Archive for the ‘Short Fiction’ Category

INDEX: Short Fiction

Short stories and humorous pieces by David Lefkowitz


(sad-humorous short story, 1986)



(darkly comic short story, 1987)



(humorous mock homage to Barlett, 1986)



(humorous satire of avant-garde theater, 1985)



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This short story was written in 1987 by David Lefkowitz.

November is a lousy month. The trees are bare, the streets are grey, and every face you see looks like a corpse. Darkness comes at three in the afternoon, bringing with it a sudden and vicious drop in temperature. I hate the wind and I hate the rain and I hate this miserable city. I live in New York.

Last Tuesday I turned thirty, a milestone which I celebrated by paying my annual visit to Dr. Molina. She’s a jovial woman with a kind face and the coldest fingers this side of the Equator.

“Everything seems to be in working order.”

“Peachy,” said I, hurriedly throwing my gown over my knees. I felt like a raw tuna on the slab at fisherman’s market.

“Of course, we won’t know everything until the x-rays come back,” Molina smiled (doctors love to keep you in suspense). “Still smoking a pack a day?”

I was waiting for that. My “yes” was bold, defiant.

Molina leaned back on her backless stool. “And then you’re going to come here on your fiftieth birthday, riddled with heart disease and cancer, and you’ll say, `But doctor! What did I ever do to deserve this?’”

“What makes you think it’s the cigarettes?” I pointed to the x-ray machine. “Maybe it’s the hundred zillion gamma rays you keep zapping me with.”

Molina ignored me—a tactic she usually employed when confronted by logic. “You’re still young, and you have ample time to undo the damage to your lungs.”

“True,” I replied. “I could also walk out this door and get hit by a bus.”

I almost did, in fact. I was halfway across the street when a city bus driver making a left turn decided he’d rather go through me than around me. I froze—a tactic I involuntarily employ when confronted by danger—and the bus swung wide, missing my by inches and leaving behind a cloud of noxious filth.

Not wishing to straight home after such a perilous episode, I scooted into a nearby cafe to drown my sorrows in a cup of hot coffee and a danish. Neurotically concerned about my weight like any other normal adult woman, I bypassed the sugar bowl and requested several packets of my favorite artificial sweetener.


Well, I thought, if you inject a mouse with a gallon of anything, his cheese-eating days are over.

I sipped my coffee slowly, taking in the sight and sound of my wretched fellow diners bracing for the chill outside. One conversation asserted itself over the din. Two men in business suits sat at a nearby table and discussed work.

“Are you back in your office?” one asked.

“Not yet.”

“Still renovating?”

“They’ve gotta take out the whole ceiling. It’s all asbestos tile from the 1950s.”

“The company finally woke up and realized it was a health hazard? What if this was too little, too late?”

“Oh, we’re all doomed, there’s no question about that.” The businessman smiled sarcastically and speared a burnt french fry that crumbled underneath his fork.

Coming home that evening, I felt I had two options. Either I could seal all the windows and turn on the gas, or do something constructive. Since my stove is electric, the first choice was instantly discarded, and I racked my brain for a positive counterattack against the death sentences that seemed to lurk in every food, textile, and crevice.

It was then that my best friend called to wish me a happy birthday. “And how have you been celebrating such a momentous occasion?” she asked expectantly. I told her.

“What?” my friend gasped. “You’re not even having a party?”

I was about to make a devastatingly cynical reply when an idea hit me with the force of an atomic blast. I spoke quickly into the phone, “Could you round up half a dozen jars of instant coffee, six cases of soda—the real stuff, not ginger ale or the stuff you can see through—uh, fifteen TV dinners, fifteen thick steaks, a double rack of pork ribs, potato chips—“

“What are you—?”

“It’s a surprise party.”

“But how can it be a surprise if you know about it?”

“Just do it,” I ordered.

