My Real Memoir

I’d built the cabin—and now I had cabin fever. This wasn’t the life I wanted. All I did, it seemed, was administrate my tiny-but-important-sounding Newport Institute of the Arts. I was doing the one thing I said I’d never do, running a business. True, I was planning on marrying Kat, and had even given her an engagement ring. My widowed mom knew I couldn’t afford one, so she’d bequeathed hers to us. But would we ever actually marry? We hadn’t even set a date.

Kat was just eighteen, and taking a full load of community college classes, while I was a geriatric 24-year-old putting in thirteen-hour days at his big little academy. We tussled for time, taking an early morning drive here, dozing through a “Tonight Show date” there.

I’d begun the year hosting our grand opening, rebooting my street theatre group, and directing my first full-length musical, The Fantasticks. I even managed to teach a free stage dialects class at a local high school, and direct a giggly children’s production of The Phantom Tollbooth for a nearby school district. All of which was a hoot, but produced little more than gas money, even at post-Oil Embargo prices. Only our jazz dance and ballet classes, with a little help from music tutorials, brought in enough to cover the school’s overhead.

I was treading water, and wanted more than to just stay afloat, but didn’t know what to do. I saw Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein three times that fall, and wanted to film spoofs! But I also wanted to do Shakespeare, to create stage musicals, to write novels, and—

The phone rang. It wasn’t Hollywood or Broadway. I was our landlord, the evil wizard (psychiatrist) Dr. Prodder. He called every month with a threat to increase our lease. This time he actually did it. “I’m increasing your payment from $750 to $1100 (about $8,000 now) at the end of December. Oh, and happy holidays, Mitch.”

That was it. We’d have to shut the school down. The coward that lived in my bowels, whimpered, “OK,” and was kind of relieved.  But the Viking that lived in my loins roared, “Man the longships!”

A week later, while mope-walking in my soon-to-be-ex village of Corona del Mar, I spotted a shut-down elementary school. “The district will take anything,” said the agent. “How about six hun….$450?” I said. We had a deal.

I instantly turned into Mickey Rooney. “We’re putting on a show, kids!” I told my instructors. Newport Beach’s The Daily Pilot ran a big story on us, resulting in a new wave of sign-ups. Kat and I floated on hope through Christmas into the New Year.

We did our mega-recital “The Winter Fayre” at our new digs, even though we hadn’t signed the papers yet. Our student’s family members attended en masse, and new sign-ups tripled! “Maybe I can afford to hire an administrator!” I told Kat.

The next day, Prodder called to prod. “We’re moving this week,” I told him, and was about to hang up. “Wait!” he said. “What are you paying?” Surprised, I answered, “$450.” “Stay, and I’ll make it $400,” he replied. I couldn’t believe it. I’d out-psyched the psychiatrist, called a bluff I didn’t even know he had!

And so we said, “Hello, old school,” and stayed where we were. But soon, too soon, I would experience…

Two very painful goodbyes.