B00AZRHQKA EBOK (38 page)

“No.”

“What do you think?”

I look over the ads. They seem like all Sunday ads. No better, no worse.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Don’t ask me. I don’t know the first thing about ads.”

“That’s why I’m asking you. You’re not
supposed
to know. You’re just supposed to react like the dumb public.”

“All right.” I look at him again. “No good.” The line of least resistance.

“See that?” he shouts. “You
do
know. Tell ’im get his ass over here so I can chew it out.”

“All right.”

I call Paul Cooley and tell him he is wanted.

“Memo,” says Art. “Strictly confidential in caps       Hy Balaban from AC       Re Choreo       I have given this matter a great deal of thought and have come to the conclusion that any change in the present set-up would be disruptive and counterproductive       Para       However I have had a long serious and satisfactory conference with JF and have explained your point of view       I suggest you attend as many dance rehearsals as possible so you can be consulted on any necessary changes in the score       Successful work in this area depends completely on cooperation and collaboration       A question of marrying the movements to the music       I know I can count on you to do your part in achieving it.”

Thus endeth the First Lesson.

She times it perfectly. Her choreographer’s instinct, I suppose. The whole plan had a kind of grand design. Had she made this liaison earlier, it might have been worn out by now and our lover might have been ready to move on. Had she waited, it might have been too late and he might have been too deeply committed to dropping her overboard. No—she hit it bang on. The right day. Even the right hour. She is in the strongest of positions now, and unless she makes a major blunder, seems destined to hold it to the end.

What it does for her work is to free her from anxiety and make it possible for her to function without overhanging fears. It will be interesting to see what she does in the next few days. She has been trying to please everyone. Now she needs to please only herself.

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Wednesday, December 12

TO ALL PLAYERS WITH LINES
: Please do not fall into the common and very bad habit of interpolating the expression “y’know.” In the attempt to achieve naturalism, you will only succeed in repeating a cliché. Look at your scripts. Our musicians do not add or subtract notes; we should respect our text just as they do the score.

PERFORMANCE ROUTINE
: Please do not cross over at the rear of the stage during Scene 3, in Act I. Always wait until the scene is over before crossing over. From the front it is enormously distracting. We are aware of the smallest movement of the drops and we hear your footsteps.

REVIEW
: The performance on Tuesday was the best yet, although we still suffer from a lack of projection. Please speak up and
sing
out. The great Frank Loesser had a musical-theatre maxim he often repeated: “Loud is good. Louder is better.”

HEALTH
: Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt once recommended garlic tablets as an aid to memory. We have experimented with this idea across the years with some, although not total, success. Garlic tablets are available at all health-food stores in various forms. Some of them are honey-mint flavored and some are marked “odorless.”
What
a good idea! Try them.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: GLORIA FULLER
(Cathy)

I’m the one from Seattle. (Applause.) Stage-struck from the crib. A born show-off. Strangely, encouraged (spoiled?) by both wonderful parents.

Lousy in grade school, worse in high school, except for cheerleading.

At 15, a break. Scholarship to study at the San Francisco Ballet School under William Christensen. I have since appeared on Broadway in FOLLIES (love Hal Prince!); MUSIC, MUSIC!; and SMITH. Also road tour of CABARET. On TV, I did LIZA WITH A Z; Ed Sullivan’s COMEDY YEARS; and ON BROADWAY.

I am looking for a husband. I am single.

MENTAL HEALTH
: Visit the Rodin Museum. Midge is organizing a group for tomorrow afternoon. Sign up.

QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:

“There’s no way of knowing how it’s going to come out. But I do know I’m taking my shot and it’s great. I was never much for screaming at people or having hysterics, but with this cast there is such a feeling of love and cooperation, it has never been necessary… “The show’s almost ready. Sure, it needs tightening, but I save that for the last minute in order to keep the spontaneity and spirit intact.”

Patricia Birch

There are now 8 days remaining until our New York opening.

45

Hectic days. The tour has been extended and the New York opening postponed for five weeks.

The mass of detail which this decision has endangered is staggering.

But more important. All important.
Only
important. GENE IS COMING BACK. GENE GENE GENE.

What happened was that a rival musical, meant to go into The Kennedy Center in Washington, closed unexpectedly in Chicago.

Roger L. Stevens of the Kennedy flew from Chicago to Washington and met with Art, offering him what is said to be the most desirable booking in America. Business is always good there: the audiences superior, sophisticated, and cosmopolitan.

The Shuberts had to be consulted, but they agreed after making the financial arrangements.

