Once Is Not Enough (16 page)

“But you could learn,” January said.

He looked at her. “Why?”

“Why?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Why? Why should I kill myself trying to learn something I don’t enjoy doing? Sure there’s rejection in the theater. But it’s like getting a turn-down from a chick you got a hard-on for. At least you keep trying because you got a chance she might say Yes. The other way you’re working just as hard to settle for a chick who doesn’t turn you on. Dig?”

“But you’d be with Linda.”

He stared into his coffee cup. “No rule says I can’t be with her as an actor.”

“But . . . I mean . . . as an actor you have to tour a lot and be away from her.”

“Ever hear of a thing called self-respect? Before you can be with someone every night you want them to respect you. And for them to respect you, you got to respect yourself. I know too many actors who sold out . . . turned queer to get a job . . . or got kept by someone . . . And know something? They never really make it, because it kills something inside of them.”

She was silent. Suddenly he said, “What about you? What’s your scene?”

“What do you mean?”

“You love someone?”

“Yes. I mean, no.”

“How can you mean yes . . . and then no?”

“Well, I love my father. I know that. But that’s not being in love, right?”

“I should hope not.”

“And then I’ve met someone. But when I think about love—” She shook her head. “I mean, I’m not quite sure how you’re supposed to feel when you’re in love. I like him, but—”

“You’re not in love. That’s the story of my life. I’ve never been
in
love.”

“You haven’t?”

He shook his head. “To me love will be when I stand on that stage and know the whole fucking audience is there just to see me. That’s the real orgasm. What I feel for a chick—” He shrugged. “That’s like eating a good meal. I love good food . . . I love life . . . I love tasting new things . . . new sensations.” He stopped. “Look . . . don’t look so shocked. Linda knows the score. She’s been my old lady for a long time, yet she knows I might split at any time. But if I do, it won’t be because I’ve fallen in love with some chick. It’ll be for some other experience. For some other scene. Dig?”

“No.”

“You’re a real put-on, aren’t you? I mean no one, like no one can be this straight. Look, I’m a life freak. I want to wring it dry. Linda only pretends she is. But she isn’t. She lives only for that magazine. Sure, she digs me. But I’m not the first man in her life. I think she’d feel worse losing a big story than losing a guy. Dig?”

“The rain’s stopped,” she said.

He stood up. “Your end is ninety cents. That means we’re leaving a thirty-cent tip—fifteen apiece. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The streets were wet and a few occasional drops fell from the trees. They walked the few blocks in silence. January dredged her mind trying to think of something to say that would put Keith into a more romantic frame of mind toward Linda. He seemed so turned off. . . . Maybe he was just talking, maybe he was nervous. After all, a lot of people said things they didn’t really mean when they were nervous. He was attractive in an earthy kind of way and Linda was really in love with him. Maybe after he got in the show things would change. Mike always said he was more relaxed when things were going great.

Suddenly it began to rain. Keith grabbed her hand and they ran the rest of the way, ducking under awnings and trees. They were breathless when Keith stopped in front of a store.

“Well, here we are.”

“But . . . Where’s the theater?”

“Follow me.” He led her through the store, which was empty except for a few wooden plank tables with lemonade and
peanut butter crackers stacked in readiness for the intermission break. A girl stood beside a homemade ticket box. She waved when she saw Keith. He led January past her into a long narrow room. There were rows and rows of hard-looking folding chairs. Up front was a stage without a curtain. Keith led her to the third row. “These are house seats,” he said with a grin.

“This is the theater?” she asked.

“It was an old store. But they’ve turned it into a playhouse. The dressing rooms are upstairs, and Milos keeps a pad on the third floor for starving actors. It’s like a dorm . . . co-ed . . . and they live there rent-free if they’re out of a job.”

By eight o’clock the house was full, and to January’s amazement extra chairs were being jammed into every available spot.

“It’s a real hit, isn’t it?” she asked.

“It’s caught on pretty big . . . mostly word of mouth. I see a lot of uptown people. Maybe some of the producers will come down at that.”

The lights dimmed and the entire cast came on. They bowed, introduced themselves and exited. Three girls remained. “The one on the left—that’s the one you’re replacing,” Keith whispered. “They stay on stage all the time. They’re the Greek chorus.”