I spent the next hour on the phone calling everyone I knew. Each was instructed to bring a food or beverage that was generally considered detrimental to a person’s health. My next-door neighbor promised to whip up a batch of heavy cream. My ex-husband said he’d bring three cartons of unfiltered cigarettes.

After some last-minute shopping, I arrived home to find my best friend already waiting in the hallway. We helped each other in with our packages and set to readying the apartment for a party.

Two friends from work showed up a little after seven carrying a bucket of fried onion rings and some far-from-all-beef frankfurters. Other friends soon arrived, most of them bearing alcoholic beverages. My sister and brother-in-law came by with a large shopping bag only to produce—to my horror—fresh milk, eggs, and butter. “How could you?” I screamed. “You were supposed to bring bad food.”

“These are bad,” my brother-in-law maintained. There’s enough dairy fat and cholesterol here to choke a rabbit.”

I relented and complimented my brother-in-law on his inventive choice and colorful description.

By 8:30, the party was in full swing with people chomping steaks, sharing frozen entrees, and quaffing liberal amounts of rancid domestic beer. A minor note of panic set in when we prematurely ran out of napkins. Apparently my best friend hadn’t taken

into consideration the sheer greasiness of the food being consumed. My sister ran and got some bath towels, and the orgy continued.

A little while later, I walked to the front of the living room and signaled for everyone to quiet down, “My friends,” I began. “I’d like to thank you for sharing my birthday surprise with me.”

“What’s the surprise?” piped up a friend’s inebriated date.

Another guest volunteered, “We’re all gonna wake up dead in the morning!”

“At one point or another,” I continued, “every single thing in this room has been proven hazardous to our health.” I moved dramatically along the buffet-style table. “Look at these spare ribs. Pure fat. Trichinosis if you cook `em wrong.” I marched on. “Deep dish frozen pizza—yum! Artificial flavor, artificial color, artificial preservatives. Cheese is the fourth ingredient!” I pressed forward, fired with moral outrage. “And to wash it all down, a strong cup of caffeine and a cancer stick.”

I lit a ciegarette and observed my audience whose mood was decidedly less boisterous than before. Someone coughed. I apologized for ilghting up, doused the cigarette in a glass of gin, and sprayed the air with a pungent aerosol deodorant. “So long, ozone layer,” I chirped.

This released a floodgate of nihilistic suggestions. One guest proposed that we all sit very close to the color television set and let the rays hit us. Another recommended that we all go to a mediocre seafood restaurant and order tainted clams. My favorite idea, though, came from my best friend who said, “Hey everybody! When the clock strikes twelve, let’s all take birth control pills and wait for the hair to grow on our backs.”

My ex-husband slid by me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I laughed, surprised by his concern—a trait I had not detected during our four years of marriage.

“Are you depressed about something?” my ex persisted.

“She’s depressed because everything we do is fatal!” My sister jumped to my defense: “The whole world is one big carcinogen; we’re all gonna die.”

My brother-in-law nodded. “After twenty years of using a product, they tell us to stop using it because it’ll kill us. Nobody knows what to believe.”

“Which is why,” I said, “starting tomorrow, I turn over a whole new leaf. I’m giving all this up for one year. My doctor says I should stop smoking—I’ll stop smoking. Scientists say I should avoid red meat—fine, it’s chicken and veal city. Health experts tell me to eat only natural foods—no problem. I’ll exercise every day. Anything so I don’t have to listen to a million people tell me how I’m digging myself an early grave. For one year, I’m going to be good. Anybody like to join me in my little experiment?”

The silence was deafening. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit hasty?” squeaked a friend from the office.

“You don’t know my sister,” said my sister.

My brother-in-law scooped up a handful of salted popcorn, then opened his hand and let the kernels gently fall back into the bowl. “I’ve eaten fried foods, red meats, candy bars, and colas for 36 years,” he began, “and I don’t intend to stop now, no matter how many rats and monkeys keel over to prove me wrong.”

