Once upon a time, I was almost lynched on Broadway. (FULL DISCLOSURE: It wasn't on Broadway, but it was adjacent to the Longacre Theater on West 48th Street. And it wasn’t in a theater, but it was in a room in a small building one flight upstairs.

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     Ah!:

     1980.  I was a member of the Script Development Workshop, there as a writer, a writer of comedy skits. I had submitted my latest skit, “Ring Around Der Collar.” It was  based on a popular television commercial advertising a laundry detergent. The skit was  accepted, roles were assigned. Showtime! At first, alles went well, very well. The actors, who had had minimal rehearsal time, aced it with great timing & farcical acting, milking every line for wonderful/rolling laughs. (When you write Comedy, you don’t have to wait for the reviews. The good reviews arrive at the speed of sound -  or not!) 

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[Ring Around Der Collar - by Jeffrey Eisenmesser: Your typical incestuous NaziGerman family during the War. There is Papa und Mama, Hanzel und Gretyl. An irate Papa comes out of the bedroom. He  is holding his Brown Shirt. He points to the shirt, a visible brown stain around the brown collar. Papa scowls at Mama.

Hanzel, visibly upset, exits. Mama freezes, Greta observes. Papa returns to the bedroom. Greta approaches her mother and in a stage- whisper contemptuously and accusingly informs her that she has long been aware she has a Jewish  great-grandfather.  Mama stays frozen. Papa comes back onstage, gives his daughter a very warm hug, announces he’s off to the Rally, and throws the stained shirt at Mama. He abruptly exits. Greta begins to exit, obviously is halted by a Second Thought, turns and warns Mama not to get in-between father & (und) daughter. Mama is left alone onstage. She slowly unfreezes, takes a box out of the cupboard, returns to center-stage. She opens the box, and before she pours the contents down her throat, holds it aloft so the Audience can clearly see the brand name, Blitzkrieg Bleach. Curtain.]                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

     After the bows and the loud applause, I ascended the stairs. Trent Gough, the “everything" of the  SDW, sat next to me center-stage. Good feeling filled the crowded room. I was so happy. So happy. 

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     I looked out at the audience. Actors, directors and writers. Some with years in the “business,”  some little to none - like me. Their laughter filled the crowded room. The critique began. “Ya nailed it! “Don’t make changes!” “Thought-provoking!” Thoughts of moving on to “Saturday Nite Live,” then Broadway (having been relocated from off-Broadway), then to . . .  I looked at the clock on the side of the wall. Plenty of time to go, then on to a wonderful nearby theatre -pub, Jimmy Ray’s. Great burgers ‘n fries served by young Irishmen with brogues (unemployed actors), endless pitchers of cold beer & ale, large circular tables seating lifeful people talking the talk about Theatre, hopefully/mainly my skit. My skit.  

 

     A young woman raised her hand. She had recently joined. I had had a few brief conversations with her, liked her moxie & intelligence. I looked at the large clock on the wall. 10:45, fifteen minutes to go. I looked forward to her remarks.  What a nice way to end the evening!

 

   Oy!:

     She was sitting in the back row, but she had no need for a mike. From the gitgo, focused and intense, she commanded absolute attention. First, she announced that she was a Canadian-Jew,  that her parents had survived the Camps, the rest of her family had not. She paused. And then - and then -  said that there are some things that should not be used for an indecent laugh and/or a vulgar joke. (A vulgar laugh and/or an indecent joke?)

 

     Silence, absolute silence.

 

     To paraphrase Faulkner, I knew before knowing. The audience was angry with me. But, more tellingly, it was also ashamed of itself. I had lost the audience. Indeed, the audience had begun to transform from audience to crowd to . . . mob.                                                                                                    

 

     Trent tried, albeit weakly. He was shouted down. I tried to explain how I intended, via comedy, to show how Sexism & Racism are linked. Fugetaboutit! Finally, Milt Hershenov, one of the two best comedy writers in the workshop, tried. He already had a plane ticket to L.A., leaving for a coveted gig with Norman Lear. He  explained how nothing - nothing - is comically taboo. You can be aware of Intention & judge Execution. (Be aware of Execution & judge Intention?) Finally, he gave up, too.

 

     I kept looking at the clock. Trent did, too. People were no longer raising their hands. They were calling out. “J’accuse!” filled the air. At exactly 11:00, Trent abruptly put an end to it. I descended the stairs, waved goodbye to Milt (a smile, a shrug), and hurriedly exited. On the way back to Brooklyn on the F-train, I thought about my favorite idiom, l’esprit d’escalier, (spirit of the staircase). What could I have said, what should I have said? Should I have said that before coming to the Workshop I had, per official instructions, stood on a corner in  the Diamond Exchange asking passersby, “Are you Jewish?” If the answer was yes, I gave them  a flyer about an emergency meeting at Madison Square Garden called by the Conference for Soviet Jewry, an organization working to get the Soviet Union to let-my- people go. I concluded it wouldn’t have made a difference.

 

     I walked home through empty dark streets. Entered my empty apartment. Made a potent drink and put myself to sleep.