B00AZRHQKA EBOK (19 page)

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Friday, October 19

We will be arriving in Philadelphia Thanksgiving week. It is essential that our hotel list be completed by half-hour this evening. Thanks.

H. Wadsworth

MEN
: Mrs. Marble requests that all members of the company refrain from getting haircuts until further notice.

HEALTH
: It has been determined that people working under unusually strong artificial light, such as theatre lights, motion-picture lights, or television lights, as well as fluorescent office lights, lose calcium to a greater degree than normal. Long experience has taught us that to counteract this, it is a good idea to take calcium tablets. These are easily obtained without a prescription at any drugstore. The recommended form is Squibb’s Dicalcium Phosphate with Viosterol, which comes in tiny capsules or in mintlike wafers. Also, you can get, at health food stores, the pure rather than synthetic form of the above, which is sold as bone-meal tablets. The loss of calcium apparently weakens nerve ends, causing nervousness and irritability.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: LARRY GABEL
(Director)

As Lawrence Gabel, I was an unsuccessful actor from 1955 to 1962, when I directed my first play at The Berkshire Playhouse in Stockbridge, Mass.

I come from Milton, Mass. Educated at Milton Academy; Harvard, drama major.

American Academy of Dramatic Arts, two years. Extremely valuable training, but too late. I should have gone there directly from Milton Academy.

The college years were a waste, which is why I advise all theatre-interested young people to get going as soon as possible and learn by doing.

I have directed many plays and musicals and TV shows—but the one I am proudest of and love the best is SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON.

BOSTON GASTRONOMY
: We call your attention to the existence of the finest ice-cream parlor in the world, which has been doing business at a single stand for about 80 years: Bailey’s, on West Street (follow Tremont Street past the “Touraine” and turn right on West Street).

QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:

“Actors should not talk to anyone for two or three beats before they go on. It is better not to. It’s better to concentrate. You are apt to miss your cue, for one thing, if you are talking to anybody up until the last second before you go on. I never do and never have.”

Miss Lynn Fontanne

There are now 38 days remaining until our Philadelphia opening.

There are now 64 days remaining until our New York opening.

16

Art’s suite.

“Get me Patti and monitor the call, right?”

I reach Patti at the Statler. Art goes across the room and picks up the extension. I get out my steno pad.

A
RT
: Patti, baby?

P
ATTI
: Well well well!

A
RT
: I’m glad to hear it.

P
ATTI
: Hear what?

A
RT
: That you’re so well.

P
ATTI
: Wit-
ty!

A
RT
: Listen. Could you use three grand?

P
ATTI
: Sure, but not as much as I could use a number.

A
RT
: Don’t make it too hard on me, baby.

P
ATTI
: As the girl said to the sailor.

A
RT
: Look, kiddie. I’m for
you,
but my deal is I’m supposed to stay out of the creative and they stay out of the business.

P
ATTI
: I notice you don’t, though, Bigmouth.

A
RT
: Hey,
hey!
…How come you’re comin’ on so sassy?

P
ATTI
: Because I know already you want something. You’re the asker so far.

A
RT
: I tell you what I
could
do.

P
ATTI
: What?

A
RT
: I could improve your billing and—

P
ATTI
: Oh,
fuck
billing! Who cares? That’s for either big stars or little gypsies—not for old warhorses like me. This is God help me my ninth Broadway show—so I know billing on the posters is bullshit. Billing up on the stage—that’s what counts.

A
RT
: And what about three grand? That doesn’t count?

P
ATTI
:
(Quietly)
Not as much as
five
grand.

A
RT
:
(Yelling)
Hey, you crafty little bitch! What’re you hondling already? You don’t even know what it is and already you’re hondling.

P
ATTI
: I can imagine.

A
RT
: What? Go ahead. Imagine.

P
ATTI
: You want to set somebody up. Probably Larry.

A
RT
: Wrong! Y’see, smart-twat?
Wrong!

P
ATTI
: What, then?

A
RT
: Not Larry. Somebody else.

P
ATTI
: Oh, I was wrong, huh?

A
RT
: What d’y’say?

P
ATTI
: I’ll think about it.

A
RT
: To do it right, I’ll want you to move over here. To the Ritz.

P
ATTI
: A suite.

A
RT
: No, no. That’s a giveaway.

P
ATTI
: All right, then. Forget it.

A
RT
: It’s not the money, you little pisspot. But how does it look—
you
in a suite?

P
ATTI
: Looks lovely.

