B00AZRHQKA EBOK (5 page)

“Buddy thought maybe you got teed off on account of us kidding around.”

“Good God, no.”

“
You
know. It doesn’t mean a thing around here. Anybody says anything.”

“You mean nothing ever means anything.”

“Well, sometimes.”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“Ah! That’s it! That’s the trick. That’s what makes some of us go
this
way—” He pointed up. “And some go
that
way—” He pointed down.

“And which way do you think
you’re
going?”

He went pale, clenched his jaws so hard that they made a sound. He looked at me, his eyes blazing.

“I don’t
think
, Missy. I
know
. I—am—going—
that
—way!” His finger shot up—pointing to the ceiling, through to the sky, up to the heavens. “That way!” he repeated. Now the finger was pointing at me, as he added, “And don’t you forget it!”

He got up and walked away.

Crazy boy, I thought. As matters turned out, I was wrong. Not crazy. Not crazy at all.

The auditions went on, mechanically now. I was able, between notes, to return to my thoughts of Jean-Pierre and the vicarious gratification I needed now in temporary (I hoped) celibacy.

His penis came to mind. I had seen a good many, many of them exciting, particularly in erection—but there was something unique about Jean-Pierre’s—a finely sculptured, perfectly proportioned, utterly charming appendage.

I first saw it when we showered together, and my impulse was to kiss it. I did so. I went to my knees, put my hands behind him, and kissed his prick. It came to life, slowly and steadily, as I continued. The water was splashing over my head. I went on kissing it until it was strong and stiff. Jean-Pierre touched my head. I licked him, gently, but did not take him into my mouth, not yet. Better to wait, hold something back. I wanted him inside me, where soon he was to be.

Oral sex, in its many manifestations had, up to now, been something of a turn-off for me. I did not much enjoy being sucked. I found it sometimes painful, often unsatisfying, and always faintly embarrassing. As to fellatio itself, I provided it gamely when it was called for, but found it difficult and uncomfortable. The only pleasure I ever derived from it was in the knowledge that I was
giving
great pleasure.

Not so with Jean-Pierre. His organ, from the first, became a personal possession. I derived joy from the sight and touch of it. I felt power in being able to return it to erection often soon after it had been spent.

My sexual life with Jean-Pierre was indeed a new world. Up to that time, it had been characterized as a desperate act. A contest. A war? A hunger. With Jean-Pierre, it was the loveliest of games, filled with joyous delight. We smiled a great deal as we fucked, and often laughed afterward, feeling triumphant.

There were evenings of reading at home. Sometimes, we would read the same book and then discuss it deep into the night. Books were a kind of food to him.

We explored the city together: restaurants, small museums, concerts, and when we felt flush—the wondrous sounds of the Met. The months went by like days.

One Saturday afternoon. We have returned from Yankee Stadium. Yanks 8, Boston 7. (WP Hunter, 14-6; LP Tiant, 13-8.) Jean-Pierre is worn out from the excitement of the spectacle. I am exhausted as a result of trying to explain the game to him as it went along, and answering his too many questions. Two hot dogs apiece. Popcorn. Ice cream. Root beer.

At home, we tear off our clothes…

“Wake up, willya?” AC’s voice. “Jesus, I wish
I
had time to daydream,” he says. “Get me Ivan on the blower. You know where he is? At the shop, I think. Now!”

“
I’ll
find him.”

I do so, and hand the phone to AC. How to describe Art Clune? He looks like an overweight Mickey Mouse. His voice is a rasp. No wonder. He spends a third of his life on the phone. He seems brittle, frightened, suspicious. Then, all at once, he will say something astonishingly witty and comical and win you. He has a slight tic. His eyes are very small.

“Hello, Ivan. How we comin’?…Yeah?…No…
No
, I said. Nothin’ doin’. If I want to piss my money away,
I’ll
piss it away. I don’t need anybody to piss it away
for
me…Sure, I know all that. I’ve heard all that, but these guys, you give 'em a finger, next they want your nuts. I give in on this one, next you know, he’s comin’ up with something else…Tell 'em no; and if he don’t get it, spell it for him. You know how to spell 'no’? I’ll tell you. N-O. Learn it, Ivan. Y’wanna know how I got rich? I got rich saying 'no,’ not 'yes.’…I don’t
want
to think it over, Ivan…Anyhow, that’s not what I called you about. What I called you about is I’m having trouble—my hands full—with this Alicia character…Did I say she
wasn’t
good? Sure, she’s good, but she wants to be the star of the show—what am I saying?
Wants
to be? She thinks she
is
the star of the show. And, by the way, what’s her beef with
you
, do y’know?...Well, me neither, but she keeps hocking me day in day out about your stuff…”

He listened, saw me watching him, winked mischievously, then wagged his head from side to side.