The three girls were dressed in gray coveralls. They chanted a few lines and then the young man they were talking about came on. He looked like Keith. He had a long diatribe which January barely understood. The Greek chorus cut in occasionally with an “Amen, brother.” Then a girl came on. There was a violent argument. They sat down and went through the elaborate motions of smoking pot. The stage filled with artificial smoke.

“This is a hash-dream sequence,” Keith said. “They’re using a smoke screen now. This is the scene that’s bringing them down from uptown.”

When the smoke cleared, the two leads were nude. The Greek chorus was also nude. Then actual lovemaking began on the stage between the boy and girl. At first it was slow . . . almost like a dance . . . the Greek chorus hummed to background music that came from an offstage speaker. As the music grew louder, the chorus grew louder . . . everyone
moved faster . . . the dance turned into a frenzy as the leading man broke into a song and began stroking the breasts of the Greek chorus and the leading lady, while the leading lady in turn stroked everyone. Then the Greek chorus began stroking each other until everyone was intertwined in a song called “Move, Touch, Feel . . . That’s Love.”

Then the stage went dark and the house lights came up and it was intermission.

January suddenly scrambled to her feet. “I’m leaving.”

“But there’s another act. Your big scene is in it.” He laughed. “You have ten lines alone.”

“With or without clothes?” she asked.

“Say . . . are you uptight about frontal nudity?” He grabbed her arm as she pushed her way up the aisle. “I mean, nudity is a natural thing. To hide the body is an idea planted in our mind from birth. I guess it started when Eve ate the apple. But a baby has genitals . . . yet everyone loves a bare-assed baby. Our body is part of the expression of love. Do we cover our faces because our eyes send out signals of love or because our mouth talks of love? Our tongues caress someone’s lips . . yet is a tongue obscene?”

“We see with our eyes and talk with our tongue,” she said.

“Yeah . . . and we pee with our pricks and our cunts but we also make love with them.”

She broke away from him and ran outside. People were crowded in front waiting to pay a dollar for a cup of lemonade. There were limousines parked outside. Keith reached the street and grabbed her by the arm.

“Okay, so maybe I’m not crazy about doing a sex number right on the stage either. Why do you think I didn’t take the job when the play first opened? I knew Linda would blow her top. But it’s the way things are today. If I’m not uptight about nudity, then I shouldn’t be uptight about the sex act. It’s a normal function.”

“So is throwing up, but no one wants to pay to watch it!”

“Look, January, the play has caught on. It’s a big chance for me. Besides, everyone is doing it. Big-name movie stars are doing nude scenes. It’s just a matter of time before they’ll go all the way. And it’s not Keith the man they’ll be looking at
on that stage. It’ll be Keith the actor. And that’s all I care about. I’d rather live in Milos’ dormitory and do hard-core porno
acting
than sit around in a Park Avenue penthouse holding a camera.”

They had walked halfway down the block. A light misty rain was falling. The trees that lined the street partially shielded them. Keith tried to smile. “Come on. The second act is starting. Let’s go back.”

She continued to walk in the opposite direction. For a moment he hesitated. Then he shouted, “Go on. Run home. Go back to the Pierre where your father is being kept by a dame. At least
I’m
trying! If guys like your father hadn’t thrown in the towel, maybe we wouldn’t have to do this kind of shit. But it’s guys like him who played it safe and refused to experiment. Well, fuck them! And fuck you! And fuck Linda too!” He turned and ran back to the theater. For a moment she stood very still. There had been tears in his anger. She wanted to tell him that she understood . . . that she wasn’t angry. But he was gone. People were returning to the theater. The second act was beginning. And suddenly she was alone on a deserted street. There wasn’t a sign of a cab. She walked back to the theater and looked at the license plates of the limousines. Several had X’s, indicating they were rentals. She walked over to one chauffeur. “The play won’t break for another hour. I wonder if you’d like—”

“Beat it, hippie!” He turned up his radio.

Her face burned. She dug into her bag, took out a ten-dollar bill, and approached the next car. “Sir—” She held up the money. “Could you drive me home? You’ll get back in time for the break.”

“Where’s home?” The driver was staring at the bill.

“The Pierre.”

He nodded, took the bill and unlocked the door. “Hop in.”

As they drove uptown he said, “What happened? Fight with your boyfriend, or did the play turn you off?”

“Both.”

