About Frank Crocitto

If I were anybody of any consequence—or somebody thought I was—and they wanted a little squinch of a bio out of me here's what it would look like:

             He was born on Staten Island, lived in Brooklyn and now lives in Manhattan.

As a matter of fact that's what they got. The "they" were the so-called producers of a play that I had written. Who knows what they thought of me? They certainly didn't consider me a man of consequence. (And of course I wasn't—neither a man of consequence nor a man.) They had a space in their playbill and they insisted I supply a bio to go in it. This was back when I was in my twenties and I wasn't very cooperative.

My folks came to see the play and when my mother read the playbill she snickered and then let out a long-suffering sigh, and then my father groaned, refused to take off his hat and whispered loud enough to be heard backstage,"Is this all you've got to say for yourself—after all this time? Look at these other jerks—how much they have to say about themselves. They even have pictures of their ugly faces. And look, look, this guy has almost half a page!" ( "That guy is a girl," I interjected.) "A girl—a guy—what the heck's the difference!? This is supposed to be something about you! You're supposed to be the author—the big wheel—the big deal. Who cares where you're living—or where you used to live! People want to know something about you, something that matters, that means something. You could live in Rangoon for all the difference it makes. ("Well, that would say something about me," says I with a smirk.) "This is embarrassing. Don't you understand me? How am I supposed to show this to people? They're going to ask me. You can be sure of that. They knew I was coming tonight. I don't know why I tell anybody anything. I should do everything undercover. Nobody should know anything. I would be better off. I don't understand you, Frank. I don't. I don't understand what in the world you're driving at. Do you understand him?" (At this point turning to his wife, my mother, who was wearing her fake mink stole and seemed to be slipping deeper and deeper into it.) "He's your son," my father persisted. "Do you comprehend anything about what he is doing with his life and why he insists on doing stupid—?" (At this my mother, his wife, gets up abruptly, scuttles noisily to the aisle and goes stomping off to the lobby. )

We hear the bathroom door slam.

I tried to explain to him that he was disturbing the audience, but he said something like "You call this an audience?" And that he was embarassing me. Which was the wrong thing to say. And then I told him the curtain was about to go up and he waved his hand and said,"Let it go up. I'm not stopping it."

Then as the house lights were dropping, in a quick machine-gun burst, I informed him that I didn't give two hoots for a bio in a playbill because I had said all I wanted to say about myself in the play itself and he said that since it was a play about some stupid marshal bringing a bride he just married back home to a lousy little town in Texas—of all places—he didn't see how it told anybody a damn thing about me and who the hell made me the great man of mystery anyway?!!

So the curtain went up and my mother missed the first ten minutes.

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The Bride Comes To Yellow Sky - By Frank Crocitto