“Coward!” I yelled merrily.

My best friend scratched her head. “If you’re giving all this stuff up, what are you going to eat?”

“There’s lots of things. Fruits, vegetables—“

“But they’re covered with pesticides and chemicals,” my brother-in-law observed. “You might as well eat bug spray.”

“So I’ll grow my own!”

“In this soil?” he countered. “Half of New York is built on swamps and toxic dumps.”

“I can eat fish. Very healthy.”

“Unless they’re full of mercury and pollution.”

I felt myself weakening and sipped some water for strength. My ex-husband snatched the glass out of my hand. “Unpurified tap water? You won’t last a day drinking that sludge.”

Proudly, I raised my head. “I know what you’re tying to do,” I said sympathetically, “but I’ve made my mind up. I’m going to get healthy if it kills me.”

My determination garnered some mild applause, but the party never got back up to speed. The last guest left at about two A.M., and I started cleaning up. Soon, three bulging trashbags lay near the kitchen sink, each filled with coffee grounds, empty boxes, crumbs, and bones.

I sat down at the kitchen table and made a shopping list. It was the same as my usual list, minus all the things I enjoyed. I braced myself for a year of goat cheese, sunflower seeds, and bee pollen.

All through college, I’d been known as a daretaker, jumping into challenges at the slightest provocation. But this didn’t seem like some silly dare. Success could turn me into a kind of bionic health goddess, and failure would only put me back where I started.

I opened the window and looked out upon a dying city. Taking a deep breath, I felt somehow superior, as if I were keeping a magical secret all to myself. That night I went to bed with a sense of inner strength and hope that I hadn’t felt in years.

I drove to work the next day. The air was damp but not unbearably cold—or maybe I just felt too good to notice. I turned the radio on, only to hear some inane Top 10 tune about young love. I didn’t feel that good, so I hurriedly spun the tuning dial and came to the round-the-clock, all-news station.

“…The body was found in the back seat of an abandoned car on 135th Street. There are no suspects…” I chuckled—always something going on in New York. “…Turning to national news, Congress is expected to approve a bill giving the go-ahead to the construction of ten Stabilizer defense missiles at a cost of over fifty billion dollars per missile. Vermont Senator John McCormick had this to say about the bill…”

The Senator then rambled on about how the missiles were a shocking waste of taxpayers’ money, howe we need to build bridges instead of barriers, and how the United States and Soviet Union can already blow each other to pieces in less than five minutes.

I turned off the radio and drove to the same coffee shop I’d visited the day before. I bought a cup of black coffee and a greasy donut, filled with ersatz chocolate and covered with processed sugar.

A fellow diner pointed to my breakfast and gently cautioned, “Watch out. That stuff’ll kill you.”

“Maybe.” I smiled and dunked the donut in the coffee. “Then again, maybe not.”



I’ve written very few short stories over the years, and on the basis of this example from 1987, the world isn’t exactly missing much. A couple of lines still give me a smile, though the overuse of adjectives and the unconvincing party scene wouldn’t exactly make this prime New Yorker fodder. I remember writing this while I was working at Playboy magazine (go ahead, make your jokes) and showing it to a young woman working there, hoping to impress her. Her reply was that she could tell instantly that a woman didn’t write this and that I knew very little about women’s behavior and p.o.v. A date was not forthcoming.

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category: short fiction


(c)1986 by David Lefkowitz


The clear, open smile that radiated from her face assured Simon Wood that she had never lost any relatives in the Second World War. Her slivery darts of eyes and puffed yellow cheeks were too content, too free to be genetically inherited from a work camp detainee. Simon went so far as to reason that Hiroshima and Nagasaki meant more to him as key events in his fascination with historical tragedies than they ever had to her. He approached the fifty-year-old woman without guilt or trepidation and noted that her face looked like a tangerine behind wax paper; a puckering moon with muted wisps of clouds that were the gray tinges delicately aging her hair.

