Winning is Everything (18 page)

36 

Kip picked up the current issues of
Backstage
and
Show Business
at a busy news kiosk off Times Square and rushed over to a nearby coffee shop, where he sat down with a glass of milk and opened the newspapers to the audition announcements.

Nothing doing. Lots of calls for dancers. A few singers needed to fill out a traveling group, but no calls for straight actors.

A couple of guys and a girl in the next booth smiled over at Kip. He recognized them as regulars from the bar at Joe Allen’s, and asked how they were doing. They said they were on their way to the Theater de Lys to audition for some new drama. A friend of a friend was married to the woman who cleans the producer’s apartment, and he had mentioned the open call.

When they arrived at the Theater de Lys twenty-two minutes later, they learned that, yes, there were auditions being held, but no, they were not open to non-Equity members. The only way you got in would be if you were sent over by a reputable agent.

No agent, no audition. No audition, no agent. You couldn’t get one without the other. Agents wouldn’t send you out if you didn’t have credits, and you couldn’t get credits if you never got sent out. Classic Catch-22.

Kip subwayed home at the height of rush hour, annoyed with himself for having pursued yet another wild-goose chase. He had twelve weeks to go before his unemployment would run out, and he was determined to connect with something before then. He certainly couldn’t call his father, and he was determined not to have to stoop to waiting on tables.

His best bet was to get an agent.

The next morning, armed with copies of the falsified résumé typed by Ellenor, and duplicated copies of the photos Janet Evans had sent him after the Vitalis shoot, Kip struck out to seek representation. He traipsed uptown, downtown, crosstown, from building to building, office to office, dropping off pictures and résumés, never making it past receptionists or secretaries.

All his life, Kip had been told how good-looking he was; told that because he possessed such magnetism, he was certain to go far. And all he wondered was: why, instead of being so far ahead, was he falling so very far behind?

Then one day, while Kip was again making the rounds, he met Rhonda Gulreich, an aging lady with her own small agency, who took an instant liking to him.

“Come back tomorrow morning, ten o’clock,” she told him. “I’ll send you out on a call or two … get a reaction … see if you’ve got what it takes. Any questions?”

“Nope. Just a word of thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Until then … get a haircut, put on a clean shirt, shave closely, shine your shoes, wash behind your ears, brush your teeth.”

To Kip’s great surprise, she actually had some calls for him the next morning.

“We got twenty-five thousand actors in Equity fighting to fill two hundred jobs,” she warned him as she put her feet up on her desk. “To be a successful actor, you’ve got to be seriously committed.”

“I’m beginning to believe that,” said Kip.

“Good. Just so long as we understand each other. I got a feeling about you, though. Don’t know if you’ve got what it takes, but you’re sure one hell of a looker. Now, about these calls. Couple of guys I’ve known for eight thousand years are putting together an industrial film for Bethlehem Steel. Looking for hard-hat types. How ‘bout you go over there, let them take a look at you?”

“Sure!”

Rhonda made a phone call and spoke to three different people, all of them as seemingly confused as she.

“They’re expecting you ten minutes ago,” she said, scribbling on a scrap of paper. “Here’s the address.”

The audition was a shambles.

Not only was it impossible to tell who was in charge, it was also difficult for Kip to make his way through the sea of other actors also trying out. He finally was about to give up when he bumped into a large lady with a clipboard who was one of the women Rhonda Gulreich had spoken with directly.

“Of course!” said the large woman. “You’re Rhonda’s new dream-boat. Follow me. We’ll go into the studio, find out who’s doing what to whom, and how soon they can have you read.”

“Read?” asked Kip, suddenly nervous.

“Yeah,” said the large lady with the clipboard.
“Read!
We’re doing an industrial movie. Didn’t Rhonda tell you?”

“Yes, but I haven’t seen the script,” Kip protested.

“Not to worry. Neither has anyone else. I think what they want are cold deliveries. Follow me.”

Kip followed her through a heavy metal door into a cavernous studio that had loads of lights and a large professional-looking motion-picture camera.

Kip’s insides curdled at the sight of so much equipment, and he realized that this was, indeed, a serious audition.

“Hate to break up your pinochle game, you clowns,” said the large lady to three men having a conference behind the camera. “But we’ve got an army of actors waiting outside to be seen. I brought one in here with me for you to get a quick look at. This is Kip Gramer—”

“Bramer,” Kip corrected her politely.

“That’s what I said!” said the lady to the men still standing behind the camera. “What d’ya think?”

“Let ‘im read,” offered one of the men. “Where’s the script?”

A thin lady with glasses and a pencil stabbed through a bun in the back of her hair appeared with two copies of the script. Handing one to Kip, she proclaimed, all business, “Pages thirteen to fifteen.”

“Should we shoot him?” asked one of the men behind the camera.