A
RT
: So all right. Maybe.

P
ATTI
: And what’ll you need?

A
RT
: One good cassette, that’s all.

P
ATTI
: And who’s gonna make that? How?

A
RT
:
I’ll
make it. Through the wall.

P
ATTI
: Uh-huh.

A
RT
: So we set?

P
ATTI
: I’ll think it over. For five.

A
RT
: Three.

P
ATTI
: Five.

A
RT
: Four?

P
ATTI
: Five.

A
RT
: Listen, stupid—you’re not the
only
one can do the job.

P
ATTI
:
Oh
-oh!

A
RT
: What?

P
ATTI
: You just tripped your dick, mister. That one word. I was just going to O.K. the four. But that one word—that’s got to cost you a grand.

A
RT
: What word?

P
ATTI
: Stupid. You called me stupid.

A
RT
: Come on, baby. A joke.

P
ATTI
: An expensive joke. Now it’s five take it or leave it—and a suite.

A
RT
: Wait a second. I need a layout. The next room and all. Maybe I can’t
get
you a suite.

P
ATTI
: Sure, you can. You’re a power. You’re a barracuda. You’re always telling me that.

A
RT
: I’ll let you know.

P
ATTI
:
Do
that.

He hung up and said, “Bitch.” To me: “Did y’ get all that?”

“Yes.” (I felt sick.)

“Right. So you know what we need. Talk to Whatshisname—”

“Mr. Seidel.” (Should I quit? Of course.)

“That’s it. Talk to Seidel—slip him a C-note, I mean, if you
have
to. Tell him I need a two-roomer on this side. And the adjoining single. It’s gonna look funny—God damn it—I don’t care
what
this little hooker says. Wait. How’s this? Tell—Whatshisname?—”

“Mr. Seidel?” (Or should I just disappear?)

“Yeah. Tell Whatshisname this young lady—lady!—is gonna be doin’ some coaching in there. Hey, that’s good. That’s what we can tell
anybody
—anybody who sniffs around. Tell 'em to put a piano in there—in the single—an upright. Right?”

“All right.”

“Right away on this, right?”

I tried to keep myself from echoing, “Right,” but failed.

I went down to Mr. Seidel’s office and made the request on behalf of Mr. Clune. (What was I doing? I was moving about like a hypnotized zombie.)

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “We’re simply absolutely jam-packed at the moment, and I would be reluctant to promise anything for next week or the week after that. What with the three shows in town—
and
the NFL convention—”

I handed him an envelope.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Mr. Clune wants you to buy yourself a cigar.”

“I don’t smoke cigars,” he said, opening the envelope and peering in. He put the envelope into his inner breast pocket and said, “Let me see what I can do.”

(Should I tip Hy off? Yes. No.)

An hour later, AC and I were looking over Suite 912-14.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” he said. “It’s better than
mine!”

We went next door to look over 915, the single directly next to 914, the bedroom of the suite. AC rapped on the connecting wall, then said, “Listen for me, then rap back, O.K.?”

“Yes.”

He went out. I waited, feeling lightheaded. I heard his rap, rapped back. A louder knock, then the same from me.

In the hallway, he said, “All right. Call her and tell her to check in tonight—or tomorrow morning the latest.”

“Very well.”

At the elevator, he said, “Let’s go up. I’ve got a few memos and also some stuff for the bulletin.”

“I’ll be up in half an hour,” I said.

“Why? Why not now?”

“I want to take a bath.”

“What? Right now? In the middle of the morning?”

“Yes. I absolutely have to.”

I cannot explain how it came about that I was part of the setup last night. A small part, yet I feel sullied and guilty and remorseful. I have the feeling it is something I’ll regret for the rest of my life. I have been trying to explain it to myself, to rationalize, to understand. So far, no. I simply feel guilty and soiled. I cannot justify myself to myself. Oh, hell!

Aki, the soundman, came over between matinee and night and set up the equipment for what he called a “wall tap.” It consisted of an extrasensitive microphone set in a pie-sized suction cup that was fastened to the connecting wall. The whole event had the shape of a dream, or was it a movie I was watching? Did such things really happen? Was
this
happening?
Should
I quit? I was in a quandary. And yet, to be perfectly truthful—there was a curious excitement to the affair. Could it be that I
was
mesmerized by the adventure?

Even though yesterday was a matinee day there was a morning rehearsal call. Equity allows two hours on a matinee day, and Larry took it. Endless grousing throughout the company—but changes and putting in one whole new number for the girls in Scene One: “Loving for a Living.”

