Before the world of theater dimmed overnight, my life revolved around the dazzling lights of Broadway, specifically as a dancer in the acclaimed production of Chicago. The abrupt shutdown of Broadway on March 12th sent shockwaves through our community. Like many, I immediately filed for unemployment and sought refuge outside of New York City. Months later, as the Broadway League extended the closure through May 2021, I found myself 2,000 miles away from my familiar stage, in a Salt Lake City apartment. The setting sun painted the sky in fiery hues, a stark contrast to the smoky haze, remnants of distant California and Colorado wildfires, that had become the unwelcome backdrop to the Utah skyline. Adding to the growing unease, news broke of stalled stimulus negotiations in Washington. The reality loomed large: my unemployment benefits were set to expire in December, followed swiftly by my health insurance. Each passing day in this unfamiliar city amplified the unsettling feeling that my days of dancing on a Broadway stage might be over.
In the weeks leading up to the official ban on large public gatherings in New York, whispers of impending closures circulated backstage on Broadway. Rumors, fueled by hushed tones in dressing rooms and dimly lit wings, suggested temporary closures, perhaps a day or two, a sort of unexpected paid vacation courtesy of an “act of God.” Others speculated more drastically, envisioning a permanent curtain call for live theater, fearing the virus would decimate tourism and shutter shows indefinitely.
Yet, a part of me clung to the familiar rhythm of life, assuming Broadway would persevere as it always had. New York, after all, felt intrinsically linked to Broadway. Broadway, in my mind, was inseparable from the enduring allure of Chicago. And I, Brian Spitulnik, couldn’t imagine myself divorced from the art of dance. To envision a life devoid of dance felt akin to altering a fundamental part of my identity, a painful and potentially disorienting transformation, rendering me unrecognizable to myself and those closest to me.
Then, the defining email arrived from the Chicago producers, summoning the cast to a conference call.
“This is just a blip,” Barry Weissler, one of the producers, reassured us. “The show will absolutely reopen on April 12th!”
However, dissenting voices grew louder. Opinion pieces began to surface, echoing my mother’s pragmatic concerns: theater, if it returned at all, would be among the last sectors to recover from the pandemic. “It’s time to start seriously considering your next chapter,” my mom advised, her words carrying a weight of undeniable reality.
I made my way back to the Ambassador Theatre to gather my personal belongings. At my designated spot in the dressing room, illuminated by vanity lights and shared with fellow chorus members, sat the mundane essentials: a toothbrush, mouthwash, deodorant, alongside cherished photographs and faded Christmas cards. My mesh costume and well-worn leather show shoes, tools of my trade, remained behind, property of the production. Standing there, I questioned the purpose of this trip to 49th Street. Thirteen years of dedication, six nights a week at the Ambassador, and the intangible treasures I longed to take – the show’s energy, the camaraderie of the cast, the sense of normalcy – were nowhere to be found amongst these physical remnants. A lone bike, locked in the stage-door alley, became my chosen memento. The subway, once a symbol of New York’s pulse, now felt like a space to avoid indefinitely. I left the rest behind.
The life of a dancer is intrinsically woven with impermanence. It’s a career path paved with auditions that lead to rejection, shows that close without notice, and the ever-present threat of injuries that can abruptly end a career. Embracing uncertainty was part of the dancer’s pact I made when I moved to New York City at 22.
Brian Spitulnik performing in *Chicago*
Image alt text: Broadway dancer Brian Spitulnik performing a dynamic jazz routine in a black mesh costume on stage during a performance of Chicago, showcasing his expertise and experience in dance.
Securing my role in Chicago the summer I turned 25 felt like a turning point, a shift towards stability in a life I had always anticipated would be precarious. Chicago held a unique reputation within the theater community, often referred to as a “government job” – a show known for its longevity, a place where dancers could settle in, perhaps even dance until retirement savings were secured. I had transitioned from the unpredictable world of catering and relentless auditions to the very stage I had dreamed of, performing the very roles I yearned for. A consistent paycheck appeared in my bank account each week, a pension plan began to accrue, and my 401(k) balance grew steadily. Post-show, top-shelf tequila became a regular indulgence shared with newfound friends from Hairspray, Mama Mia, and The Producers. It felt too good to be true, a fleeting dream destined to end, yet simultaneously, I allowed myself to believe it would last forever.
