Bill Nowell believed in me. And I will forever regret not living up to that belief while he was still on this earth. I should explain. Many years ago, 28 to be exact, I was an enthusiastic and naive college freshman in my first year at AUM. Coaxed into auditioning for the school's theatre department by a notice posted on a school bulletin board, I wound up getting cast in my first non-elementary school play ever, The Night of the Iguana. I had a tiny role as a Mexican houseboy named Pancho, with 8 lines. All in Spanish. Based on my appearance, it is safe to say I was not cast for any ethnically authentic reason, but mostly because I showed up and Dr. Gaines needed someone to play the part. And every night before the show I had to apply "Texas dirt" makeup to my body in a vain attempt to make me look slightly more Hispanic. The results were, shall we say, mixed at best. Anyway, backstage before the show, while I mixed the brown dirt-like powder with tap water and slathered it on my skin with a sponge, I found a friend in Dr. Bill Nowell. He was not only one of the University's smartest math professors (indeed, one of the smartest people I have known), he was also a talented actor and a staple in the theatre department. He was a slight, small, bald man with a curly beard, a wide grin, and the bushiest eyebrows I've ever seen on a human. Bill was kind and gracious to everyone in the production, stagehand and actor alike, and he patiently took the time to help guide this novice actor in the finer points of applying stage makeup. I looked up to Bill immensely in those early days. He took the time to answer all of my "dumb" questions about theatre, including what the difference between upstage and downstage was, where to put my street clothes when I changed into my costume, and how to behave like a proper stage actor when he noticed that 18 year-old Mike had an annoying tendency to break character and chit chat ON STAGE between scenes. He was patient, upbeat, and never once lost his temper. And he was an immensely talented actor to boot. I could tell he loved the theatre by the twinkle in his eye and his boisterous laugh that could be heard loud and often coming from the Green Room. I had no idea how old Bill was (and still don't) but even though he looked older than he was, his youthful enthusiasm for the show was infectious. And boy did he like to talk. If you got him engaged in a subject, he could talk you ear off, but in the best way possible. Many a night backstage he would start on a topic at the start of a show, leading to a conversation that would extend well after the curtain and into the parking lot. But that was one of his endearing charms.
Bill was a smart, kind, and generous man, with a broad sense of humor and a love for science fiction that he and I bonded over. And as my time at AUM continued and I became more experienced with the art of the theatre, Bill was always a welcome sight at auditions and in the shows I was lucky enough to be cast with him in. My absolute favorite show during my time there was in 1995 when we did Noises Off. Bill was perfectly cast as Selsdon, the elder, absent-minded actor in the company with a love for the bottle. I was cast as Tim, the hapless stagehand who often had to play the straight man to Selsdon's eccentric behavior. Bill had perfect comic timing and knew just how long to let the audience's laughter linger after a joke to wring the most out of every line. Every night during that show I would marvel at how effortless he made it seem. He was a consummate professional and just a delight to watch on stage. I lost count how many shows Bill was in (and I think he was second only to his best friend Lee Bridges as to the number of shows he appeared in at AUM). Over my years at AUM Bill and I shared many laughs backstage, at cast parties, and in the parking lot. During many of these conversations, I made mention of my desire to run off and make movies one day. Bill was always supportive and encouraging, but it was during a lunch we had together one afternoon right after I graduated that will forever stand as a testament to kind of man Bill was. In the summer of 1997 I had written a screenplay I hoped to one day run off to Hollywood and make. It was a wildly ambitious road movie that, if done as written, would probably cost several million dollars. I should also point out that despite my passionate love of motion pictures dating back to childhood, at this point in my life I had zero idea how to raise funding of that scale to make the film a reality (and, truth be told, I still don't). But back then I operated under the rose-colored notion that I just needed a script and a dream and it would all come together somehow. Regardless, I had mentioned the script to Bill in passing and he asked if he could read it, so I obliged and gave him a copy, hoping to get his feedback on it. To my surprise he liked it so much he took me to lunch and offered to help me get it off the ground. He wrote me a check for $1000 on the spot, saying he believed in the script that much and that he hoped the money could contribute in some small way in seeing it come to light. I was floored, speechless at his kindness. This offer from him was completely out of left field, something to this day I still can't believe he did. But, as often happens when a young man's dreams meet the harsh realities of the movie business, my scope of the script far extended my reach, and while the money he gave me helped pay my way to Los Angeles to pitch the script to several legitimate movie producers, despite several years of trying and numerous false starts, I was never able to get it off the ground. The script still sits in my desk, just begging to get made one day.
I always intended to pay Bill back for his generosity, with interest. It would have one of the biggest joys of my life to finally see that film come together so I could prove to Bill his faith in me was not unfounded. And it would have brought me such joy to pay him back, hopefully with a few extra zeros at the end of the check I always hoped to write him. But with Bill's passing from cancer last week, that will forever be an unfulfilled dream. And even though it's been over 20 years since that lunch of faith, I have faith that the film Bill believed in will eventually see the light of the silver screen one day. It has to. I owe it to Bill. I was never able to tell him just how much his friendship, mentorship, and faith meant to me, and that will always haunt me. I like to imagine him now taking his final bow on some otherworldly stage, getting the loudest response from the heavenly audience, just as he was prone to do on earth. And as he steps off-stage and into the wings, with that twinkle in his eye and that smile on his face, he continues his never-ending story to the chagrin and delight of the other winged actors present, ready for the grandest cast party there has ever been. There will be another performance soon enough, an eternity's worth to be exact, plenty of time to finish all of the stories and play all of the parts he never got to here. And I imagine he wouldn't want it any other way. I hope if and when I see him again, I can tell him how great the film finally turned out. And, if he'll let me, I'll buy him lunch and tell him all about it. I hope there's a Chappy's Deli in the afterlife.