“What do
I
know what? Your colors, your lights—who knows—your beard, I suppose. I said to her, 'Look, lovey, why don’t you leave kickin’ to the Rockettes…’ The Rockettes…The
Rockettes
, for Chrissake. The Radio City Music Hall…Yeah…Then I tell 'er—'Whyncha talk to
him
, not me?’ She says no—she’s got to play it cool with you…Listen, don’t mention I said anything, y’know? The one thing we don’t need at this point is dissension. I’ll try to find out specifics about what’s eatin’ her, and if I do, I’ll lay it on you…O.K. And listen, Ivan. One thing sure. You’re my boy.”

He did not hang up. Instead, he handed me the phone and said, “Alicia.”

I reached her at once and gave back the phone.

“Beautiful?” he said, dripping charm. “How we doin’?…Good, good. Look I’ve just had forty long Russian minutes on the phone with a no-friend of yours…Ivan. Mr. Kurlansky…Search me, but he’s got nothin’ but beefs about your stuff…That’s what I told him, I said talk to
her
, her hearing aid’s workin’—but he says no, he wants
me
to be the baddie…I swear I don’t know. Colors, mostly—and he says a lot of the period stuff, especially the men, is all wrong. He says maybe for England, all right, but n.g. for U.S. From the what?...Oh, yeah.
American
fashion magazines. All right, I’ll tell 'im he’s wrong…And listen, Kiddo. You’re my Kiddo. O.K.?”

He handed me the phone. “Not that I owe you any goddamn explanations,” he said. “Who the hell are
you
, anyway? But just so you understand—the way to keep these bastards on their toes is to let them know they’re not perfect. With those two, it’s like this—whether they like each other or not personally, who knows, who cares? But they do have respect for each other’s work and stuff—so my technique is gonna help them both, without them knowing it even. Understand?”

“Of course.”

“What else? Oh, yeah. Did Chris give you the rewrite on Scene Three?”

“Yes, he did.”

“So why didn’t you give it to me? What’re you savin’ it for? Armenian Easter?”

“I haven’t had a chance, Mr. Clune. You came in and started phoning right off.”

“What’s more important, for Chrissake, a phone call or a rewrite?”

I heard myself yelling. “You didn’t give me a
chance
, God damn it! Here it is, so
knock it off!”
I threw the red manila envelope on the desk. He stared at me, shaken. He started to say something, stopped, started again, and blinked. Finally, words came.

“What is it with you? Your period, or what?”

“None of your goddamn
business
!” I said.

A silence. Then his placating voice, even more irritating than his scolding voice. A kind of whine.

“Come on, Midge. I was
teasing
. Having fun. You know that. What’s the fun of the business if you can’t have some fun? Right?”

“I’m too old for teasing.”

“All right. I’m sorry. Right. My apologies. O.K.?
Mea culpa
.” (Where did he get
that
?) “Have dinner with me?”

“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”

I was thinking: Thank you, darling Vartan. I
did
listen. I
do
remember: “Listen. Always remember. The way to handle a bully is to bully him back. Most of them are insecure cowards. Give 'em a good screech and they fall apart.”

AC moved to me and actually patted my cheek.

“That’s a nice little stack you blow there, Kiddo.”

I decided to let him off the hook, smiled sweetly and said, “Yes. A birthday present from my Irish mother.”

“Dinner?” he asked.

“No, but thanks all the same.”

“You on a permanent hook-up? I should’ve asked before I let Clay hire you.”

“I’m as loose as a goose, Mr. Clune. Free-lancing, just at present.”

“Not for long, around here,” he said. “
What
a pack of wolves! Including me.”

“Howl somewhere else, if you don’t mind. I’ve got two principles. One, never with the boss. Ruins the work. And two, never with a married man. Never. Tried it twice. Disaster. You mix it up with a married man, and you find yourself alone a lot at the strangest times.”