I saw Patti do her come-on with Hy, but she is so skillful, so subtle an operator, that he had not the faintest notion of what was going on. She found a spot near to where he was sitting at the piano, going over the lyrics with two of the girls who were not up on them.

All the dancers were warming up, so it didn’t seem strange or unusual for her to be doing what she was doing. What she was doing was driving Hy crazy.

I noticed—I’m sure he didn’t—that she was wearing something other than her usual rehearsal clothes: violet leotard and sweater. Today, she had on white short shorts and a loose-fitting pink blouse. No bra. Near the piano, she began her bends and stretches. On the forward bends, her emanating breasts came into full view. Now she was on the floor, spreading her legs and closing them. Open, close, open, close. Hy hit a few clinkers—rare for him—but no one heard. Patti was moving her legs back over her body in the half-lotus position. As she came down, slowly, just a few delicate wisps of her pubes could be discerned—proving that she was truly a blonde, or else a mighty thorough girl, indeed. She sat up now and turned her back to Hy, who was still trying to keep his attention on his work. I saw his hand go to his lap and his body shift. He was, doubtless, having some difficulty with his equipment. Patti continued to undulate, but in a position that revealed little or nothing. Hy was playing louder and louder. A mating call? In time, Patti responded—stopped her teasing—and performed the frontal routine again.

“That’s it!” shouted Hy, slamming his open palms on the upper and lower register of the piano. “For Christ’s sake—if you don’t know it by now—you’ll
never
know it. A simple goddamn lyric.” The two girls looked startled. What was he so uptight about so all of a sudden? He’d started out twenty minutes ago so nicely, even flirtatiously. They looked at each other and shrugged. Hy looked over at Patti, who was on her feet doing a jumping jack, her breasts so alive that the movement seemed to be a performance by a trio. Hy turned back to the two hapless girls, stuck his finger into their faces, and yelled, “And if you
don’t
know the words, don’t
fake, don’t
sing 'hudga-budga, hudga-budga.’ Just lay out. Mouth something. But don’t
sing!
Don’t sing unless you know the whole words—the
right
words. That’s all. Go practice.”

The girls were off. Patti stopped. Flushed and damp, she moved to the piano, picked up her pink towel, and began to dry her face. Hy sat down at the piano again, and began to noodle—showing off, actually. He plays beautifully, and went into a richly embellished chorus of “Was It Wrong?” from Act Two. Patti, seemingly oblivious, actually calculating, began to mop her armpits, which were not cleanly shaven and so revealed a touch of golden down. She moved the towel up under her blouse and dried the skin between her breasts.

Hy stopped playing and lit a cigarette. His hands were trembling.

“Hey, there, Miss Patti,” he said. “You know what I like about you the most? Why I dig you the most?” She said nothing, and continued to slide the towel up and down her long arms. “I’ll
tell
you why. Because you’re a
great perspirer.
Y’know that? You sweat just
great!”
No reply. What a technique she has, I thought. Hy went on, his voice unsteady. “I’m serious. That’s what an audience loves more than anything. They love to see the dancers sweat. It makes them feel they’re getting their money’s worth. What the hell, it stands to reason—they’re sitting there, and sixteen beautiful kids are sweating their asses off for them, y’know what I mean?” Patti looked at him now for the first time, said nothing, but appeared to be regarding him with interest—as though he were a sofa she was considering recovering. “What do you do between shows?” he asked, gently. She shrugged. He seemed to have a physical need to hear the sound of her voice. Good God, so did
I.
How did she manage to turn the screw so deliberately? She was putting emotional distance between them, as he moved to her, patted her cheek, then impulsively hugged her, briefly. “I tell you,” he said, “if our whole line could sweat like you, we’d have a smash.”

“We’d have a
flood,”
she said.

He laughed. No. He laughed it up. There’s a difference. He was—to use a phrase of Art’s—“building character” with her.

Buddy called places for the dancers, and she was gone. Hy went out into the alley.

A presence behind me, too suddenly, and a voice in my ear. “Home free, right?”

I went flying out of my chair, not only startled, but alarmed.

Art, of course. Where had he come from? Where had he been? I have noticed this about evil people—they are frequently ubiquitous. Obviously, he had seen what I had seen.

“Jesus,” he said. “What a worker
she
is! I could see his hard-on from the last row. Where I was sittin’.
Five
grand? This bimbo’s worth
six.
I would say she’s got a hook in him about seven inches down the gullet. Wouldn’t you?”