“Can I help you?” she said. Just like they talk in the movies.

Simon leaned against the counter and enjoyed the feeling of cold, smooth metal against his palms. “Do you have a special. Today. Of some sort?” Out of habit and politeness, Simon felt compelled to keep talking until the other person seemed ready to answer.

The finger she pointed at the homemade cardboard `n’ marker sign might have seemed rude had a patient smile not accompanied and, therefore, overwhelmed its dispassionate boldness. The handwriting was as neat, concise, and yet immature as the language:


Egg Roll,

Shrimp Fry Rice…….$3.25

For all his previous thoughts and ruminations, it took this simple, frank little sign to jar Simon’s mind into making the distinction that a CHINESE restaurant would not have a JAPANESE waitress. His embarrassed subconscious replaced black-and-white stills of Iwo Jima with luminous, full-color slides of Chairman Mao.

“Um, what else do you have. Do you have anything else . . . uh, on the lunch menu?” Simon would show her that American Catholics could be humble, too.

With automated grace, the increasingly Chinese woman handed him a tiny list of inexpensive combinations, laminated in clear, flexible plastic. The Shrimp Lo Mein instantly caught his eye, though he went through the trouble of reading the entire list in order to avoid any guilty feelings about putting the woman through more trouble in requesting and obtaining the list than in his actual utilization of it. Simon even turned it over, though he instinctively knew it would be blank.

“Lemme have the, uh, shrimp lo mein . . . that’s letter D.”

“That comes with soup. Hot and sour or egg drop?”

“Egg drop.” Why would anyone want to order something that immediately came right out and told you it was hot and sour?

“Three seventy five,” she smiled and gently retrieved her prized menu. Her foreign accent was easily apparent, although somehow she pronounced her “l”s and “r”s with sufficient accuracy. “Will be ready in a few minute. Please have seat.”

After he had received his change, Simon sat down and discreetly checked his wallet. On paying the woman, he noticed uncomfortably that he was carrying less than he thought he was; less than he felt he needed in case minor emergencies or whims cropped up. He’d spent the better part of a twenty in the local drug store earlier that morning, and Simon’s mind flashed to the unopened bag he tossed onto the kitchen table before he went out again. “Eighteen bucks,” thought Simon. “The richest men in America and they can’t even write legibly.”

The Chinese woman was not looking at him. Natural instincts had trained her to stare at anything else in the room besides her customers. Simon observed this same courtesy towards her, though without a meal in front of him, there was nothing much to see, unless one counted oneself a chronicler of the obligatory: the stark white formica table, complete with gold-tinted cardboard ashtray, one gooey bottle of hot sauce, and one near-empty bottle of soy sauce, both made of glass and topped with a red plastic periscope-hole dispenser.

Simon made a mental note to grab three or four napkins from the front counter when he went to get his lunch. He also felt better about his decision to come here as opposed to Wong’s Wok across the street. If the difference between fast and cheap vs. moderate and moderate was an eyedrop of tea in a china cup and a pair of chopsticks, Simon could easily live with his economically based choice.

In their concentrated attempts not to look at one another, Simon and the Chinese woman exchanged glances at least twice, during which Simon smiled the weak smile that says, “Hi. Everything’s good. I’m not rushing you,” to which her broader smile answered in turn, “It will be ready in a minute. My looking at you was a mistake. Please don’t be self-conscious.”

Two attractive Oriental girls, obviously college students, rose from the next table, wiped their mouths, and deposited their respective trays in the nearby wastepaper—no, garbage can—not garbage can—“what do you call those things?” thought Simon, “with plastic tops and the lids that flap back and forth. It’s not garbage cans; those are metal. Receptacles? No, a place like this doesn’t have `receptacles.’”

The girls passed him on their way out, and one had really pretty long black hair. Shiny, as if she had just washed it. Before Simon could engage in any harmless daydream fantasies, they were out of the restaurant and gone. He followed their figures in the mirror that reflected the street and watched them walk a few steps before they disappeared magically into the mirror’s edge.

