As Time Flies By

Introduction "As Time Flies By"

Where were we? Has it been eight years since last we met on those smooth white pages that served as an introduction to the first seven plays created by that schizophrenic half man-half monster? It was March ten, nineteen seventy-one, as I recall. How have you been? ... Really? ... Well, I've had my ups and downs. Not that you would notice too much from my outward appearance. The hair thinned just a bit, a little grayer around the temples, some lines around the eyes that seem to suggest character more than decay, no more than three pounds added to a still lithesome frame and an agility around the tennis courts that bring "oohs" and "ahs" from the aging members of the club who usually match up the "Bypasses" against the "Pacemakers" in the semiweekly doubles matches. All in all, life has, in the words of Barney Cashman in Red Hot Lovers, "not only been very kind, but has gone out of its way to ignore me."

Alas, like Dorian Gray, the true picture is hidden in the attic of the mind, locked and kept from view to all except wife, family, a few close friends and a plethora of medical men who daily struggle to keep the deadly radiation of neurosis from melting down and destroying this Prolificity Plant and all who live in a radius of its emotional and co-working environs. On a day like all others, I awoke to the first sign of danger. A duodenal ulcer appeared and panic spread through the central nervous system. The plant was immediately shut down and six hundred and twelve spicy foods and alcoholic beverages were laid off. Cottage cheese and Carnation non-fat milk had to show identifying badges before they were allowed to enter the lower digestive tract ... Meetings were held in the brain, and college-type white cells marched out defiantly carrying placards that proclaimed, "We don't want Neurotic Energy," "No More Neuks," "Right to Live, Not

Introduction

Introduction

Live to Write" ... Paranoia set in. "What if suddenly all the Creative Plants broke down at once? What if ulcers spread across the writing community like the plague? Would there be enough help? Would there suddenly be odd and even days for Antacid Tablets?" The overworked, overwrought, overloaded machinery came to a halt. All ideas were given a six-month paid vacation and were told either to relocate or to wait until the plant was rehauled and inspected and found safe enough to go back into production. Some ideas, already half typed and ready to be born, lay unloved and unnurtured on the yellow bond paper, withered and died. Others huddled together for protection in a top right-hand drawer, hoping against hope they would not be forgotten. Now came the difficult and arduous task of looking for causes, of disman- tling an enormously productive piece of creative equipment which suddenly seemed to break down and malfunction at the peak of its thought-to-be-limitless potential.

On a quiet, cool and perfect spring night in New York a few weeks later, the first clue appeared. It was to be a week of quiet relaxation for me. Dinner dates with friends, two plays, a ballet and a drink with Woody Allen at the Russian Tea Room comparing notes where life had taken us since the days we worked on the old Garry Moore Show. Annie Hall and The Goodbye Girl were easier to write than a funny lead-in to Jo Stafford's next song. The days were spent idly walking up the west side of Madison Avenue to see the galleries, the boutiques, the antique shops, and down the east side to ogle the deep-dark chocolate cakes in Greenberg's window and the girls bouncing out of Yves Saint Laurent's, both of whom got equal attention from my salivary glands. The ulcer in my stomach, which demanded to be fed every fifty-three minutes, was assuaged by saltine crackers bulging from every conceivable coat pocket, and seemed incompatible with the pleasantness of my surroundings and that I had two hit shows running on Broadway. In addition to this, the film of Chapter Two was about to be shot in New York, a new play, I Oughta Be in Pictures, was written and ready to go into rehearsal in December, and another film, Seems Like Old Times, set to shoot in California the following February. If ever a man wanted more out of life, he was not only a glutton but a fool.

On the night I speak of, this gluttonous fool decided to look in on his two current attractions. I saw the first act of Chapter Two, now in its second year with a superb and dedicated new cast, then jaunted down four blocks to see the second act of They're Playing Our Song, which not only was playing to a Standing Room Only audience of the most vociferous, enthusiastic and appreciative group of theatergoers I've encountered in a long time, but had, in addition, just paid off and was now in profit. Even the ulcer decided to skip a meal to see Lucie Arnaz and Robert Klein. After all, how often does an affliction get a free ticket to a Broadway show?

Did I sit back and revel in my good fortune? Did I relax and watch boyhood ambitions being fulfilled before my eyes? Not if you were born in the Bronx, in the Depression and Jewish, you don't. In each case, at each show, I reacted in the same manner. It was like going to simultaneous opening nights with all the accompanying fears and traumas. I found myself annoyed and irritated when latecomers arrived, causing an entire row to rise one after the other like ducks in a shooting gallery and distracting everyone who sat behind them, so that my favorite line in the play was barely audible, let alone laughed at. I gunned down insensitive coughers with the high-powered rifle I carry in the back of my brain for such emergencies; I put body language on every syllable uttered by the actors, wishing they wouldn't turn their heads at that moment or drop their voices at another, and mostly I wished I had rewritten the whole bloody thing while I reached back in my arsenal, got out two hand grenades and blew up the air-conditioning system and six elderly usherettes who were chatting pension-talk near the exit sign.

My inner rage was so intense that my ulcer threatened to attack my teeth if I didn't keep quiet. It hardly