“Not yet,” said another. “See how well he reads first.”

“Okay, young man,” said the apparent director. “Irene, show the young man where to stand. You read with him. Let’s get going …”

Irene, the girl with the pencil in her hair, walked over to Kip, took his hand, and led him to the desired spot in front of the camera.

“I’m your wife,” she told Kip. “You’re just coming home from the steel mill.” Then, before he could glance at the script before him, she began: “Darling! You’re back from the plant. How’d it go?”

There was a long silence as a nervous Kip tried to find his place on the page. “Just great, darling,” he said, and couldn’t believe that the nervous and shaky voice was his own.

Irene rolled her eyes skyward and halfheartedly recited her next line.

Her reaction to his poor performance made Kip even more nervous, and not only did it take him forever to find his next cue, he delivered it in the strangest falsetto ever to pass his lips.

“Thank you!!” cried a voice from the dark behind the camera, interrupting Irene’s next line. “That’s fine. Thank you.”

“You think you might want to put him on film?” asked another voice from the dark.

“What for?”

Kip’s spirits sank.

The large lady with the clipboard signaled Kip to follow her to the exit. “Right this way, Gramer.”

37 

“So you blew it,” said Rhonda. “Big deal … you think Clark Gable landed his first audition? Rubbish!”

Kip had walked back to Rhonda’s office on Seventh Avenue and was now sitting across from her, his hands holding up a glum chin. “I don’t know what happened,” he told her. “I suddenly became so intimidated. All those lights, people staring at me, a movie camera, for God’s sake …”

“Forget it. They liked the way you looked, didn’t they? That’s half the battle right there.” Rhonda picked up the phone to get Kip another audition.

At nine o’clock the following morning Kip found himself downtown on lower Broadway in a subbasement with eight other struggling actors, reading for a showcase production of some new play called
Slow Mice.

The production had
schlock
written all over it. Still, Kip was at least given half an hour to prepare, and he realized that Rhonda must have sent him down to read for these fools just to practice. It didn’t matter. It didn’t count.

Kip took a deep breath and relaxed.

When someone called his name, he broke into a sweat and then managed to actually outdo his lousy performance of the day before.

“Well!” said Rhonda when he returned to her office. “It’s obvious we have a slight case of stage fright here.”

Kip stared at the floor. “How come I was never this nervous on the debating team in college?” he asked. “Now, in the real world, where it really counts, I’m a wreck. Maybe I should quit while I’m behind!”

“Nonsense,” countered Rhonda, pinching Kip’s cheek. “Just look at that
punim.
I haven’t seen a face like that since the young Monty Clift. I’m not wasting my time with you. You’ve got brooding energy. All it needs is to be tapped.”

“And how do we go about doing that?” Kip wanted to know.

Rhonda put her feet up on the desk. “That’s the part I still haven’t figured out….”

38 

Gary finished reading the last page of the screenplay and threw the whodunit down on the desk.

“Damn fools,” he said, standing up. He placed the screenplay under his arm, left the cubicle that was his office, and walked down the hall.

“Nora in?” he asked Gloria, her secretary.

“On a conference call to the Coast. Why don’t you stick your head in?”

Gary walked around the secretary’s desk and into Nora’s office. “Got a minute?”

Nora was just hanging up the telephone. “Sure. I was just talking to Billy Wilder in L.A. He doesn’t understand why we can’t find him another
Some Like It Hot.”

“What else is new?” asked Gary, taking a seat. “Wasn’t it you who tried to convince him not to make
Kiss Me, Stupid?”

“You weren’t even here,” said Nora. “How did you know?”

“I read the correspondence in the file.”

“Smart fellow.”

“Just trying to keep up with things,” said Gary.

“Sure. That’s what Irving Thalberg probably said when he started in the MGM mail room.” Nora leafed through a few screenplays on her desk. “I wish I knew which of these journeyman efforts I wanted to read next. You finish the murder mystery yet?”

“Just now. That’s why I dropped in. Why didn’t you tell me the butler did it?”

“What, and spoil the fun for you?” said Nora. “You think there’s a movie in it?”

“I’m not sure,” said Gary. “Maybe with the right director, a new ending. Dialogue’s clever, but oh, that lousy wrap-up.”

“And what would you have me say to the producer who submitted it?” Nora wanted to know.

“I’d ask for a rewrite before agreeing to a commitment.”

“Boy, are you on the ball. That’s just what David Bicker said to do.”

“Never a bad idea to agree with the boss, is it?” asked Gary, standing to leave.

“You’re doing quite well,” said Nora. “I want you to know that.”

“Thanks,” said Gary. “But it’s a hell of a lot easier to say no on a property than yes.”