They had left their table remarkably clean, and it only took the Chinese woman two wipes with her wet rag to finish the job. Simon watched her as she threw the rag on a stool behind the counter and receded into the dark, shabbily curtained hallway which led to (he imagined . . . and hoped) the kitchen. Had he been a dog, Simon figured, this would have been the moment for him to begin his conditioned salivation. The time on the wall clock corroborated to the minute the time on Simon’s wristwatch, yet he check both repeatedly and would check them again throughout the meal.

Upon seeing the Chinese woman return with a lightly steaming tray of colorful food, Simon uncontrollably flashed back to the menu and suffered the mild panic of wondering whether he had really chosen the right dish after all. The possibility of substituting beef for shrimp had not occurred to him then and, happily, passed quickly and left no disappointing impression on him now. Neither did the tempting spare ribs, which, he reasoned, were probably greasy and devoid of more than one mouthful of meat if scraped together collectively.

Simon delicately lifted the tray from her small rough hands and nodded the way he nodded to all bearers of service, especially Oriental ones. “Enjoy your meal,” she said, making the phrase sound only vaguely like a cliche. As nice as the woman was, it didn’t stop the unspoken response that usually popped into Simon’s head upon hearing that phrase from reintroducing itself: “Well, you prepared it. If it’s any good, I’ll enjoy it. Don’t make your preparation my responsibility.”

“Thanks,” was the only word that actually left Simon’s lips.

It was exactly 2:47.33 when Simon began his meal. He had forgotten the napkins, and his instant correction of that error added 25 seconds to his starting time. Not that he was really in a rush; rather that to Simon, fast food restaurants were for eating fast as well as being quickly served. Any other combination of speed and pace would be jarring and unsettling the type of food that needs all the settling it can get.

Simon dipped a plastic spoon into the soup, expecting it to melt into a curvaceously Dali-esque creation. Not to be second-guessed, however, the spoon obstinately maintained its shape and filled itself with the runny yellow consommé. He blew twice onto the soup and gingerly let it slide into his mouth, vowing thereafter to blow three times. After the sting had left his tongue, Simon decided that the soup was excellent. He would have called it “authentic” had he been able to distinguish authentic originals from their American copies.

As he waded through the murky soup, Simon fixed on authenticity as a time-passing topic of contemplation. He tried to invent distinguishable boundaries: loneliness being authentic, as is lust; boredom and passion being only carbon copies of real emotion. Despair is wholly authentic, ennui not at all, and angst is the misbegotten son of their marriage. Occupied with these pointless intellectual pursuits, Simon Wood finished his egg drop soup quickly, sipping the last quarter cup the way people eating alone always do.

The first thing Simon noticed about his shrimp lo men was the surprising number of shrimp in it. They were small—assuming that anything called a shrimp could be large—like the shriveled pinkies of emaciated old men. Simon glanced at the mirror to view a street that seemed somewhat darker, colder looking, than when he had first entered the tiny establishment. A stocky Hispanic whizzed by on a bright red Schwinn, the kind Simon had had when he was a child, only blue. A couple in their mid-twenties strolled by, never taking their eyes off each other. The woman wasn’t terribly attractive, but when she moved to kiss her lover, Simon snapped his head back to his plate and forced himself to think about something else

Picking off a severed bit of noodle that tenaciously clung to his lower lip, Simon devoted a few seconds to answering honestly how he felt about American foreign policy. Dismissing the problem as too complex to fathom over lunch, and the solution too simple to bother with on this particular afternoon, Simon dropped the subject, forked a shrimp, and turned his head to the waitress. She had piled before her several dozen fresh stringbeans and was deftly removing her tips and tops. She never looked at the particular green she was cutting—she obviously didn’t have to—and she didn’t look at Simon, either. He was therefore able to stare at her for a few seconds before restoring his gaze to his half-finished plate.

