Winning is Everything (47 page)

His confidence carried his performance. He was strong and positive, and most important,
committed
to the reality of the drama. The producers liked what they saw, and called Kip back a third time. And a fourth.

By this time the producers had narrowed their choice to four actors, Kip included.

Something strange happened to Kip at the final callback. The director of the play flew into town to help decide who should get the part. The director told the producers he didn’t want to see the monologue, after all. He only wanted them to read cold the scene toward the end of the play in which Nurse Ratched threatens to tell Billy’s mother that the stuttering loony slept with a lady-friend of Murphy’s. The scene ends with Murphy attacking Nurse Ratched, which results in Murphy getting a frontal lobotomy.

Although Kip was vaguely familiar with the scene, in no way did he have it
down.
Still, he got up on the stage, stood in the middle of the set, and began to read.

And that’s when it happened. Something clicked inside him and suddenly he understood the emotion he had to project. A stream of images zipped through his mind as Kip remembered the experiences he’d been through over the years with his mother. As he saw them, felt them, experienced them, he suddenly channeled all those painful memories into the character,
became
Murphy, and gave an inspired reading.

When he finished, there was a momentary silence. The producers and the director said nothing as they watched Kip catching his breath, slowly coming back down to himself.

Kip looked around the auditorium. He could tell, even in the dim light, that his audience was impressed. And he knew, in his heart, he’d just landed the part.

After that audition, things were never again the same.

When you’re an out-of-work actor, you’re not just unemployed, you’re neurotic and insecure, living a fool’s fantasy. Get a job, especially a lead part in a successful off-Broadway play, and suddenly you’re an artist.

The news of Kip’s getting the part gave Jean Bramer, for the first time in years, a purpose for living. She had to get better so she could travel to New York to see her son in his play.

Even Elliott Senior found no small amount of pride in his son’s success. “The courtroom or the stage,” boasted Elliott Senior. “It’s all the same. You got the blarney for one, you can make it in the other!”

Kip had but a week to rehearse before he started at a Saturday matinee. He took the two performances on Saturday to get used to the audience, the other actors, the stage. After the matinee on Sunday, he was no longer nervous. The theater was dark—closed—Monday and Tuesday. And by Wednesday evening they were receiving standing ovations.

Kip was at last a professional actor.

90 

Gary was spending most of his energies trying to find film properties for Olympus. He found that the more he worked, the less time he had to brood. Kip and Ellenor tried to cheer him, but their schedules were so conflicted now, they rarely ran into one another.

One evening the fellow playing the Indian in
Cuckoo’s Nest
announced he was throwing a birthday party for his girlfriend on Friday. He promised a live band, plenty of food, lots of show-biz folks, and hopefully, a good time for all.

Before heading down to the theater on Friday, Kip told Gary to join them at the party.

Gary was lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling. “Naw …”he told Kip. “I’m going to stay in.”

“Nonsense,” said Kip. “A loud New York blast is just what your sagging spirits need. Come on.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Now, you listen to me …” Kip sat down on Gary’s bed next to him and slapped him in the stomach. “You can’t go on like this forever. Even Nora would have gotten bored with your depression by now, and you know it.”

“I know.” Gary sat up in bed. “Right now I feel as though I’m hardly living.”

“You’re going through a tough time.” Kip patted Gary’s knee. “No one’s denying that.”

“True,” Gary agreed. “But … I just can’t stop feeling guilty.”

“Guilty?” asked Kip “What the hell for?”

“I don’t know,” Gary sighed. “I’m driving myself crazy.”

“Hey …” Kip poked Gary in the ribs. “Tell me. I want to know. Really.”

“It’s … oh … the night before Nora died. It’s all so crazy. I don’t know what I was thinking. There was this guy hanging around the hospital. His mom was real ill … and he and I … one thing led to another, and I went home with him. We didn’t get to do anything, not really, but we did sleep together. I haven’t felt the same since. It’s as if I betrayed Nora the night before she died.”

