We’d take turns cooking. On my day, I’d prepare my specialty, a great pot of bulgar flavored with tomatoes, onions, and lamb-kidney bits, in the Anatolian manner. Lee preferred boiled chicken; Paula boiled chickens. Cliff, also broke, was writing a play in a large kitchen closet, aptly called I Got the Blues. The atmosphere of the apartment was saturated with disappointment. People wouldn’t greet one another when they entered. Bedroom doors remained closed all day, shutting everyone apart. We might as well have been living alone. Lee stayed in his room and read; when he came out he was silent, an owl by daylight. I got into a fight with another actor, kept slamming his head on the floor until I was pulled off. I’ve forgotten what the fight was about; it didn’t matter. It had been a disappointing season and there was no new play for the coming season.