I Blame Dennis Hopper by Illeana Douglas Page B

learning the value of a good tape recorder, but I will get to that. The Camelot became the first sign of many that I was being singled out for larger life lessons, that maybe my life was destined to be a really, really good movie with twists and turns that made you wonder if the heroine would ever really make it. And if she did, would there be music playing in the background?
    One day, I was riding my ten-speed home from high school when I saw a sign: COMING SOON. THE CAMELOT DINNER THEATRE. I nearly skidded off the road.
    My grandfather got his break in the late ’20s when he auditioned for theater god David Belasco. He headed to Broadway at the Belasco Theatre. I was stuck in the boondocks without a theater or impresario in sight to give me a chance. The Camelot Dinner Theatre would be my entrée onto the boards!
    The next day, dolled up to an inch of my life and carrying a homemade head shot of myself, complete with hat, pretending to be a successful actress who had somehow managed to end up in the sticks, I met with a guy named Phil who seemed to be in charge. He sat me down for an interview, and I immediately started trying to charm him. Mildly flirting with a man twice one’s age to get a job was not yet considered politically incorrect. It worked, and he genuinely seemed to take an interest in me. Clearly he had picked up on my earnestness about a career in show business. He was my David Belasco.
    This is what I would later learn about Phil: Phil had no theatre background. Phil was a manager of sorts, looking to try something new. Phil, I would learn, was a pimp. Being a pimp meant that Phil’s occupation left him with a lot of spare cash. Dirty money needs to be run through a legitimate business. So Phil’s idea was simple: Why not open a dinner theater? Cleanse your money and put on a pretty good show while you’re at it!
    Phil, as I later learned, ran “by the hour” motels out on the Berlin Turnpike. This was code for brothels . That’s how prostitution worked in Connecticut. You drove out to the Berlin Turnpike and got a room or you had sex in the middle of the woods with deer watching you. It’s true. The first time I made out with a boy was in the middle of a forest. Ever since, the scent of pine needles has turned me on. Bring in a raccoon to watch me, and we could make serious dough.
    Phil had a partner at the Camelot, and they had worked together before. Her name was Rosie (not her real name—her real name was probably inmate #6660027, but let’s stick with Rosie).
    Phil’s partner Rosie was—again, as the gossip went—a former prostitute and Phil’s number-one girl. She was a hooker with a heart of gold who apparently loved the smell of greasepaint. It turns out that Rosie’s dream, much like Rose’s dream from Gypsy and much like my dream, too, was to be in show business! Now, my dream had not included working for a pimp and an ex-hooker who wanted to be out of “the business” and into “show business,” but beggars can’t be choosers.
    Phil was your classic movie villain, with slicked-back hair and a thin mustache. Beady brown eyes. Reeking of Brut cologne. He usually wore some sort of horrible brown polyester suit, his gut bulging through a pistachio shirt with a tie that was much too short. Phil was hard to look at, and he was a little scary, but for some reason he took to me. Maybe it’s because I didn’t flinch the first time he showed me his gun. “This is a dangerous business,” he said one night. Then he opened his jacket revealing a pistol in a shoulder holster. It was only a dinner theater, but I didn’t argue. I just nodded.
    â€œYou ever see a gun before, kid?” he said, patting his piece.
    â€œSure,” I said. “Like on Burke’s Law .”
    Phil cracked up. “You’re too much, kid.”
    I hadn’t meant to be funny. Burke’s Law was a television show