“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
SAMMY TEBET’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 h
all 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.
Dee and Mike invited her to dinner. She begged off, explaining she had an audition the following morning and had to bone up on a script for a “reading.” She spent the rest of the evening alternating between trying to inhale and fighting off bouts of nausea.
At eleven o’clock at night she finally stood in front of the mirror, inhaled and managed not to feel faint. As if to punctuate her accomplishment, the phone rang!
It was David. “I expected to leave a message. I didn’t think I’d find you at home.”
“I’ve been practicing inhaling.”
“Inhaling what?”
“Cigarettes.”
“What kind of cigarettes?”
She looked at the pack. “True.”
“Oh . . . why?”
“Why True? I just liked the name.”
“No, why the inhaling?”
He listened carefully as she explained about the commercial. Then he said, “Look, try not to take it any farther than your throat. The effect will be the same. No use lousing up your lungs. And after you get the commercial—throw away the cigarettes.”
She laughed. “I bet you think I’m some kind of a nut sitting here and getting sick, just for a commercial.”
“No, I think you’re a girl with determination. I like that in you.”
“Oh . . . well . . . yes.” She knew she sounded flustered.
“Are you busy tomorrow night?” he asked.
“No.”
“Well, how about having dinner with me? I’ll coach you while you smoke. Maybe even teach you to blow some rings.”
“Oh, great! What time?”
“I’ll leave a message for you during the day.”
“Okay . . . Goodnight David.”
She was up early the next morning. Rhoda had called telling her to be at a producer’s office at eleven for a reading. She was really excited. Rhoda said that Mr. Copeland said she was a natural for the part. Maybe this was really going to be her day. She’d think positive. She was going to get the part. After all, someone had to get it. And tonight she was seeing David.
As she dressed she thought about the evening. She had worn the gypsy outfit with David. What should she wear tonight? The long suede skirt with boots? Or should she wear the wet look—the black pants and jacket that were featured in Vogue? The man in the Third Avenue shop had said this was a perfect “rip-off!” Well, she had all day to think about it.
Her sense of well-being persisted even as she sat in the crowded office, waiting to see the producer. But Keith was right. There was so little casting . . . and so many actors. Actors who had experience. As she waited she heard bits of their conversation. They talked about residuals, unemployment insurance. And some even joked about their experiences modeling at body-painting parlors. Nothing was demeaning if it brought in the rent and enabled the actor to job hunt and study. She marveled at their attitude. In spite of all the rejections they received, none of them seemed depressed. They were actors, and all the letdowns and disappointments were part of it. They might not have money for food all the time, but they all managed to go to classes. She heard snatches of conversation about Uta . . . Stella . . . the Studio . . . And she noticed they all had picture composites with their credits Xeroxed on the back. Another staple was the “Week-at-a-Glance” book, dogeared and crammed with appointments for “go-sees,” auditions, and lessons.
She waited two hours, and was finally ushered in to see a tired man who looked at her and sighed, “Who sent you here?”
“Mr. Copeland.”
Another sigh. “Why does Sheldon do this? I told him yesterday—we need a tired-looking blonde in her late twenties. It’s not fair to you . . . it’s not fair to me. He thinks he’s keeping you busy by sending you around, but he’s wasting your time . . . and mine. Okay, honey, better luck on your next stop.” Then he turned to his secretary. “How many more are waiting?”
January walked out as a tall red-haired girl went in. She wondered if Sheldon had sent her also. Did he think just seeing a weary producer at the end of his day would make an “impression” on him for another time? Maybe she should tell all this to “Sheldon.” She walked outside. A little whirlpool of a wind blew some dust in her eyes. Her mascara began to run as she dabbed at her eye. She hailed a cab, but it passed her by. Every cab she hailed seemed to have an OFF DUTY sign on it. She began to walk toward the Pierre. Mike was right. It was not the sparkling world she had seen on her weekends from Miss Haddon’s. She walked up Broadway. The afternoon was ending. Prostitutes in their oversized wigs were beginning to take their positions on the corners. A blind man with a sad-looking dog shuffled along. A group of young Japanese men with cameras were taking pictures of the street. She wanted to shout, “It wasn’t always like this.” But maybe it was, maybe from her seat in the limousine with Mike it had just seemed different. And now, after two days of job hunting, it hit her that she really didn’t give a damn about the theater—not without Mike.
It was four-thirty when she reached the Pierre. She would soak in the bathtub and wash away all the discouragement and grime of the day. Tonight she would feel fresh and wonderful for her dinner with David. She felt better just thinking about it. She wanted to go to some quiet candlelit place and talk. She wanted to learn more about him. Somehow she felt he would un
derstand the confusion she was feeling. Mike would only say, “I told you so.” Because he had been right.
There was a message in her box. She stared at it with disbelief. It was from David. He would pick her up at five-thirty. Five-thirty! Why five-thirty? Maybe it was a cocktail party. Yes, that was probably it. She dashed into the apartment, took a quick shower, and got into the long skirt. She was just putting on her lipstick when he called from the lobby.
“Come on up,” she said. “I can’t make a martini. But Mario is here. And Mike should be home any second.”
“No. We have to hurry. You come down.”
She grabbed a woolen shawl and went down to meet him. He looked at her and frowned. “I’m stupid. I should have told you to wear dungarees.” She noticed he was wearing an old pair of corduroy pants and a jacket and sport shirt.
He took her arm. “There’s a great espionage movie at the Baronet. I never get to see the movies I want to see, and there’s always a line for this one. So I figured if we caught the six o’clock show we’d get in. We can grab a bite afterward.”
The evening had been a total disaster. She thought about it as she lay soaking in the tub. David had adored the movie, and when it was over, they had walked to a restaurant called Maxwell’s Plum. It was mobbed, but David knew the captain, and they were immediately wedged into a small table against the wall. David also knew the people at the next table. He made the introductions, ordered her a hamburger, and then talked to his friends throughout dinner. At ten o’clock they left the restaurant.
“Will you come home with me?” he asked.
“What?”
“Come home with me.” He held her hand as he signaled for a cab.
“Why don’t you come back to the Pierre?” she said.
“Dee and Mike might be there. Besides, I’d be uncomfortable sleeping with you knowing they might be in the same apartment.” The cab pulled up before she could answer and he helped her in. Then he leaned across and she heard him give the driver an address in the East Seventies.