A Stranger in the Mirror (8 page)

Clifton Lawrence's office was in a small; elegant building on Beverly Drive, just south of Wilshire. French Impressionist paintings hung from the carved boiserie, and before the dark green marble fireplace a sofa and some antique chairs were grouped around an exquisite tea table. Toby had never seen anything like it. A shapely, redheaded secretary was pouring tea. "How do you like your tea, Mr. Temple?" Mr. Temple! "One sugar, please." "There you are." A little smile and she was gone. Toby did not know that the tea was a special blend imported from Fortnum and Mason, nor that it was steeping in Irish Baleek, but he knew it tasted wonderful. In fact, everything about this office was wonderful, especially the dapper little man who sat in an armchair studying him. Clifton Lawrence was smaller than Toby had expected, bur he radiated a sense of authority and power. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your seeing me," Toby said. "I'm sorry I had to trick you into --" Clifton Lawrence threw his head back and laughed. "Trick me? I had lunch with Goldwyn yesterday. I went to watch you last night because I wanted to see if your talent matched your nerve. It did." "But you walked out --" Toby exclaimed. "Dear boy, you don't have to eat the entire jar of caviar to know if it's good, right? I knew what you had in sixty seconds." Toby felt that sense of euphoria building up in him again. After the black despair of the night before, to be lifted to the heights like this, to have his life handed back to him -- "I have a hunch about you, Temple," Clifton Lawrence

72

said. "I think it would be exciting to take someone young od build his career. I've derided to take you on as a client." The feeling of joy was exploding inside Toby. He wanted to stand up and scream aloud. Clifton Lawrence was going to ^be his agent! "...handle you on one condition," Clifton Lawrence was saying. "That you do exactly as I tell you. I don't stand for temperament. You step out of line just once, and we're finished. Do you understand?" ' Toby nodded quickly. "Yes, sir. I understand." "The first thing you have to do is face the truth." He smiled at Toby and said, "Your act is terrible. Definitely bottom drawer." It was as though Toby had been kicked in the stomach. Clifton Lawrence had brought him here to punish him for that stupid phone call; he was not going to handle him. He ... But the little agent continued. "Last night was amateur night, and that's what you are--an amateur." Clifton Lawrence rose from his chair and began to pace. "I'm going to tell ^ou what you have, and I'm going to tell you what you need to become a star." Toby sat there. "Let's start with your material," Clifton said. "You could put butter and salt on it and peddle it in theater lobbies." "Yes, sir. Well, some of it might be a little corny, but --" "Next. You have no style." Toby felt his hands begin to clench. "The audience seemed to--" "Next. You don't know how to move. You're a lox." Toby said nothing. The little agent walked over to him, looked down and said softly, reading Toby's mind, "If you're so bad, what are you doing here? You're here because you've got something that money can't buy. When you stand up on that stage, the audience wants to eat you up. They love you. Do you have any idea how much that could be worth?" Toby took a deep breath and sat back. "Tell me." "More than you could ever dream. With the right material and the proper kind of handling, you can be a star." Toby sat there, basking in the warm glow of Clifton Lawrence's words, and it was as though everything Toby had done all his life had led to this moment, as though he were already a star, and it had all happened. Just as his mother had promised him. "The key to an entertainer's success is personality," Clifton Lawrence was saying. "You can't buy it and you can't fake it. You have to be born with it. You're one of the lucky ones, dear boy." He glanced at the gold Piaget watch on his Wrist. "I've set up a meeting for you with O'Hanlon and Rainger at two o'clock. They're the best comedy writers in the business. They work for all the top comics." Toby said nervously, "I'm afraid I haven't much mon --" Clifton Lawrence dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Not to worry, dear boy. You'll pay me back later." Long after Toby Temple had left, Clifton Lawrence sat there thinking about him, smiling to himself at that wide-eyed innocent face and those trusting, guileless blue eyes. It had been many years since Clifton had represented an unknown. All his clients were important stars, and every studio fought for their services. The excitement had long since gone. The early days had been more fun, more stimulating. It would be a challenge to take this raw, young kid and develop him, build him into a hot property. Clifton had a feeling that he was really going to enjoy this experience. He liked the boy. He liked him very much indeed.

