Authors: Garson Kanin
I should have known better. Will I ever learn? Me, with all my advantages and training, to blunder so badly. Anyway.
During the intermission, I asked Jenny if she would like to have a bite with me after the show.
“A bite with you?” she asked. “Or of you?”
“Never mind,” I said, and started to walk away. She grabbed my arm.
“Sorry, hon,” she said. “But around here, you’ve got to check everybody out. Me, I’m straight. Was bi for a while, but it got confusing. You know what I mean? Always comparing. Which is the world’s greatest drag. So now I’m all the way hetero—which reminds me. I have
got
to get my ashes hauled tonight, whatever else I do or don’t do. So thanks for the invite, but maybe some other time.”
Afterward, she sought me out backstage.
“Hey! Nothing but strikeouts so far, so if you still want to do that bite thing, let’s go. You can bite on whatever you want, and I’ll bite on a couple of scotches.”
She chose The Playboy Club, of all places.
“I’ve made a couple of scores in here in my time,” she said.
The food was surprisingly good. I had chicken curry and tea. She ate nothing. She drank, but ever so slowly. A small sip, a long pause.
We talked about the show, but her eyes were seldom on me. They swept the room in an unhurried, deliberate way—like a sailor at sea, looking for a landfall. From the bar, an overweight young man, drink in hand, dressed so flashily that he looked gift-wrapped, came over to our table.
“How y’doin’, ladies?”
“Fine, up to now,” said Jenny.
I was looking him over to see if I could tell what it was that made him so instantly unlikable. His untidiness, perhaps. Cigarette ash on his lapel and tie. And he had obviously spilled some of his drink into his lap at the bar.
“You mean you don’t want me to join you?” he asked and burped.
“I don’t even want to
know
you,” said Jenny.
“I’d like to know
you,”
he said, leaning over us. He winked, badly, and added, “in the Biblical sense.”
“Take off,” said Jenny, “I don’t want to know you in
any
sense.”
He straightened up, and looked insulted.
“Why not, may I ask?” he asked with great dignity.
“Because,” said Jenny, “you’ve
pissed
yourself!”
I shouldn’t have laughed, but I did. The poor guy looked down, and in a welter of embarrassment, began to splutter.
“No, no—that’s—I spilled a little of my—Jesus!—that’s a terrible thing to say to—I beg your pardon, I’m sure.”
And he was gone.
“I tell you,” said Jenny. “This is definitely
not
my night.”
We walked back to The Ritz. As we approached it, she said, “One more? In the bar. What a nice bar!”
But the bar was on the verge of closing. I tried to charm the bartender into serving us a single drink, but failed.
“Shall we go back to the Playboy?” asked Jenny, laughing.
“There must be
some
place.”
“We could go up to my room—but not only is there no one there, but there is not a drop of nothing up there. I make it a point. My one concession to sense. Drunks are supposed to keep it around, I know. The psychological effect of knowing it’s there. Not me. That proves I’m not a real drunk, doesn’t it? Say! What about
your
digs—Surely you’ve got
something
—a bit of perfume, maybe? You
must
have. I can smell it. But of course, I drink only Chanel Number Five.”
“Art gave me a bottle of Glenlivet opening night,” I said. “I’ve never opened it. Will
that
do?”
“Will that
do,
my dear! Why, bless your sweet unblended little soul—that will do until the
cows
come home! So shall we ascend and go from sip to nip?”
“Wait,” I said.
“For what?”
I went to the bar and somehow talked the bartender into giving me six splits of Perrier and a bowl of ice. He threw in a box of potato chips. I think I may have promised him a date, I’m not sure.
Jenny swiped a dish of peanuts, and we were off.
In my room, she opened the Glenlivet expertly, something of a bartender herself.
I produced my own glasses, which surprised her.
“What this? These?”
“I always feel like a few things of my own around,” I explained. “Then I don't feel so removed from home.”
“You’re
something,”
she said. “And how come trading your lilywhite body for a few Perrier splits?”