Although his stomach began to feel the mellowing sensation of fullness, Simon obliged his habit of eating as much as he could, within reason, when he paid to dine in a restaurant or on those rare occasion when he played the guest to a friendly host. The portion wasn’t huge to begin with, and Simon began to see the white of the plate beneath the greasy cellophane strings of lo mein. “Adequate, if dry and somewhat bland,” thought Simon. All things are, to an extent.

Because he had forgotten to ask for duck sauce early on, Simon felt foolish about asking the Chinese lady for some now, as he was so near the completion of his meal. He shook a little soy sauce onto the neuron-like tangle of noodles that remained, and it helped a bit. The clock read one minute after three o’clock as Simon eased the final ounce into his mouth. It had been a satisfying meal, and Simon congratulated himself on spending his precious time and money so wisely.

For some reason, the Chinese woman seemed more like a stranger to Simon now than when had first walked in. And when she called to him from behind the curtain, asking him with her eyes if the meal was good, and with her voice if he wanted any dessert, he reacted as if some unknown force had inexplicably intruded into the private world of his thoughts and planned actions.

“Thanks,” Simon raised his palm and timidly cast his eyes to the floor. “It was very good.”

The woman smiled the same broad smile with which she had greeted her customer thirty minutes before and then vanished into the black hallway, assumedly to collect another pile of stringbeans.

Simon rose and pulled the heavy down jacket off the back of his chair. The zipper caught several times before he could close it properly, and Simon cleared his throat authoritatively when he had accomplished the task. Bussing his tray, Simon decided on “garbage” as the operative word for the special lid-capped waste bin and gripped the plate tightly so as not to let it fall irretrievably beyond his reach.

It wasn’t as if he was waiting for the Chinese woman to return—she didn’t—when he stopped at the door and took one last quick look around. What was there to see that he hadn’t already observed in his short tenure at the restaurant? The stack of take-out menus, the simple, framed-ink drawings discreetly placed on the walls, the absence of table cloths, the profusion of metal surfaces, smooth and cold, the bright light, the sudden quiet. Simon gripped the door handle and pushed.

Not more than two seconds later, the Chinese woman returned, carrying not stringbeans but refills for the napkin holder. Without so much as a glance at the slowly closing door, she put the bending pile down and snatched the washrag. Silently, she moved to his table and wiped it until nothing remained to hint that anyone had ever been there.

Simon walked quickly back to his apartment, making good time despite a troublesome light on the corner of the Chinese restaurant’s block.

He needed only one glass of water to swallow the pills, though he gagged a little in the beginning. Simon lay down on the couch and tried not to think about anything. This failing him, he closed his eyes and tried to picture the woman in the Chinese restaurant. Already her features had become vague, her movements indistinct. It was twenty minutes to four when Simon Wood finally fell asleep.

When his heart stopped beating an hour later, it was almost as an afterthought.



The first draft of the story was completed Feb. 5, 1984, with revisions done two years later and the final draft completed Jan. 24, 1986. Despite a preponderance of unnecessary adjectives, there is much about this story I still like, 30-plus years later. I can read through it and find felicitous phrases I actually remember writing—always a good sign. And I like how the minutiae always have an undercurrent of both comedy and dread. Whether it’s New Yorker-worthy… ehhhhmmmm… I wouldn’t say no if they asked.

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TOWARDS A VERY POOR THEATER (Notes to Grotowski’s production of Fiddler on the Roof)

©1985 by David Lefkowitz

Translated by David Lefkowitz

Note: The first (and only) performance of Fiddler on the Roof as directed by Jerzy Grotowski at the Theatre Laboratory in Wroclaw, Poland, took place on 29 February, 1985. The performance, which ran just under six hours, was viewed by an audience of about fifty Poles, dragged in at random off the streets.