“They’re all coming down. Just to see bare boobs, heh? I mean, that’s what they show, isn’t it?”

“More,” January said quietly.

“No kidding. Know something? I’m married and have three kids. But I once wanted to be a performer. I still sing occasionally at friends’ weddings in the Bronx. I do Irish ballads. I’m also great with Rodgers and Hammerstein. But they don’t write songs like that no more. No more Sinatras coming up. No more Perry Comos. Now
they
were singers . . . not the stuff I hear my daughter play on her record player.”

They finally pulled up in front of the Pierre. He waited until she walked in, then his car disappeared into the traffic. She was relieved to find the apartment empty. She went to her room and stood in the dark. Things didn’t seem so glaringly real in the dark. She thought of Linda, transferring her personal desires for success to the magazine, making it her symbol of life. She also thought of Keith going into that dreadful show . . . of the limousine driver who once wanted to be a singer . . . of her father probably sitting in some restaurant with Dee and her friends.

She stood very still. Where did everybody go? Where was all the fun and happiness she had hoped for? All those long snow-filled days when she had worked so hard just to walk . . . for what? She snapped on the lights. The room felt so empty. The whole apartment felt empty. Then she saw the roses on her bureau.

She thought of David—and suddenly the dirty theater and the entire evening seemed far away. There still was a world with clean beautiful people. And there still were stages on Broadway with beautiful settings and talented actors.

She would get into that world, and she would make Mike proud . . . and David would be as proud to be with her as he was with Karla or the Dutch model. Because from now on she would not be just Dee’s new stepdaughter—or just Mike Wayne’s daughter—from now on she was January Wayne.

A lady on her own.

Six

S
AMMY
T
EBET’S GREETING
was warm and expansive. He asked about Mike. Called him a lucky devil to be out of the rat race and said a beautiful girl like January should find a nice boy, get married and forget about show business. But if she insisted, he would do what he could.

Then he took her down the hall and introduced her to a bright young man who looked barely old enough to shave. The bright young man had his own office and sat behind a large desk. He had a telephone with five buttons, and each time one lit up a harassed secretary who looked old enough to be his grandmother poked her head in the door and pleaded, “Mr. Copeland . . .
please
pick up on two. It’s the Coast.” He would toss her a smile and say, “Cool it, Rhoda.” Then with a bored but apologetic glance toward January he would push down the button and in a voice charged with animation launch into a multi-figured business discussion.

Between these calls he managed to set up some appointments for her. He knew of two shows that were being cast. She was too tall for the ingenue, but she might as well go and read anyway. Maybe the understudy was open. The other was a musical. Could she sing? No . . . well, go anyway. Sometimes they took a beautiful girl with no voice if they had enough dogs with strong voices to carry her. If not, nothing was lost. At least she would get to meet Merrick. He might remember her when he was doing something else. He gave her a list of producers to visit—“Just for contacts.” They’d be active later in the season. He also set up an appointment at
an advertising agency for a commercial. Commercials weren’t his line, but it just so happened that at P.J.’s last night he had run into the director who told him they were looking for girls with great hair. When she thanked him, he held up his hand in a pontifical manner. “Cool it, sweetheart. Sammy Tebet asked me to do this. Sam’s the man. Love him. Love
him!
Beautiful person. Said your father was once right up there with David Merrick. Well, let’s hope you can make the old boy proud. That’s part of the fun of making it. Gives them something to live for. Now you check in with me once a week and leave your phone number with Rhoda.” Then he went back to his phone with the lights, and she gave her number to the hysterical Rhoda.

She followed all the leads he had given her. She read for one play. She hadn’t been very good and she knew it. She was dismissed with the usual “Thank-you-very-much.” She hiked over to Madison Avenue to the advertising agency and spent an hour waiting in an office along with thirty girls with hair down to their waists. When she finally met the director she learned that it was a cigarette commercial. The beautiful hair was a “must,” as it was important to give the image that
young healthy
people smoked. They liked her hair, told her to learn how to inhale and come back in two days. She bought a pack of cigarettes, went back to the Pierre, locked herself in her room, and practiced. After a few puffs, the room began to spin. She lay very still and knew she was going to be sick. But after a time it passed and she tried again. This time she rushed to the bathroom and was really sick. Then she fell back on the bed and wondered why people
enjoyed
smoking.