Years unfolded, and I witnessed the gradual dimming of lights for shows once deemed invincible. Friends from those productions, once celebrating with premium liquor, began to disperse, seeking new roles, new careers, new paths. But not Chicago, not me. Chicago was an institution, a survivor.
Leaving the theater that day, I biked back to my apartment, a text message vibrating my phone. A friend, seemingly privy to inside information, warned of imminent bridge and tunnel closures. The mayor, he said, was effectively sealing off Manhattan. My partner, Colby, an actor and self-proclaimed expert in anticipating worst-case scenarios, declared, “We’re leaving the city, right now.”
My instinct, in moments of crisis, is deeply rooted in my upbringing – to seek the comfort of home, the familiar embrace of my parents, and the soothing remedy of my mother’s matzo ball soup. However, scientific guidance dictated otherwise. Returning home risked exposing my parents, so we reached out to a friend, inquiring about the availability of his vacant house in North Carolina. It was available. We rented a car for two weeks, packed a meager collection of sweaters and jeans, asked a neighbor to tend to our plants, and embarked on an impromptu escape down I-95. We felt like characters in Thelma and Louise, fugitives on the run, though our reality more closely resembled a bewildered Ozzie and Harriet, tense and utterly unprepared.
Our arrival in the Outer Banks placed us in a remote landscape of windswept sand dunes and stilted beach houses. Colby and I navigated the unfolding quarantine through distinct phases. First, delirium: Everyone we know is indulging in nightly wine. We are entitled to nightly wine! The CARES Act offered a glimmer of financial hope, the additional $600 weekly unemployment supplement providing enough to sustain our small New York apartment until Broadway’s anticipated April reopening.
Delusion followed swiftly: I’m embracing intermittent fasting! I’m finally writing that novel! I’m becoming a consistent Instagram influencer!
Then came the text message that shifted the landscape again, this time from a castmate: “June.” The Broadway League was extending the performance suspension through June 7th. Simultaneously, my father, back home in Maryland, developed a fever, accompanied by shortness of breath, a relentless cough, and debilitating exhaustion. Over a Zoom memorial service, amidst the impersonal backdrop of virtual condolences and technical glitches, I watched a childhood friend’s body convulse with grief over the casket of her father, a man healthy just weeks prior, now a victim of COVID-19. Another email arrived from the Chicago producers: the show’s return was postponed until the fall. It was in this confluence of personal and global anxieties that the third stage of quarantine descended: despair.
Wine gave way to tequila. My father’s COVID test returned negative, pneumonia diagnosed and treated with antibiotics. I attempted to expand my culinary repertoire beyond my limited stir-fry skills, but the grill remained an insurmountable challenge. The need for dancer’s discipline dissolved. With months stretching before a potential reopening, the urgency to maintain a physique ready for a mesh costume faded. Family-sized bags of tortilla chips became a daily staple, consumed until my mouth grew numb. Sunday Zoom dance classes with my cherished childhood teacher became a three-hour sanctuary, a fleeting return to a recognizable version of myself. Then, another email landed, announcing Broadway ticket refunds extended through January 2021. Whispers within the cast, however, hinted at a mid-March return, or perhaps, more realistically, whenever a vaccine became available. “Better start building an ark, honey,” a Chicago castmate quipped, “The rains are coming.”
Despite the mounting uncertainty, a stubborn optimism persisted. I found it difficult to fully relinquish the belief that Broadway, that resilient, if somewhat fragile, institution, would eventually rebound. Yet, as daily case counts and death tolls relentlessly climbed, I questioned the very necessity of theater in the face of such widespread suffering. Broadway, a powerhouse generating over a billion dollars in revenue each season, employing an estimated 87,000 individuals, and bringing immeasurable joy to countless audience members, still felt… inessential. For months, the world rightly lauded frontline workers, risking their lives to save others. The standing ovations we Broadway performers had come to expect now felt jarringly out of sync with reality, almost obscene in comparison. Work for everyone on Broadway, from performers to backstage crew, vanished overnight. But no lives were lost because theaters remained dark. No one had died because I could no longer pursue the only craft I had ever truly known.