“Well, Glenlivet is scotch, and that means soda, Vartan says. Just as with bourbon, it should be plain water. Branch or bottled.”
“Hold it. Who’s—Vartan, did you say?”
“Yes. My brother.”
“What’s
he
doing later?”
“No idea. He’s in San Francisco.”
“As I said. Not my night.”
“You’d like Vartan.”
“Baby, tonight I’d like a bull mastiff if he could get it up.”
She prepared two drinks, making a lovely ritual of it. We raised our glasses, toasting.
“To whatever happens,” she said, cryptically. “What the hell.”
We sat down and drank and did not speak until we had finished our drinks.
I spent the time trying to figure out what I believed vital.
I sensed that she, too, was working out some problem in her mind.
She got up, came to me, took my empty glass, returned to the bureau, and repeated the drink-fixing ritual.
We sat again, with our drinks.
“What do you make of it all, my friend?” she asked, suddenly and miraculously sober.
“Of the show, you mean?”
“Of what goes on. Of the scheming and wasting talent and jockeying for position and struggling for power. And the cliques and claques and jealousies and selfishness and unselfishness and sweat and what for? This is your first show, no?”
“Yes.”
“It must seem to you like you’re Alice in Wonderland now and then, doesn’t it?”
“Not quite. I keep doubting if this is the way it
has
to be.”
“It always has been.”
“But does it
have
to be?”
“Yes…Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s conception and gestation and birth. It’s giving birth, collectively. Listen. It’s hard enough to do it
alone!
But in collaboration! So it’s full of screwing and morning sickness and worry about what’s going to come out eventually—a doll or a cretin. And the pains—worse as it gets closer, and then the agony. And then it’s there—whatever it is.”
“Jenny,” I said suddenly. “I think you’re immense. An awesome talent.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. “But I’m in trouble.”
“Yes. You are. That’s the point of this whole evening.”
“What is?”
“Why I wanted to talk to you. To tell you.”
She stood up.
“Tell me what?”
“There’s a lot of disaffection around,” I said boldly. “Not so much about your work, but about you. About you personally.”
“I’m not the only one around here takes a drink once in a while. What the hell is all this? What’s behind it? Who?”
“It’s the missed rehearsals, Jenny. And the late show-ups. And the pace of the work. Everyone’s getting worried.”
“And how did
you
get to be the carrier pigeon with the bad news?”
“I didn’t. This is on my own.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” I said.
She stared at me for too long a time before she said, “I believe you…Why?”
“Because you’re good. And I’m on your side. And it’s not too late to reverse it.”
“How?”
“Just do your stuff, Jenny. Go on the wagon for a few days—or until we open. Isn’t it worth it? And stop fighting with everyone. Make friends.”
“They all hate me.”
“No.”
“You said so,” she said.
“They’re disappointed in you.”
“All
right!
I’m disappointed in
myself.
And in
them.”
“That’s not the point. You can only be responsible for you.”
“Look, Shorthand. Don’t Pollyanna me. Don’t give me those bromides. I’ve been around the block.”
She looked at the drink in her hand, studying it.
“O.K.,” I said. “I’ve said enough.”
“You sure have,” she said. “Too much. Everybody wants to get in on the act. On the kill.” She moved her glass to her mouth, but stopped halfway. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve, Missy, Billy Grahaming me. Who the fuck are
you?
You’re a goddamn secretary, for Christ sake. What the hell do
you
know about it? About a show?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing is right. So kiss my water closet and get off my back. I’m surprised you found room. Shit!”
Her face was flushed and she was trembling. She turned and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open. I supposed she was going to be sick. At The Playboy Club, I had counted five drinks—plus two here, well, one and a half. And the emotional charge-up. Should I go in and see if I could help? No. I waited.
“Midge!”
“Yes?”
“Come in here.”
I went into the bathroom. She was standing, transfixed, over the toilet bowl. She looked up at me. Her face, red a few minutes ago, was now white.