Kip looked at Gary like he was waiting to hear more. “And?” he asked at last.

“And what?”

“That’s it? And here I was expecting to hear some tale of intrigue and deception.”

“I thought you just did.”

“Nonsense,” said Kip. “Let me tell you something, kid. It’s time for you to join the living once again. I’m no shrink, but I can tell you what you did was more than a little normal. You were trying to reach out for something which Nora could no longer give you. It’s perfectly understandable.”

“I’m trying to tell you that I felt the need to hold on to another man,” said Gary. “It’s the homosexual side of me I’ve never been able to understand. Anyway, now you know. Are you disgusted with me?”

“Listen to me, dopey. You’re my friend, right? One of my best friends. I don’t care what you do in bed. I always felt those jocks in the locker rooms who came down on gays did so to relieve their own insecurities.”

“I agree,” said Gary. “But now that I’ve told you … It’s not going to interfere with our friendship, is it?”

“Now that you’ve told me?” Kip repeated. “What are you talking about? I’ve known forever. Somewhere back in nineteen-sixty-four … Ron told me you went to that gay party Ham Forsyth had for the boys at the World’s Fair.”

“That bigmouth. I’ll kill him.”

“Don’t kill him,” said Kip. “I’ve been waiting for years for you to open up about this. I promised myself if you didn’t bring it up by nineteen-ninety-two I’d finally have to say something.”

“So you don’t think less of me?” asked Gary.

“Come on … grow up, huh?” snapped Kip. “You’re one of the nicest, most decent men I’ve ever known. And all I want from you is what I’m sure Nora would have wanted—to see you happy.”

“Happy?” asked Gary, ignoring the tears suddenly filling his eyes, “This is the happiest I’ve been in weeks!”

Kip reached forward and hugged Gary with great affection. “Now, make sure you meet us later. Let’s have some fun.”

91 

Gary hated the party. The smell of marijuana was enough to give anyone a contact high, and it was too crowded and the band was too loud. He had lost Kip and Ellenor long ago, and was all set to turn around and head back uptown, when he ran into a stocky fellow with a full beard.

“Can’t stand the noise!” the fellow with the beard told Gary.

“I can’t stand the traffic!” said Gary.

“Then what are we doing here?” asked the fellow with the beard.

“I made a mistake.” Gary raised his voice to be heard above the noise of the slam-bang band. “What’s your excuse?”

“I live next door. Host and hostess are friends of mine. Whenever they have a blowout like this—which, believe me, man, is far too often—they invite me. It’s the only way they can assure themselves I won’t call the police.”

“I see,” said Gary, still trying to allow the crowd to pass him on their way to or from the bar. “How come New Yorkers hate riding subways, but are happy to settle for the same elbow-to-elbow conditions at a party?”

“Snob appeal,” said the bearded man as he extended his hand. “Don Hoexter.”

“Gary Sergeant.”

“Sergeant … Sergeant.” Hoexter scratched his salt-and-pepper beard. “Familiar name. You’re not an actor?”

“No.”

“Writer?”

“I guess.”

“Sergeant … Sergeant. Wait a minute. Of course.
A Season at the Fair!”

Gary’s mouth nearly hit the floor. “How did you …?”

“Easy, man.” Hoexter snapped his fingers again. “I’m a literary agent. Got my own agency, like, you know, I enjoy being my own boss; set my hours, set my deals. Lots of people send me books. Anyway, someone sent me your book, wanted me to represent it. Who was it? That’s it. It was my friend Nora Greene.”

“You knew Nora Greene?”
exclaimed Gary.

“Knew her well,” said Hoexter. “Lovely lady.”

“Nora Greene,” said Gary. “Nora Greene was my very dearest friend. We worked together at Olympus.”

“Small world!” said Hoexter.

“And she sent you a copy of my book?”

“She did!” said Hoexter. “And I liked it, like I liked it a lot, you know? Thought the book itself was a bit lightweight, but you got style, kid. Imagery. Who’s your agent?”

“No one at the moment.” Gary shrugged.