“Well, I’m married—but not very. The boss part—what can I do?”

“Do nothing, and we’ll both be happier.”

“
Plus ça change…
” he said.

I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, and neither did he.

He picked up the red envelope, hefted it once or twice, and said, “Memo to Christopher Feller.” I picked up my pad, and began taking it down. “Thanks for the new Scene Three       It is no doubt an improvement on the old Scene Three       However I am sure you can still do better       I have all the faith in the world in you       and I know you are going to come up with a Scene Three that will have us all cheering.       The only thing is dash time is getting short and I would appreciate you giving this your attention right away       I would like to have a final Scene Three for the first day of rehearsal       Best wishes…Got that?”

“Yes. Would you like me to read it back?”

“God, no. I
hate
the sound of my memos. So smarmy.”

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Tuesday, August 14

FIRST REHEARSAL CALL
: Today, on stage at The Imperial Theatre at 3:00 P.M., will be the first rehearsal call for all members of the cast. Today’s detailed rehearsal schedule will be posted on the Call Board at the Theatre. We look forward to seeing everyone then.

GODSPEED
: We extend a hearty and hopeful welcome to all members of the company. For the moment, nothing is more important than the mastery of the material. I know that most of you know most of your lines, but if not, please get to do so as soon as possible. Progress will begin only from that time.

L.G.

PRODUCTION MEETINGS
: Following is a brief notation of the production meetings which will be taking place daily beginning September 12. As each meeting comes up, greater detail will be given in the Bulletin. All will take place at The Imperial Theatre at 2:00 P.M.

Wednesday, Sept. 12   - Organization/Schedules

Thursday, Sept. 13      - Sets and Lights

Friday, Sept. 14           - Music

Saturday, Sept. 15       - Costumes and Wigs

Sunday, Sept. 16          - Musical Staging

Monday, Sept. 17         - Logistics and Take Out

Tuesday, Sept. 18         - Props

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: PATTI ROLPH
(Mary Anne)

I grew up in Indiana on the shores of Lake Michigan and I am a firm believer in the mysterious powers of the Midwestern soil. I began acting and singing in children’s theatre in Ann Arbor when I was 12 and spent six summers as a teenager working both backstage and onstage at The Cape Playhouse, Dennis, Mass. Yale Drama School. California School of the Arts. GODSPELL (several roles). THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM in Vermont. I now study acting with Uta Hagen, singing with Keith Davis, dancing with Alvin Ailey. I am bucking for sergeant. Keep your eye on me. Someday you’ll be able to say, “I knew her when.” Or, “I used to buy her coffee.” By the way, anybody wants to buy me coffee, O.K. Light, no sugar.

HIGH HOLIDAYS
: Mr. Clune wishes to inform the Hebrew members of the company (if any) that he has received a special dispensation from The Chief Rabbi of Show Business to rehearse on both Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, since “rehearsing” is not—by Talmudic Law—considered “work.” Did you all know that? Seriously, folks—if anyone plans to take either or both of those days off—please inform Clay Botsford or Midge as soon as possible.

RUNNING ORDER
: The latest running order is dated September 1, and is mimeographed on blue stock. If you do not have a copy of this, contact Midge Maghakian, who will provide it. In any case, please destroy any other versions. The rewrite of Act I, Scene 3, will be distributed at rehearsal on Wednesday.

QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:

“On with the dance, let the joy be unrefined.”

Carrie Watson, star madam

of the World’s Fair, 1893

There are now 39 rehearsal days remaining until the Boston opening.

4

First day of rehearsal for the full company. The dancers have been at it for two weeks, the singers, for one—but this afternoon, at 3:00 p.m., the full company assembles on the stage of The Imperial Theatre for a go-through of the whole show.

They begin to arrive shortly after 2:00. What an eager bunch! Promptly at 3:00, Clay calls for order and there is the required Equity procedure. A representative is there to check contracts, the rules are read, a Deputy is elected (Gracie Mills, who plays one of the Everleigh sisters).

Each member of the staff, cast, and crew has been given a paste-on badge bearing his or her name and the name of the part he or she is playing. Or position on the show.

The girls are stunning, the men interesting. Hy Balaban is at the piano, doing some last-minute coaching.