Some of the members of the company are less than thrilled with this development. There is talk of neglected apartments, husbands, pets, wives, children. Also missed TV jobs and commercials, in addition to simple testiness. The chronic complainers now have a new object on which to vent their never-ending supply of spleen.

Others, myself included, are delighted. It gives me an extension of life with Gene—which means an extension of life—although he is not yet sure he can get a new leave of absence for another month. What he hopes to do is compromise with his paper and get them to accept his column from Washington. He says it is the newsiest and most interesting city in the United States. He thinks he will be able to give us at least half his time there. What the hell. Half a life is better than none.

The creative team is overjoyed. Hy and Fred and Larry, as well as Alicia and Ivan, feel that even if no extensive changes are made, the show will benefit greatly from playing in.

Accommodations are a problem. The Watergate complex right next to The Kennedy Center is ideal, but they have only a few suites available (the other show’s cancellations) and in any case, it is too expensive for most of the company.

However, this morning it seems set for Art and Gene to have suites there. And a room for me.

Hy and Fred are going to The Madison.

“It’s not so convenient to the theatre,” Hy explained, “but I like it because it’s so much more
expensive
than The Watergate.”

Ivan and Alicia will not be staying in Washington, coming down only when and if needed.

Meanwhile, the ructions here continue. Art still seems determined to provoke Larry. Their relationship has deteriorated further. Now that the show is so good, Art feels he no longer needs Larry, so he baits him. Larry insults him, openly, often going too far, I think.

“I like you, Larry,” I said to him yesterday. “But I can’t say I always approve of you.”

“Who does?”

“Why do you have to exacerbate the situation? Why don’t you make peace with him?”

“For the same reason we didn’t make peace with Hitler,” he said. “This guy’s a menace. He wants me to quit—he’s trying to make me quit—but there’s not a chance. Of course, I could drop dead, and I would, except that I’d hate to give him the satisfaction. Even if I did, he’d owe my estate my royalties and percentages. My lawyer says so. And he knows.”

From this, I flew back to Art. Shuttle diplomacy. Little Miss Kissinger.

“Art, would you allow me to express an opinion?”

“If it’s about how I’m the sexiest man around, yes.”

“It’s about something more important than that.”

“What could be more important than that?” he asked.

“The show.”

“The show’s great.
Time
and
Newsweek
have scouted it already and the feedback is smash.”

“Then why do you hector Larry all the time?”

“Hector? That’s a word?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was a name. Since Hector was a pup. Hector Berlioz. I hector him because he’s a no-good arrogant bastard with a big mouth. Remember way back when he told me to shut up?”

“No, I don’t.”

“You were there.
Everybody
was there. In front of everybody he tells me to shut up.”

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“So what?
I
remember.”

“It seems an age ago, and what does it matter? Everyone connected with the show has said and maybe done things they’d like to forget.”

“So how come he doesn’t apologize?” asked Art.

Shuttle.

“Apologize?” said Larry. “For
what?
For putting on a hit for the bloody idiot who doesn’t know a scene from a number? He ought to be showering me with bonuses.”

The shuttle has broken down. I give up.

Odd how infrequently right and wrong are cut and dried. Both these men are right and wrong. They could admit this and even find a way to compromise, but they have grown to dislike one another with such intensity of bitter feeling that they don’t make sense on the subject of one another.

What worries me is what would happen to the show if for any reason, Larry
did
leave.

SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON

Company Bulletin

Thursday, December 13

REMINDERS
:

RUN-THROUGH
: There will be a dress rehearsal on Wednesday, December 19 at 2:00 P.M. Half hour at 1:30.

THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: CALVIN SHARP
(Jack)

A terrifyingly ordinary life, I’m afraid. Born Nashville, June 20, never mind the year. Father Coca-Cola executive. Dumb school, dumber High School. Freed at last at Princeton. Glee Club. Weekend trips to New York. Broadway! How long has
this
been going on? A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE FORUM; PORGY AND BESS; Ethel Merman, Bert Lahr, Mary Martin; HELLO, DOLLY!; BEYOND THE FRINGE; FIDDLER ON THE ROOF. Decide on stage career. Drop out of Princeton mid-sophomore year. Excommunicated and cut off without a shilling by F. W. Sharp who had high hopes for me in Coca-Cola. Starved one year. Second year on bread and spaghetti. Third year joined flop rock group: THE BITTERENDERS. Then original off-Broadway HAIR. Same on Broadway. Constantly employed since: 1776; MINNIE’S BOYS; 70 GIRLS 70; VIA GALACTICA (oi vey!); GIGI; HOME, SWEET HOMER (1 consecutive performance on Broadway); ROBBER BRIDEGROOM. Also Reno Sweeney’s, The Bottom Line. Dreams of glory: a motion-picture career a la Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, Dan Dailey. Have tux, will travel.