“No one?” Hoexter’s eyes lit up. “Let’s go! We’re cutting across the hall to my place, where we can hear ourselves think and where we can smoke some hash. I smell a deal in the air!”

Hoexter lived across the hall in a loft surrounded by books.

“I live to read,” Hoexter said as he pointed around at all the shelves lining his long walls, while he stuffed his tiny pipe with some hashish his drug dealer had sworn came all the way from Bangladesh.

Gary flopped down in an overstuffed bean bag of a chair, grateful to be off his feet, grateful to be away from the noise in the apartment next door.

Gary and Hoexter shared the small pipeful of hashish and then proceeded to discuss business. Hoexter insisted Gary tell him where he lived, what he did. Everything about himself.

Hoexter then told Gary he wanted him to write a book—something he could agent, market, sell.

Gary was so stoned from the smoke, he told Hoexter he wasn’t exactly thinking straight, but he’d certainly give whatever it was they had talked about serious thought. And since he could no longer tell where his socks left off and his feet began, he thought it was time to say goodbye and head uptown.

The next morning, Gary didn’t quite remember how much of what had transpired had been wishful thinking arid how much had been truth, so he called Don Hoexter and the agent reminded Gary that, yes, indeed, he had asked him to sit down and write something he could package and sell.

What the hell, Gary told Hoexter. He’d give it a shot. Surely there was enough providence in Nora’s having sent Hoexter his book in the first place to make it worth trying.

That day at work, at four o’clock Gary told his secretary to hold all his calls. He closed his door, sat down at his typewriter, and everything started pouring out. His feelings about Nora, his own confused sexuality, everything that was troubling him.

The book became a much-needed release, and soon Gary was writing from three to five each afternoon, and not long after that he was typing from two until it was time to go home. In the next few weeks he found himself working on his manuscript at home. He was so involved with it, Ellenor began leaving dinner in the oven for him to heat up, because she knew if she didn’t, he simply wouldn’t eat.

Gary’s boss at Olympus realized his story editor was no longer devoting full attentions to the company, and after a long talk, Gary decided to quit. He had become so engrossed in his writings, he felt he had no real time left to devote to the movie company.

He cleared his things out of his desk and set up a small office of his own in a corner of the living room in the apartment.

Lost in his work, Gary lived off his unemployment insurance. He found truth in the adage “There’s no such thing as writing, only rewriting.” He typed and he edited, and almost before he had gone through his second ream of paper, he had a four-hundred-page first draft.

Excited and pleased, Gary called Hoexter to tell him to come get his property. Hoexter suggested they meet at an East Side bar, have a drink to celebrate, and Gary could there hand over the manuscript.

They met at the Mayfair on First Avenue, had several Pimm’s Cups, and Hoexter went home with Gary’s manuscript, promising to report back as soon as he finished it.

Three and a half days later Hoexter called to say what he thought of the book.

And what he thought of
First off the Ark
was this: He hated it.

“I don’t understand,” Gary told Hoexter when they were seated again at the small window table at the Mayfair.

“Understand?” Hoexter looked puzzled. “What’s not to understand? Things work or they don’t. You must know that! I wouldn’t know how or where to sell your book. We got lost somewhere, kid.”

A waiter arrived at the table.

“You want something, Don?” asked Gary.

Hoexter looked up at the waiter. “Yeah, man … bring me a beer … anything you got on draft.”

“Heineken’s?” asked the waiter.

“Swell,” said Hoexter. “Gary?”

“Bring me another Daniel’s,” said Gary, confident he was going to need it.

“Daniel’s?”
said Hoexter. “Don’t you know how uncool it is to still be drinking grains, man? Listen. I got a tiny mound of hash in my pocket. Why don’t I just slip you my pipe, you can run into the little boys’ room, get loaded?”

Gary looked into Hoexter’s dancing eyes. “No, thanks,” he said. “I think I’d like to be all here to hear whatever it is you have to say.”