Hy is the composer. He looks like Pablo Picasso with hair. Piercing eyes, an infectious laugh. A girl-watcher of the first water. He plays beautifully and although his voice is not much, he performs the songs better than anyone. I wonder what his face looks like without the cigar in it? His lyricist (on this show) is Fred Monroe (formerly Monroe Friedman), a lanky, languid, moody type. He seems to take little joy in life or work or the people around him. Sad. But his lyrics are witty and winning and often wonderfully romantic.

During the Equity hour, Clay comes up to me and asks, “Have you seen Mr. Clune?”

“No. Not today.”

“He isn’t here.”

“I noticed that.”

“Call the office. If he’s not there—try The Plaza.”

He was not at the office. I knew he would not be at home—how
could
he be on the first day of rehearsal? But I have learned to take orders and carry them out no matter how wild they seem.

I was stunned when he answered the phone in his suite at The Plaza.

“
Hello!
” Angry.

I could not speak.

“
Hello!!
” A wild cry.

“Mr. Clune?”

“Where the hell
are
you? Where
is
everybody? What the fuck’s going? God
damn
it!”

“I’m at the theatre, Mr. Clune. So is everyone.”

“
What
theatre?”

“The Imperial, of course.”

“Don’t give me that. I’ve been to The Imperial this morning. Twice. There was nobody. It’s all locked up. I banged—but there was nobody in the lobby.”

“Oh,” I said, half to myself. “The front.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“The
stage
door, Mr. Clune. It’s on Forty-
sixth
Street.”

“Well, nobody told
me
, God damn it!”

He hung up.

I sought out Clay and told him. He could scarcely believe it. He did not laugh, or even smile. He merely shook his head.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said. “It’s one of those damnable repeatable things.”

“No, of course not.”

“And let’s see if we can stall the start for a while. I’ll get Hy to run a couple of Act Two numbers, and do the girls once with the new 'Loving Living’ lyrics.”

Twenty minutes later, AC came bursting in.

“O.K., everyone,” Clay called. “Places, please. We’re ready.”

An enormous semicircle. Everyone there—dancers, singers, principals, supporting. Hy at the piano facing them. The production staff in a semicircle across from the larger one.

“Quiet, please!” from Clay.

The response was instantaneous.

“Good afternoon,” he continued. “This is a read-through, so stand by for your entrances and cues. Jenny will describe the dance numbers—and maybe sketch in a few, roughly.”

“
Very
roughly,” said Jenny.

The dancers laughed and applauded.

“When you’ve got a number to perform, please come to the piano and let’s have it.”

“And stand close,” said Hy. “So I can belt you if you make a mistake.”

Light laughter.

Clay again. “We’re going for a tentative, preliminary timing, so read or play at performance pace and don’t stop. We’ll take a twenty-minute break between Acts One and Two. A reminder. No smoking on stage. No food or drink. Just talent. Thanks.”

Larry came forward, but before he could begin, AC jumped up and faced the company.

“My name is Jimmy Carter,” he said. “And I’m running for President. [
Laughter and applause.
] Thank you. Maybe I ought to sit down and quit while I’m winning, huh? No. I’m your producer and I want to welcome every one of you—including the tenors—and wish you well. Hell. Wish us
all
well. This is a great show and I’m proud to be connected with it and I hope all of you are likewise. [
Applause
.] We’ve got a great Star, a great score, a great book, a great director, choreographer, designer, and so forth, so what have we got to worry? You notice how I didn’t say 'great producer’? That was modesty. That’s on account of what happened this morning. I got here before any of you, and I couldn’t get in. Fact. Know why? Because I went to the
front
of the theatre—twice. Fact. Nobody told me about the stage door. [
Laughter.
] So instead of 'great producer’—up to now you’d have to say 'schmuck producer.’ But I hope to improve and I hope that goes for the rest of you, too. Thank you.” [
Applause.
]

Larry’s turn.