The meeting took place at the Twentieth Century-Fox studios on Pico Boulevard in West Los Angeles, where O'Hanlon and Rainger had their offices. Toby had expected something lavish, on the order of Clifton Lawrence's suite, but the writers' quarters were drab and dingy, located in a small wooden bungalow on the lot. An untidy, middle-aged secretary in a cardigan ushered Toby into the inner office. The walls were a dirty applegreen, and the only adornment was a battered dart board and a "plan ahead" sign with the last Aree letters squeezed together. A broken Venetian blind partially filtered out the sun's rays that fell across a dirty brown carpet worn down to die canvas. There were two scarred desks, back to back, each littered with papers and pencils and half-empty cartons of cold Ooffee. i;. . "Hi, Toby. Excuse the mess. It's the maid's day off," KyHanlon greeted him. "I'm O'Hanlon." He indicated his -giyartner. "This is -- er --?" ,1|-- "Rainger." ;|t "Ah, yes. This is Rainger." |IJ| O'Hanlon was large and rotund and wore horn-rimmed ^|da$ses. Rainger was small and frail. Both men were in their .'iyitflriy thirties and had been a successful writing team for ten ftyears. In all the time that Toby was to work with them, he Salways referred to them as "the boys". 5 Toby said, "I understand you fellas are going to write :3||^ome jokes for me." A* O'Hanlon and Rainger exchanged a look. Rainger said, "Cliff Lawrence thinks you might be America's new sex symbol. Let's see what you can do. Have you got an act?" l "Sure," Toby replied. He remembered what Clifton had seed about it. Suddenly, he felt diffident. The two writers sat down on the couch and crossed their 5. turns. "Entertain us," O'Hanlon said. Toby looked at them. "Just like that ?" "What would you like?" Rainger asked. "An introduction from a sixty-piece orchestra?" He turned to O'Hanlon. "Get the music department on the phone." You prick, thought Toby. You're on my shit list, both of you. He knew what they were trying to do. They were trying to make him look bad so they could go back to Clifton Lawrence and say, We can't help him. He's a stiff. Well, he was t ^fc -not going to let them get away with it. He put on a smile he , did not feel, and went into his Abbott and Costello routine. I ^. "Hey, Lou, ain't you ashamed of yourself? You're turnin' into N" a bum. Why don't you go out and get yourself a job?" 'I got a job." "Certainly. It keeps me busy all day, 1 got regular hours, and I'm home in time for dinner every night." The two of them were studying Toby now, weighing him, analyzing him,, and in the middle of his rouane they began talking, as though Toby were not in the room. "He doesn t know how to stand." "He uses his hands like he's chopping wood. Maybe we could write a woodchopper act for him." "He pushes too hard." "Jesus, with that material--wouldn't you?" Toby was getting more upset by the moment. He did not have to stay here and be insulted by these two maniacs. Their material was probably lousy anyway. Finally, he could stand it no longer. He stopped, his voice trembling with rage. "I don't need you bastards! Thanks for the hospitality." He started for the door. Rainger stood up in genuine amazement. "Hey! What's the matter with you?" Toby turned on him in fury. "What the fuck do you think is the matter? You--you--" He was so frustrated, he was on the verge of tears. Rainger turned to look at O'Hanlon in bewilderment. "We must have hurt his feelings." "Golly." Toby took a deep breath. "Look, you two, I don't care if you don't like me, but --" "We love you! " O'Hanlon exclaimed. "We think you're darling!" Rainger chimed in. Toby looked from one to the other in complete bafflement. "What? You acted like --" "You know your trouble, Toby? You're insecure. RelaxSure, you've got a lot to learn, but on the other hand, if you were Bob Hope. you wouldn't be here." O'Hanlou added, "And do you know why? Because Bob's up in Carmel today." "Playing golf. Do you play golf?" Rainger asked. "No." The two writers looked at each other in dismay. "There go all the golf jokes. Shit!"