“Still, the folks upstairs are very pleased with your work here these past few months. Stick around. The emphasis in this country is changing; more toward youth every day. Studio heads will be bending over backward to find out what kind of movies young people will pay to see. You’re in a good spot, Gary. Sit tight.”

“Will do.” Gary smiled and turned to leave the office.

“Where are you going now?” asked Nora.

“Back to my cell,” said Gary. “I want to get through some of the Irving Stone before lunch.”

“And what are you doing for lunch?”

“Who knows?” Gary shrugged. “A greasy hamburger and a flat Coke. Maybe even some ulcer-inducing pepperoni pizza if I’m desperate.”

“Don’t be desperate,” said Nora. “Join me. I’m meeting Nancy Hardin of Bantam Books at the Italian Pavilion at twelve-forty-five. I mentioned I would be asking you to join us, and she said she was looking forward to meeting you.”

Gary walked back to Nora’s desk and put both hands down on the wooden top. “You know, ever since I came to work for you, I don’t know when I’ve ever been happier.”

Nora was embarrassed. “Don’t con me, buster. I know you plan to be sitting here at my desk before the year is out.”

“Not so,” said Gary. “I’d be lost at Cinema Artists without you.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear. Pick me up at twelve-thirty and we’ll walk over to the restaurant.”

Lunch at the Italian Pavilion turned out to be a hell of a lot better than a slice of pepperoni pizza on the corner of Seventh Avenue. Afterward Nora claimed Gary had made such a substantial contribution to the luncheon, she’d do her best to include him in on as many future engagements as her expense account would allow.

Gary could only feel deep gratitude for the treatment he was getting. True, he was putting in his nine-thirty-to-five, was pounding out effective and concise synopses. Still, it was apparent his boss was not at all threatened by his ambition, had, in fact, taken him under her wing.

In time she introduced him to all her contacts either at business lunches or story conferences or on three-way phone calls.

She worked with him on his synopses, taught him how to best tell a story, and encouraged him to keep writing something of his own in his spare time. She turned out to be his constant ally, supporter, mentor.

His friend.

He finally got up the nerve to show her
Babylon Good-Bye.
After she read it she sat him down for a long straight talk about what she thought was wrong with it. She told him that although it was, indeed, somewhat sophomoric and probably not publishable, she wanted him to know she also thought he had definite talent and a fine writing style. She urged him to keep working and spent more and more of her free time encouraging him. Luckily for Gary, she seemed to have a great deal of free time.

Her husband, the popular
Times
columnist Sam Greene, was spending more and more time away from home on the college-lecture circuit. Although she seemed to be very much in love with him, her loneliness was offset by the ever-growing friendship she was developing with her assistant.

She asked him to join her at several of the Tuesday-evening screenings C.A. held for their executives. Afterward they would go out for a light supper together, and since some of their discussion invariably centered around the office and business, Nora could always find an excuse to pay for the meal and put it down on her expense account.

On nights when he had no plans with Nora, Gary let Kip drag him over to the West Side Y, where the two of them took a gymnastics course. Kip convinced Gary the exercises would be the best way for his ankle to heal properly.

The class consisted of stretching exercises, then some work on the mats, then time on the parallel bars and trampoline. The hour and a half went quickly and was a good, strenuous workout.

For Gary, though, it turned out to be something of a problem. More and more he found himself staring at the other athletes in his class. At first he was convinced his interest meant little more than an awakening in the physical capacities of the male body, but as he found himself drifting up to the weight rooms, watching the body builders, watching as young men gathered in communal showers, he realized his interest was maybe not just passing curiosity, but perhaps one—as Hamilton Forsyth had pointed out—which required a bit more attention.

But in the end Gary found it too upsetting to think about and so he began making excuses to avoid going to the Y. For several weeks he was less troubled. Then something happened that was so frightening it put any question regarding his masculinity right out of his mind.

He was racing into his apartment house lobby one evening and hurried over to the usually neglected mailbox to see what bills had arrived.

He pulled out a handful of mail. Bills from Con Edison and the phone company. Lots of stuff for social butterfly Ron: Letters from Liz Bromley and Warren Talbot, bills from Sardi’s, from Elaine’s (he’d recently opened an account), bills for clothes from Bloomingdale’s and Bonwit’s (how
does
he manage to stay above water? Gary wondered). Included in the mail was a picture postcard from Ellenor Robinson:

Gary:

There’s no place like home, true. Still, Seattle is somehow so much smaller than I remembered. I miss the traffic, the noise, the excitement of New York. Hope you’re well and glued to your typewriter.

Love
Ellenor

And, in the back of the pile of mail, for Gary, noticed as he stepped into the elevator, a letter from the United States Army.

Greetings!

Greetings?

Holy shit! Uncle Sam was writing to say Gary’s number had come up and he was expected to report immediately to his local draft board.