“A tough act to follow, ladies and gentlemen. But. The next thirty-eight days are going to be among the most important of your lives and mine. I sometimes hear players beefing about certain rehearsal calls, and cheering when they hear they’re getting a day or morning or an afternoon or an evening off. This mystifies me. The rehearsal period should be regarded as that magical time when we learn our crafts, perfect our techniques, use our imaginations, experiment, take chances, discover, and grow. I did a survey once on the average time an American player spends in rehearsal in the course of his career. Any guesses? I’ll tell you. Two per cent! That’s all. We should welcome this chance to work and practice and create. Let’s enjoy it. After all, nobody beat you with a stick to go on the stage, did they? Feel free to do anything at any time. Be bold. If it’s wrong, I’ll tell you and we’ll edit it out. But let go. Show me. Give me stuff to work with. Be audacious. It’s easier to mold material than it is to drag it out. No one should be working in the theatre who’s afraid of making a horse’s ass of himself. Or herself. I agree with the producer—not about him being a schmuck. No one who’s been in a negotiation with him can think
that
[
Laughter
], but about this being an extraordinary show—potentially. All the ingredients are here—right here on this stage—and with all respect to all, the greatest is the ineffable magic of our Star. [
Applause
.] How She got so good in so short a time is her secret, or God’s. All I know is I’m glad we’ve got her. The show is going to be built around her—and we’ve all got to help. Look at these little shoulders—they’re beautiful but delicate—and they’ve got to carry this whole production…What else? Nothing for now. You’ll be hearing plenty from me as the days go on. Maybe too much. A final note. Do not direct each other. Leave that to me—if you need help or an adjustment—come to me. I can hear and I can speak. I love you all. So far. Godspeed.” [
Applause
.]

“Here we go!” said Clay. “Overture!”

The last syllable had scarcely left Clay’s lips when Hy hit the long cluster of low chords with which the overture begins. It was as though he could not wait to get going.

I don’t know about the others, but I was all at once a mass of gooseflesh.

Phil Rosenberg, the musical director, stood by the piano and with his baton conducted all afternoon. It is his way of learning the show, of making the show, a part of himself.

The playing of the overture turned out to be far more than that. As Hy hit the rhythms of “Chocolate Cakewalk,” two of the dancers—a boy and a girl—got up, and in the stage area beyond the chairs, began to perform the dance programmed for it. Jenny herself joined them, with Buddy, and a minute later most of the dancers were on their feet dancing. Everyone applauded when it was over, including the dancers themselves.

When Hy got to “Sing It Again”—the Jack Norworth number from Act One, he tried to make Calvin Sharp get up and do it, and when he refused because he wasn’t ready—
She
got up and sang his song, and beautifully, too.

Near the end of the overture, the number we’re all counting on comes in—the ballad—“Remember Me.” A few of the singers began to sing it, and it was so seductive that before we knew it, everyone had joined in—including Larry and Jenny and Ivan—even I could not help but sing. Everyone but AC. I suppose he didn’t know the words.

Cheers and applause when it ended—a great, good, communal feeling. Hy was taking bows à la Leonard Bernstein.

Soon we were into Scene One, and under way.

The whole show read and sounded interesting. I was aware of the vast difference between the written word and the spoken word. Some lines and jokes and ideas that seemed pale on paper were explosive when spoken by a comedian such as, say, Sammy Smith.

Other scenes, which had read impressively, went bland and lifeless when acted.

Larry was dictating notes one a minute into my ear. He impressed me. The smallest detail absorbed him.

During the twenty-minute break, he took me up to the production office and dictated a series of memos to Chris and Jenny and Ivan and Alicia and himself.

He paced around the small room, rubbing the back of his head and from time to time, pinching his eyes.

“Also,” he said, “for the bulletin, later. Reminder. Calcium tabs. The color scheme. Projection. And add to Alicia’s: Rehearsal muslins as soon as possible. Schedule prop meeting…And you, Midge. Talk to Jenny about the girls’ curse calendar—she’ll know what it is—and based on that decide if we need an extra swing girl.”

Later, I say to Jenny: “First, you’ve got to help me.”

“Sure. If I can.”

“Two definitions. One, what’s a swing girl? And two, what’s a curse calendar?”

“God!” she said. “Somebody’ll be sending you out for the key to the curtain any minute.”

“What?”

“A swing girl is a chorus standby. Tough job. Because she’s got to know the routines in every position. I did it a lot in my day. I was good…And the calendar, I was going to talk to you about that myself. You’ll have to get the menstrual dope from every one of the dancing girls—also, a line on can they work while. Some can, some no. Then, if it turns out we’ve got overlaps—two, or God forbid
three
—we
will
need an extra swing girl.” She looked at my surprise, laughed, and said, “Some business, huh?”

“I love it,” I said.

Whereupon Jenny sang a full chorus of “I Enjoy Being a Girl,” and high-kicked her way out of the office.