COLOR
: Today is PURPLE. Keep an eye out for Ruby’s tie!

A WORD FROM AN EVERLEIGH SISTER
:

“A girl in our establishment is not a commodity with a market price, like a pound of butter or a leg of lamb. She is much more on the same level with people belonging to professional classes, who accept fees for services rendered; she charges in accordance with the client’s means. She doesn’t 'sell herself’ as these eggheads keep shouting. Such statements are unfair and unjust. As for the moral and the aesthetic standpoint—who knows! They write books about it, but get nowhere.

“The plain, commercial, fish-face reformer, from the time of Charlemagne onwards, has over and over again brought his hooks into the evils of our generous catering to nerve-racked males and he has always made matters worse. It is only by wisely working around the issue that we can hope to lessen its sorrier side. A saner and truer conception of womanhood and the responsibilities of women is the only way I know of that we can expect to take the sting out of 'slipping.’”

Minna was always the one to avoid the uglier words.

COME INTO MY PARLOR

Charles Washburn

There are now 5 days before our first preview in Washington.

There are now 8 days before the Washington opening.

There are now 50 days before the New York opening.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

46

Washington.

Is this the raunchiest group with which I have ever been associated? Probably.

I have debated a long time whether or not I should set down my most recent happening. Who knows who may be reading these notes someday? And even though they are in shorthand, I have found that others can often read my scrawls.

Anyway. It all began when Val Belmonte, Star’s husband, asked for a meeting with Art. It had to be private, personal.

Art told me later he had turned up with four pages of notes. They talked them over. Art then suggested to Val that he dictate them in detail to me. I would then transcribe them, and they would be forwarded to the proper departments for action.

So right after lunch, he came up to my room. He is a short, fat, bald-headed slob, who usually reeks of garlic, and on this day, since it was directly following lunch, the fumes were intense.

I opened the window.

Also. He smokes cigars.

“You mind I take my coat off?” he asked. “This is a big job we got here.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ll go slow. I know about dictation’s speed. If I go too fast, you tell me. Right?”

“Fine.”

He began. Some of his notes were too silly for words.

“In 'Waltz,’ Belle is now doing her hair exactly like Star. She didn’t used to. Now she does. This should be stopped right away as it is very annoying to Star. The way She does her hair is her way and belongs to her. Not some low-pay showgirl.

“Paul rushes too much the tempo on 'Nightfall.’ Which makes the dancing very hard on her. Tell him take all tempos from her. All he’s got to do is watch her right and She will give him the tempos.

“Whoever is on the follow-spot for her should be fired and a better follow-spot man should be put on. And the same guy or man should be the same one for each and every performance. If they change, every guy follows the routine but She changes her positions all the time so routine means nothing. There should be an intelligent electrician up there (if there is such a thing) and tell him stay with her, to keep that spot on her always at all times and change the gels the way the sheet says. Also tell him if he makes one mistake he will be out.

“The battery for her body mike—the one taped to the inside of her right thigh—is hurting her something terrible. We have heard there’s a new kind—made by some company in Cambridge, Mass., that is a whole lot smaller and better. Somebody better look into this right away. It’s the same one Shirley MacLaine used in her club act and why should she have anything better than us? Check this out right away and stay on top of it with the follow-through and let us know when are we going to get ours. And no stalling on this.”

And so it went. On and on. And on. In its charmless, illiterate, and selfish way.

There was hardly a point that took cognizance of the show as a whole, or of anyone else in it. I do not know why it should have surprised me, but it did somehow. It all stems from Star, of course. A Queen Bee in the classic sense. I think of those years in Saint Helena when Pop kept beehives in the big apple orchard. How fascinating we found that world! Why does it remind me of the one I am living in now? The Queen Bee mates only
once
in her whole life, but she has a few hundred males (drones) who work for her, clean and defend the hive, feed her, and care for her until they die. Well, that is pretty much what we have here.

Val had dictated for an hour, dizzying me. Then he said, “How long will it take you for the typing up?”

“Not sure. An hour or so. I’ll call you.”

“No, no,” he said. “I’ll stick around so I can read the pages as you do ’em. Wouldn’t that save time?”

“Well—” I began.