“Watch this,” she said. Slowly and with great ceremony, she spilled the contents of her glass into the toilet bowl. She handed me the empty glass and released the flush.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Well, that’s that.”
We returned to the bedroom. She fixed herself a glass of Perrier on ice, using the same ritual movements as before.
“And now,” she said, “let us pray.” She laughed. “Hey. Wouldn’t it be a gas if it turned out I was just as big a fuck-up dry as wet?”
“Jenny…” I began, but could not go on.
She picked up the phone, and a moment later said, “Would you get me the Statler-Hilton, please?” Then to me, “May I?”
“Of course.”
Into the phone: “Eddie Convery, please. Three forty-one.”
(Eddie! It was all I could do to keep from shouting “Don’t!”)
“Eddie?…Guess who this is?…Wrong. It’s Jerry Robbins…Yes. I want you for the lead in my new show…Oh, you are?…I’m sorry. Well, maybe next time. Hey. What’re you doing, klutzie?…Uh-huh. So lemme ask you. Would you be interested in a nice piece of ass?…What do you mean 'whose’? Mine, of course. You’ve met it before…Here. Come on over here…Why not?…O.K. I’ll come there—ha!—pretty good, huh? 'I’ll come there’?…Now. Right now. I’ll drive over in my new wagon I just jumped on…What?…Never mind. Nothing. I’ll tell you when I get there. Three forty-one, right?…Fine. See y’.”
She hung up, looked at me and shrugged.
“What the hell?” she said. “Who am
I?”
She started out and added, “Thanks for everything”—but did not look back.
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Tuesday, November 13
TRUNKS
: All trunks for Philadelphia are being picked up at 9:00 A.M., Thursday morning, November 15. Please have them in the lobby, ready to go.
FOR WEDNESDAY-MATINEE PERFORMANCE
: We are going to look at the show without the song part of “Midnight Waltz” and the song part of “Big Town.” We are not eliminating the scenes—only the songs, and this will not be a permanent cut.
REHEARSALS
: Please check the Call Board Saturday night before leaving. Your rehearsal calls in Philadelphia and the final hotel list will be posted.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: ALICIA MARBLE
(Costumes)
I was born in Hampstead Heath, a suburb of London. Besotted by the theatre from my first panto—PUSS IN BOOTS. My father was an editorial writer for
The
(London)
Times,
and a Gilbert and Sullivan buff par excellence. So I was brought up on the very best. My mother was, alas, a frump and my teenage attempts to improve her presentation of herself led me into designing. I owe debts of gratitude to Binkie Beaumont and Tony Guthrie and Larry Olivier and Lew Grade and John Gielgud and Roger Furse and many others.
I studied at The Slade School, and in Paris at the Conservatoire.
I believe clothes to be an important integral part of any theatrical production.
I am happily, no—ecstatically married to John Marble, who is a smasher despite the fact that he is a stockbroker. (Smith, Barney and Company.)
I garden; also sing Gilbert and Sullivan at parties when sufficiently inebriated.
I have not enjoyed writing this thumbnail (or is it
toe
nail?) sketch.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“‘Exactly what is the Abbott touch?’ an interviewer asked me the other day. 'I make them say their final syllables,’ I answered. A joke, but with much sense to it. One of the major faults of too many productions is that the actors have too sloppy diction. It requires great persistence to get a play clearly spoken, and the actor who swallows his words is cheating. Generally, he doesn’t know he is not distinct; he is striving for a certain quality and since he knows his words, he presumes you do. The method actor is a frequent culprit—he has worked so hard for inner feeling that he forgets to bring it out into the light where we can get a look at it. He has struggled successfully at such difficult tasks as pretending that he is a tree in full bloom, but he has never learned to say the final
t.
When actresses come into an audition and take off their shoes before beginning to read, or go to one side to commune with their inner selves while we all wait, I suspect them of being phonies; I fear that they will be fakers who have thought a lot about feeling and little about technique.”
from MR. ABBOTT.
Today’s color is blue.
There are now 8 days remaining until our first preview in Philadelphia.