The following is Grotowski’s own explanation and appraisal of this major event. – D.N.L.


The first obvious question, of course, is why Fiddler? The Teatr-Laboratorium had been planning a musical version of Prometheus Bound, and Peter Brook was suggesting we tackle Oklahoma! and cast a deaf mute in the Joel McCrea role. We’d even gone so far as to call Orson Welles and ask if he wouldn’t mind playing the entire state of Oklahoma.

These were appealing ideas, but they seemed far removed from the emotional and psychological needs of 1980s Poland. I felt we needed something with a soul, something about basic human longings—love, freedom, a home—and about current human tragedies: existential doubt, exile, oppressive governments breathing down your neck until you don’t know what society is coming to and those bastards tear down everything for the good of the state and because they have no conception of how important a free and radical voice is in any society and furthermore —


My natural choice for Tevye was Ryszard Cieslak, who I knew would bring an intense physicalization to the Jewish milkman. Just watching the subtle twitching of his fingers, we sense the wistful frustration of a man who can only sing about being rich and who finds himself poised precariously between the world of today and the world of his fathers. Also, Ryszard has a big nose and never picks up the check in restaurants.

Some controversy was set off by my casting five old and somewhat senile men as Tevye’s daughters. My intention was to stress the ever-crucial link between the vagaries of youth and the mental dissipation inherent in old age. I’m not sure what that link is, but so convincing was the youthful transformation of these decrepit old men, I was sure that if they had walked offstage and out the door during the performance, they would immediately have been molested.

The set, bare except for a backdrop wall made completely of matzoh, was lit with ordinary, fifty-watt light bulbs in order to evoke the dingy everyday world of these Russian peasants. Ryszard suggested sprinkling a layer of sawdust on the floor for authenticity, but I told him, “Ry baby, if you give a truthful performance, the audience will be able to feel the sawdust.” And besides, we had already overshot our twenty-dollar budget on the edible backdrop.

Defying convention, we had the audience seated “on the roof,” as it were, and the fiddler moved through and around the seated spectators as he played the violin (an instrument specially constructed by Nam Jun Paik out of deerskin and whitefish). The audience, therefore, looked down on the action, giving them some sense of distance and superiority, while at the same time knowing that they were in a much more physically precarious position than the actors below. There were some complaints that we made the roof unsteady, but these are just people afraid of risk. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had subconsciously willed the canvas to rip and send the audience and violinist hurtling to the floor, just so they could say, “See! This is what happens when you go too far.”*

Act One. Tevye appears. He is clean shaven and naked, except for a fake Chassidic beard worn over his genitalia. I found this to be a stunning visual metaphor for the earthy, fecund quality of Tevye.

The opening number, “Tradition,” was voiced entirely in grunts and squeals, accompanied by rhythmic, tonal dissonance from the Teatr Orkestr—2 accordions, 3 bongos, and a kazoo. Research and experimentation have proven these to be the most expressive instruments in music, and who can deny the mythic quality of a well-tempered accordion? I certainly can’t.

The villagers join Tevye in his song, only to begin fighting about the story of the horse/mule transaction. Zbigniew Cynkutis, playing the animal, was symbolically torn apart by the arguing villagers, his blood smeared on the doorways of the theater. This overt allusion to the brutality of sacrifice left many people gasping, including Zbigniew, who turned out to be a hemophiliac.**

More violence occurs later on at the wedding of Tzeitel and Motel. Since they actually turn out to be minor characters in this scene, I had them represented on stage by two large pieces of gefilte fish (Motel’s with horseradish). The wedding guests dance around, tossing the fish back and forth. The gaiety continues until the Russian authorities arrive—those evil, cold-hearted scum who think that all art should serve the state when they don’t understand that they’re destroying the state of art and those vicious Soviet martial lawmakers with their —


Anyway, the Russian police arrive and begin the pogrom. It is a harrowing scene: women scream and men cry out in anguish as the strangers overturn chairs, threaten audience members, and spraypaint obscenities on the giant matzoh. As a final metaphoric symbolic gesture of man’s inhumanity to man, the head Russian officer deliberately places the two gefilte fish on the ground and crushes them with his boot heel. Blackout.