“Sure it would. These are important stuff. Y’mind I use your ladies’ room?”

“Help yourself.”

I began to type, faster than I had ever typed before. I had no idea I was capable of such speed. The sooner I got him out of here, the better. For some reason, I was tightly ill at ease in his presence.

He returned, got on my phone, and made six or seven calls. I tried not to listen, and concentrated as hard as I could on my work. Then, sudden silence jolted me—like Vartan’s story of the lighthouse keeper who is accustomed to hearing the bell go off loudly every fifteen minutes for years and years. One night, the bell fails to ring. The lighthouse keeper jumps out of bed and yells, “What was
that?”

I kept typing. Then it came upon me—that awful, terrifying, sickening sensation I experience whenever someone comes up behind me. It stems from that attempted rape I lived through when I was nine. Nothing will erase it. I have tried just about everything: psycho-therapy, hypnosis, even specific analysis. No use. The trauma of terror is there, too deeply imbedded to be removed.

So there I sat. The typing stopped, although my hands were still on the keys. My heart was pounding and I seemed to be sweating from every pore. In addition, nausea was taking hold. I wanted to speak, could not. My mouth was too dry and my tongue immovable. God
damn
this ridiculous phobia! All right. Now. The words came at last.

“Please…don’t…do…that.”

For a crazy, irrational nut, my voice sounded surprisingly normal.

“Do what?” he said, behind me.

“Stand there like that. It makes me nervous.”

“What’m I doing? I’m reading your typing,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” I said, still in control but ready to scream.

I began typing again, furiously, and finished the page. I tore it out of the machine and stood up. I turned to face him, handed over the page.

“Here,” I said. “Sit down and read it. And here are a few more.”

I handed him three more pages.

He sat down and began to read. I went back to work, but could not help noticing that already he was making penciled corrections on my copy. Who cares?

The work took all my attention since it was not easy to make sense out of the nonsense he had dictated. I was pondering a long, involved, mindless suggestion, trying to dope out possible punctuation, when I froze
again!
I closed my eyes in a fierce attempt to collect myself. A tightness in my chest, and all at once, pain in either breast—no, not pain—
hands!
His hands! I opened my eyes, saw them, leaped to my feet, and rushed to the bathroom. Cold water—brush teeth—why?—take a Dalmane—pee—there, that’s better.

I came back into the room and found him sitting in the armchair near the window, reading my pages.

I said, “I think the best thing would be for you to go. O.K.?”

“No,” he said. “I better stay and work with you here. There’s a lot of mistakes.”

“You bet there are,” I said. “And they’re all yours.”

“What’re
you,
mad or something? Insulted? What? I touched you? So? You should be insulted only if I
don’t
touch you. Right?”

He came toward me. “All right, so you don’t like it from the back. Fair enough. How about from the front?”

“Keep away from me,” I said.

“But look what I’ve got for you,” he said. “Look!”

There it was, in his hand, an outsized erection—phenomenal. His secret weapon, I suppose. He had precious little
else
to recommend him. For the life of me, I could not remove my stare. It was like seeing a hand with six fingers.

The room turned upside down. Was I falling? Had I fainted? No. My panty hose were being torn from my body, and here he was desperately trying to position me for penetration. I tried to scream, and realized that my mouth was covered with his hand. I bit as hard as I could. He pulled it away with a cry, and struck me in the head. I blacked out for a moment, and the bastard almost made it.
Jesus,
he was strong! Vartan to the rescue. Vartan, who insisted I take that self-defense course. I hated it. So unfeminine. But oh, did it come in handy now! I reached down, grasped his testicles with my right hand and squeezed with all the strength I had. His attention shifted at once from me to himself, as he struggled to get free—but I hung on and added the eye thing with my thumb.

“Christ Almighty!” he gasped. “Fuck off! You crazy? Or what?”

I let him free. He turned away, modestly, and adjusted his clothing. I picked up my torn-to-shreds panty hose and threw them into the wastepaper basket. Now, to my astonishment, he sat down and began to read my pages again. I would have laughed if I’d had the energy. Instead, I said, “God damn you—out! I mean it. Get out!
Now!”

He looked up at me, a man wronged. “You hurt me,” he said. “You know it?”

“I hope so.”

“A little pass. What the hell? You make a federal case?”

“Out,” I repeated. “Or should I call Art?”

“That
schmuck. I’ll flatten him if he opens his dumb kisser to me. I’ll have him worked over.”

I went to the door and opened it. We stared at each other. I won. He got up, put on his jacket, and started out. At the door, he stopped.