“Just thought I’d keep the vibes light,” said Hoexter, adding, “Took a few puffs myself in the cab ride up here. Strong, fine stuff.”

“Don … can we talk about the book?”

“The book? Sure, man. Problem with the book is, I can’t sell it. I don’t know where to market this kind of oh-so-sensitive, introspective saga. Let me tell you what I had expected, okay? Maybe that’ll clear things up.”

“Please do,” said Gary, leaning back as the beer and the bourbon were delivered to the table.

“That night we talked, you wanted to write about what was going on in your life. You told me where you were living, what was going on. Hell, man, that’s what I expected—some hot, commercial potboiler about two guys and a girl living together in Manhattan’s single-swingle Upper East Side.”

Gary was clearly at a loss for words.

“Don’t get me wrong, kid,” Hoexter went on. “I mean, I think you write real nicely. But you treat sex like it was none of the reader’s business. You’d think you were writing for Queen Victoria. I mean, you got this young dude and the older woman, right? We wait almost three hundred pages for them to finally jump in the sack, and what do you do—you cut to breakfast the next morning. I mean,
really/”

“I thought it was too personal a moment for the characters not to retain their privacy,” said Gary.

“Don’t let Harold Robbins hear you say that!” Hoexter took a sip of beer. “Listen, kid. That’s life, win some, lose quite a few. What can I tell you?”

Gary shrugged shoulder of regret. “Did you bring my manuscript?”

“Right here.” Hoexter patted his briefcase.

“Can I have it?”

“Sure thing.” Hoexter opened the leather carrying case, handed Gary his manuscript. His four-hundred-odd pages looked like they’d been in a battle, soiled with everything from tobacco to catsup.

“It’s a little sloppy,” said Hoexter. “I really get into my manuscripts. But it’s all there, man, not to worry.”

“Thanks for the drink,” said Gary, standing up. “And thanks for your time.”

“Listen, kid, anytime you decide you want to write something commercial, just call. I got connections right to the top. Just let me know, okay?”

“Sure thing, Don.” Gary flipped his manuscript under his arm and walked out of the restaurant.

One evening a week later, Gary was lying on his bed in his room, staring up at the ceiling, when Ellenor walked in.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Gary.

Ellenor sat down next to Gary on the bed. “I did something you may not like.”

“What’s that?”

“I read your manuscript.”

“Oh, Jeez!” Gary sat up on the bed. “Why’d you do that? Didn’t I ask you not to? Didn’t I?”

“Hey, listen, buster. You can lie around and wallow about doing nothing, all you want. But I’m concerned. You get any more morose, next thing you’ll be late with your rent check, then one day you’ll not pay at all, and soon we’ll all be out on the street with our secondhand furniture.”

“I think you’re being a little dramatic,” said Gary.

“Maybe. That’s one of the things that come from living with an actor,” said Ellenor. “But to the point. I’m
mad
for your book!”

Gary leaned forward and grabbed Ellenor’s hand. “Honest?”

“Hope to die!” said Ellenor. “It’s so good. So goddamn good! What are you going to do about it?”

“Who knows?” said Gary. “I thought I’d leave it alone awhile. Get some distance from it before plowing into another draft.”

“Wrong!”
Ellenor announced. “This manuscript is as solid a first draft as anyone could hope to have. What you need now is a publisher, an editor, someone to work with.”

“Fine!” said Gary. “Like who?”

“Oh, come on.” Ellenor snapped her fingers. “You must know dozens of editors from your days at Olympus.”

“Yeah, but they think of me as a story editor. Not as a writer.”

“What about Michael Reese?” asked Ellenor. “The guy who edited
A Season at the Fair”

“I thought of calling him,” said Gary. “But he’s left Gyro Press. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Littlefield is where he is now.” Ellenor blew at her nails cavalierly.

Gary sat up in bed. “How do you know?”

“It’s amazing the things you can find out with a few well-placed phone calls.”

“Littlefield?” said Gary. “Maybe I should call him.”

“Now, that’s what I call a terrific idea!” said Ellenor.