A Zoom call with the Chicago cast became a bi-weekly ritual, a chaotic blend of forced optimism and palpable melancholy. Each participant seemed determined to project an image of thriving amidst the pandemic. I learned that several cast members had contracted and recovered from the virus, one mistaking her symptoms for a hangover. Career pivots were underway: real estate, corporate management, even door-to-door sales for one enterprising dancer. Others pursued video editing, yoga certifications, parenting, or relocation to New Jersey. A collective sense of starting over permeated the virtual space, a shared awareness that a return to the Broadway stage was far from guaranteed.
I wondered, though refrained from asking directly, if my castmates, like myself, felt a shift in their physicality. Had their bodies softened, slowed, grown less accustomed to the rigors of dance? Did they, too, feel a sense of disorientation, lacking the framework of choreography and the kinetic energy of performing alongside others? Were they grappling with the same unspoken fear: that this was the moment they had always subconsciously anticipated, the moment requiring a fundamental redefinition of self?
Scanning the grid of faces on my computer screen, I was struck by the intimate physical knowledge I possessed of each cast member. I missed them, in a strange way. These vain, occasionally ridiculous, undeniably talented performers were my tribe. I missed the unspoken language of shared physicality, the close proximity of our bodies onstage, the subtle cues – scents, nervous perspiration, weight fluctuations – discernible only through constant physical interaction. We knew each other through the feel of balanced lifts, synchronized movements, the nightly collision of bodies in space. When we danced, the distance between us dissolved. We were a single organism, an interdependent system. That system was now fractured, and without the familiar presence of those bodies, my own felt strangely adrift.
Broadway’s return felt inevitable, a question of “when,” not “if.” But who would return with it? Which shows would weather this extended intermission? Would I be considered “too old” for Chicago by the time a vaccine made reopening feasible? Would my body, accustomed to stillness, remember the fluidity, the sinuous movements, the precise physicality demanded by the choreography? Or would it even matter? Perhaps, by then, I would have charted a new course, found a way to move forward, away from the stage.
When political gridlock in Washington ended the $600 weekly unemployment supplement, Colby and my combined income plummeted to $704 a week. After paying our exorbitant New York rent of $2,552, a mere $264 remained for all other expenses. Savings dwindled to cover the extended car rental, rationalized as an investment in our sanity. Sporadic teaching and writing opportunities offered fleeting purpose and much-needed income, but as the virus surged and steady work remained elusive, the question of survival, or at least apartment retention, became increasingly urgent.
Our time in the Outer Banks concluded in August, yielding to the homeowners’ return. We felt, once again, like transient figures, leaving behind a life that was never truly ours. A new plan emerged: a whirlwind 48-hour trip back to New York to clear out our apartment, followed by a rendezvous with Colby out West, in Salt Lake City, where rents were lower and social distancing was inherently built into the landscape. Online listings advertised our New York apartment, framing our urgent need to sublet as an “adventure,” a carefully constructed narrative masking the stark reality of necessity.
My flight landed at LaGuardia’s newly constructed terminal. Stepping outside, the August air felt uncharacteristically dry. As the taxi navigated the city streets, a disorienting sense of claustrophobia descended. The streets, once vibrant and expansive, now felt compressed, airless. I realized I was panting shallowly behind my mask.
Superficially, it resembled any other summer afternoon in New York, save for the ubiquitous masks and sidewalk dining. But beneath the veneer of normalcy, vacant storefronts and boarded-up businesses punctuated every block. The city’s pace, too, felt altered, slower, subdued. The usual frenetic energy was absent. No one darted through pedestrian traffic, no one sprinted for buses. Whether it was the pervasive weight of the pandemic or simply a lack of destinations, the city felt collectively paused.
Entering our apartment, the hallway seemed to have shrunk, distorted, dreamlike. A wedding “Save the Date” card, destined for cancellation, and a dry-cleaning receipt from March 10th remained pinned to the refrigerator. The living room mirror had detached from the wall, leaving a gaping hole in its wake.
Sorting through accumulated mail, I fought against the cyclical anxieties: if we find a subletter, if savings stretch, if a stimulus package materializes, if work returns, if a vaccine is developed. Instead, I tried to visualize a different future, a version of myself unburdened by the relentless need to move, the ingrained desire to connect with other bodies before an audience. Perhaps, removed from New York, in a place where Broadway’s magnetic pull was absent, I could forge a new identity, finally release the deep-seated compulsion to dance, and discover a different kind of rhythm for my life.