“I owe you one pair of panty hose,” he said. “Lemme know what size, what color, O.K.?”

He was gone. I closed the door and locked it. I took a shower and changed my clothes. I called Vartan and told him what had happened.

“Should I quit?” I asked.

“Of course not. Why should you let a filthy criminal like that interfere with your life and your work?”

“Tell Art?”

“What can
he
do? No, tell the skunk’s wife. That’ll
really
squeeze his balls. The picture I get is of a pathetic little parasite. Tell her. That’ll tear up his meal ticket.”

“I’m not sure.”

“All right, don’t. But listen—whatever you do, don’t do
nothing.
Do
something.
Otherwise, it’ll stay with you for always, like the time on the picnic.”

“All right, I’ll think of something.”

He made a kissing noise and was gone. I was alone again with my shock.

A big think.

At the theatre, I asked Bonnie, her maid, if I could see Star in her dressing room after the performance tonight, privately. Important.

The word came back. Yes.

I waited in the outer room while She changed. From within, rock music blared. I looked around. Two refrigerators. One to hold the celebrated bottles: acidophilus, Kefir, yogurt, and goat’s milk. The other, fruit and vegetable juices, and a supply of saltless, sugarless, chemical-less provisions. On the dressing shelf: an Acme juicer, a Cuisinart, a Waring blender, a crock pot. She was determined, this little lady, to live forever. So far, She was making it, too.

She came in, wearing one of her beautiful dressing gowns—they are all pretty starry, this one was especially so—pink with marabou feathers. A champagne glass in her hand was filled with carrot juice. She was still in her sensational stage makeup, and dripped charm as She greeted me. I felt like a stage-door Johnny.

“Problem?” She asked, coming right to the point and wasting no time on anything so mundane as “Hello.”

“Yes.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Hard to say.
Both,
probably.”

She sipped her carrot juice, but held my eyes with hers.

I decided to be as brusque and as businesslike as She was, coming to the point at once.

“Your husband tried to rape me this afternoon,” I said.

She laughed. “Y’mean to say he didn’t make it?”

“He did not.”

“The jerk-off must be slipping. Usually he doesn’t miss.”

She laughed again, infuriating me to the point where I fantasized slapping her, or grabbing
her
by the balls. I did not doubt She had a pair.

“You find it funny?” I asked.

“What? That he did it? That he tried?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Then what are you laughing at?” I asked.

“At your telling me.
That
I
do
think is funny.”

“Why?”

“Why?” She echoed. “Because what the hell am
I
supposed to do about it? Spank him? Or what? I can’t. I’m busy.”

I got up and said, “I thought you ought to know. I see I was wrong. Sorry.”

“Sit down,” She said. “I’ve got time. When you said important, I blocked out a whole half an hour.”

I sat down, surprised, but I must say, impressed by her remarkable sense of organization.

“I really don’t see the point,” I said. “Obviously, there’s something else I should do about it.”

“Like what? Spread it around?”

“No, I thought of going to the police and filing a complaint and having him arrested. I believe rapists ought to be stopped.”

God, I sounded idiotic.

She looked at me for a long stretch, and suddenly yelled, “Bon-
nie!!”
using her full pharyngeal voice, and damn near blasting me out of the room.

Bonnie stepped in.

“Yes, hon?”

“See if Mr. Clune’s around.”

“Sure, hon.”

She went out. Star and I sat together, waiting, saying nothing.

Bonnie returned.

“Gone,” she said.

Star pointed a warning finger at me and said, “Wait here.”

She and Bonnie went into the dressing room, left the door open. Working expertly with Bonnie, She changed in about two minutes flat—like a quick change in the wings between scenes.

She strode through the room where I sat, and without stopping, said, “Let’s go.”

I followed her across the stage, out the door, through a gauntlet of fans whom, of course, She ignored, into her waiting limousine.

As we drove off, She said, “Good show tonight. You see it?”

“Not tonight, no.”

“Too bad. Real good.”

We reached The Watergate. She phoned Art from the lobby and told him we were on the way up. What if he hadn’t been there? I suppose She’d have waited with me until he turned up.

Whoever had been with Art was gone by the time we got upstairs.

His door was open, and he stood in the doorway, clearly aware that there was big trouble.

We all sat down.

“Get me a carton of skim milk,” She said.

Art looked at me and said, “Milk.”

“What about it?”

“Get it.”

“Get it yourself,” I said.

“I mean order it on the phone. From downstairs. From Room Service.”