76

O'Hanlon picked up the telephone. "Bring in some toffee, will you, Zsa Zsa?" He put down the phone and turned Toby. "Do you know how many would-be comics there are this quaint little business we're in?" Toby shook his head. "I can tell you exactly. Three billion seven hundred and wty-eight million, as of six o'clock last night. And that's lot including Milton Berle's brother. When there's a full noon, they all crawl out of the woodwork. There are only half a ;fd6zen really top comics. The others will never make it. Comedy Jlj^s .the most serious business in the world. It's god damned hard Si^work being funny, whether you're a comic or a comedian." ;%| [ "What's the difference?" 'til ^ "A big one. A comic opens funny doors. A comedian S} opens doors funny." '^||;.,' Rainger asked, "Did you ever stop to think what makes ;1| one comedian a smash and another one a failure?" ?H., "Material," Toby said, wanting to flatter them. S^',, "Buffalo shit. The last new joke was invented by Aris- ^i toj^ianes. Jokes are basically all the same. George Burns can �fe .tell six jokes that the guy on the bill ahead of him just told, t|||;^and Burns will get bigger laughs. Do you know why? Peril^;,:, tonality." /( was what Clifton Lawrence had told him. "Withi(A| out it, you're nothing, nobody. You start with a personality 'and you turn it into a character. Take Hope. If he came out and did a Jack Benny monologue, he'd bomb. Why? Because 'he's built up a character. That's what the audiences expect I^'1 from him When Hope walks out, they want to hear those H rapid-fire jokes. He's a likeable smart-ass, the big city fellow �ifc who gets his lumps. Jack Benny--just the opposite. He wouldn't know what to do with a Bob Hope monologue, but he can take a two-minute pause and make an audience scream. Each of the Marx Brothers has his own character. Fred Alien ?i^' is unique. That brings us to you. Do you know your problem, % Toby? You're a little of everybody. You're mutating all the .;; big boys. Well, that's great if you want to play Elks smokers ^ for the rest of your life. But if you want to move up into the ?* big time, you've got to create a character of your own. When I you're out on that stage, before you even open your mouth, 11* the aiM- i,as to l^o^ th^ i1'5 Toby Temple up there. Do

youT^" Yp1> q|~' took over. "Do you know what you've got, Toby) -anl0 ^,ie face. If I weren't already engaged to dark Gable >~ " rf-azy about you. There's a naive sweetness about you. I( /iackagc it right, it could be v/orth a fucking fortune,^011 ">. pothing of a fortune in fucking," Rainger chimed. "y11' get away with things that the other boys can't. It's like u .-it)oy saying four-letter words -- it's cute because you do^.iieve he really understands what he's saying. When ^, t fted in here, you asked if we were the fellows who w� u -ng to write your Jokes. The answer is no. This isn't a j e ^(.nD. What we are going to do is show you what you've fc e s a h^ to use It' We're going to tailor a character for you w 3LW what do you say?" toi,, i/ed frcin one to the other, grinned happily and said, "I - i] up OUI sleeves and go to work."

evr , ., s^ter that, Toby had lunch with O'HanIon and Rainger I^ , ctU^10- 'Ths Twentieth Century-Fox commissary was an at ^us room ^e^ v/It^ wall-to-wall stars. On any given da no hV cou^ see Tyrone Power and Loretta Young and Be� ^ab^ aa^ ^)on ^"^he and Alice Faye and Richard ^,.,-,all< an^ Victor Mature and the Ritz Brothers, and do^ ' ,. nthefs. Some were seated at tables in the large room, q^ s �i,efs ^ i" Ac smaller executive dining room which 9-,. .� j the main commissar)'. Toby loved watching them all 'n short time, he would be one of them, people would bp< n g for his autograph. He was on his way, and he was going ^ ^ ^gET than any of them.

Ali^ ^er was thrilled by what was happening to Toby. "^, , you're going to make it, darling. I'm so proud of you."

Toby and O'Hanlon and Rainger had long discussions out the new character Toby was to be. "He should think he's a sophisticated man of the world," I'Hanlon said. "But every time he comes to bat, he lays an if "What's his job?" asked Rainger. "Mixing metaphors?" "This character should live with his mother. He's in love |ith a girl, but he's afraid to leave home to marry her. He's i engaged to her for five years." "Ten is a funnier number." "Right! Make it ten years. His mother shouldn't happen a dog. Every time Toby wants to get married, his mother develops a new disease. Time Magazine calls her every week to find out what's happening in medicine." Toby sat there listening, fascinated by the fast flow of dialogue. He had never worked with real professionals before, and he enjoyed it. Particularly since he was the center of 3|'attention. It took O'Hanlon and Rainger three weeks to write |^ sia act for Toby. When they finally showed it to him he was H thrilled. It was good. He made a few suggestions, they added gted threw out some lines, and Toby Temple was ready. Clifton Lawrence sent for him. "You're opening Saturday night at the Bowling Ball." Toby stared at him. He had had expectations of being booked into Giro's or the Trocadero. "What's--what's the Bowling Ball?" "A little club on south Western Avenue." Toby's face fell. "I never heard of it." "And they never heard of you. That's the point, dear boy. If you should bomb there, no one will ever know it." Except Clifton Lawrence.

The Bowling Ball was a dump. There was no other word to describe it. It was a duplicate of ten thousand other 1|^ sleazy little bars scattered throughout the country, a watering hole for losers. Toby had played there a thousand times, in a thousand does. The patrons were mostly middle-aged males, blue-collar workers indulging in their ritual get-together with their buddies, ogling the tired waitresses in their tight skirts