Then followed a two-hour intermission in which the audience was not allowed to leave the auditorium, strongly driving home the feeling of being trapped by one’s circumstances and at the mercy of one’s captors. Gefilte fish was passed around from the actors to the audience in a sort of transubstantiatory communion with the souls of these young Anatevka newlyweds.

The second act begins with Tevye standing halfway up a ladder between heaven and earth: the ground and the roof. He moves up or down a few rungs, depending on the decisions he makes regarding Hodel and Chava, his other daughters. I saw audience members weeping openly when Tevye made that one painful step upward and rejected his daughter for marrying a goy. The only time Tevye got off the ladder was at the very end, when Russian authorities force him to tread on the lowly ground and leave his home forever.

Some critics objected to my having the song “Anatevka” played off-stage on a tape recorder, and performed by the American rock and roll group, Twisted Sister. But this is nothing more an a logical extension of the idea of modernism, in both its good and bad incarnations, devouring the old and pressing forward towards the future.

When the show was over, we let the audience out and asked for their comments. Surprisingly, they remained quiet. Even after repeated coaching, they refused to respond. What was heartening, though, was when I woke up the next morning to find that a Jewish star had been burned on my front lawn.

Obviously, I had touched a nerve, a resonant chord. Some inner truth had been mined and caused people to react in similarly theatrical fashion. My only regret regarding this production was not being able to get Zero Mostel. I had applied for a permit to dig up his corpse and hang him on wires from the ceiling, acting as the deity looking down on the proceedings below. This would also have made a devastating social comment on traditional, commercial forms of theater being replaced by the newer, poorer, more experimental theater of today. However, as I said, the permit was denied.***

Right now, I am deeply involved in my next project. I plan to travel to America and stage Alban Berg’s atonal opera Lulu, featuring Jim Henson’s muppets. The Circle Repertory in New York has expressed some interest in the piece, as long as I stay within the realm of lyric naturalism.

We shall see.


* I am unable to comment on this matter any further as lawsuits are still pending. 

** I am unable to comment on this matter any further as lawsuits are still pending. 

*** I am unable to comment on this matter any further as lawsuits are still pending.



From my 1985 promo sheet on the story: “This short story tackles the `What If’ question: what if experimental Polish director Jerzy Grotowski directed an avant-garde production of Fiddler on the Roof?

Here, in his own words, Grotowski takes us through the process of selecting the play, staging it, and coping with the rather violent reaction to it. After all, who else would give us Tevye’s daughters represented on stage by pieces of gefilte fish? Who else would construct an entire backdrop out of matzoh? And who else would give us the touching farewell ballad, `Anatevka,’ as performed by an American heavy-metal rock band

You don’t have to be familiar with Grotowski’s book, Towards a Poor Theater, to appreciate this good-natured ribbing of the radical avant-garde. This story is for anyone who’s ever been to a play they didn’t understand, weren’t supposed to understand, and who found themselves sleeping through `great art.’

`Towards a Very Poor Theater’ is a hilarious peek at the Theater of (Extreme) Cruelty. If only the plays were this much fun.”

In posting this piece years later on this archival website, I did make one change. The second footnote (about Zbigniew) originally read “He is recovering nicely and has absolutely no regrets about giving his all for his art. As he put it, `What the fuck?’” But now I think it’s just funnier to restate the line about the lawsuits.

I still enjoy this piece a lot and find it funny how much closer to reality the absurd directorial conceits in the story have come. Recent liberties taken—on Broadway, no less—with King Lear, Oklahoma!, King Kong and by auteur directors like Ivo van Hove show that some of the spoofery here was really just ahead of its time.

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