American Buffalo
““Something for your next season.” I told him I’d read it over the weekend. “You don’t need to read it. Just do it.”
Mamet’s eyes sparkled and his upper lip twitched, but otherwise he held a straight face. There was a pause. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll put five grand in escrow, and if the play doesn’t win the Pulitzer, keep the money.” I mustered enough solemnity to reply that I would read the script that night, and we parted. I was fifteen pages in before he left the building.
Auditions began. We quickly signed J. J. Johnston (to whom the play would be dedicated) and W. H. Macy, but we couldn’t find someone for Teach. At a 10:20 A.M. audition a fellow came in, covered in blood. I asked if he was all right. “I fell out of the car, okay? Let’s just do the fucking audition.” We cast him.
At the first rehearsal, where Mamet heard the play for the first time, he kept tearing whole pages out of the script and throwing them away. After the actors left, I asked why.
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