, and completely out of his mind.

I toured before the internet was around. If you wanted to make a call from the road, you waited for the mandatory bus break and hoped to find a payphone. If you were on a cruise ship, you waited until you docked. In regional theatre, you might get a phone in your room—or you waited in a hallway behind 50 chorus members trying to use the same landline.

There is no separate space when you tour together.

From childhood, I knew I wanted to choreograph. I dreamed of being the next Michael Kidd or Bob Fosse—my idols. That’s why I endured performing.

The movie version of Li’l Abner blew my mind. How could someone create such powerful, moving art? I watched it every chance I got, studying the choreography, trying to decipher his patterns.

In middle school, we took a field trip to New York City to see a Broadway show. I needed my parents’ signature to go.

The first Broadway show I ever saw was Bob Fosse’s Pippin. What I remember most? Lesbians and dark life lessons.

Before the show began, a performer climbed a ladder at the front of the stage. I waved to him from the audience—and he waved back. The magic had begun.

To me, Fosse represented the dark. Michael Kidd, the light. I learned that as an artist, it's important to explore both sides.

Geoffrey Doig-Marx holds all written and electronic rights to his writing "Up my Rain Barrel." It cannot be reprinted in part or whole without his written consent.