There are now 38 days remaining until our New York opening.
Philadelphia.
Relief on the question of the damaged, record-oriented score comes from the most astonishing place—from Cindy Sapiro. She came down the other night, saw what was happening, and raised Holy Hell with everyone. She then went back to New York, dug up some more money, has secretly bought up several blocks of points, so that she and her syndicate are now in control and as she put it, with an angelic smile on her face, “So now those record creeps can go and take a flying fuck at a jukebox!”
Someday I would like to discover the source of Cindy Sapiro’s power. She is squat and fat and wears no makeup. Her thick glasses make her eyes look like a pair of mirrors. She never, repeat
never,
stops smoking—which is why she has never seen the show from a proper seat, always from the back of the house, where she puffs and watches, leaning forward, until she is told to stop. Then she says, “Sorry,” puts out her cigarette, lights another and puffs until she is told again to stop. But her energy is formidable, and her effectiveness as a fund-raiser immense. Her voice is the most grating, irritating I have ever known. It is dry chalk on a chalkboard; a dishpan in a sandy sink; a screeching brake. “In the night,” said Larry one day, “I figured out the secret of Cindy’s success…She makes her pitch and they say yes right away to stop her from talking any more.”
Gene Bowman arrived today and all hell broke loose.
He is a columnist on the Chicago
Sun-Times
, and the author of the book—
Nightingale for Sale—
on which our show is based. He wrote it on commission from the Bayes family, which includes Neysa Bayes Clune (a grandniece), but he (according to them) betrayed their confidence and the mass of material they had put at his disposal. They sued, trying to block publication of the book, and lost. When it was published—not successfully—they quietly bought up most of the copies and destroyed them. There was no second printing, so copies of the book are exceedingly rare.
Until about a week ago, I had a low opinion of this Bowman person, although I had never seen him and had looked at his column only rarely. I don’t know why. I usually enjoyed reading him when I did, but the subjects he covered were not often of interest to me.
Around the company his name was Gene Mud. Art saw to that. He lost no chance to throw in a zinger whenever he could. Gene Bowman was synonymous with liar, crook, cheat, deadbeat, incompetent, operator, dangerous.
Last night, talking to Larry, the subject of Bowman came up somehow. I forget what it was—no—now I remember. It was during a meeting with Chris and Larry.
Larry asked, “Did you ever consider, Chris, opening and closing with the funeral, the way the book does? I mean—it would seem to lend itself so cunningly to the stage. For one thing—the shock of it. As an innovation. We come in to see a Broadway musical show and ZOWIE—we’re at a
funeral!
But
what
a funeral! Beautiful and glamorous and musical. And from the eulogy—fade into The Everleigh Club and we’re off. Then finish the same—from the triumphant finale to the end of the funeral. I mean, I don’t know how far I’d dare go—who knows?—maybe the casket carried up the center aisle, even, for a shock finish. Man! Would that be something? And maybe no curtain calls. I don’t know. It’s something. Of course, in the book, Bowman goes further than we could dare in the theatre—he goes back to the funeral and to the various eulogies a number of times, five, I believe—so that’s his whole tent pole, his clothesline, the spine. For the stage, I’m afraid that might get monotonous—but opening and closing. My God! What a frame. Did you ever consider it?”
Chris looked bereft.
“I’ve never read the book,” he said.
Larry stared at him.
“You never?...What the hell are you talking about? Your script is adapted from it.”
“No,” said Chris. “It’s the same material as his book, but I never read it because I wasn’t allowed to. It was a condition of my deal. I had to promise I wouldn’t look at
Nightingale for Sale.”
“Why? Why not?”
“Because at that time, Art was sure he could freeze Bowman out. And he wanted to be able to say that I had written the libretto for the show independently of Bowman’s book. I mean he wanted me to be able to swear to it in court if it came to that. Of course, it never did.”
“Then how is it that Gene Bowman’s name is on the program, house boards, ads—everything?”
“Because,” Chris explained patiently, “Art lost the arbitration. He couldn’t beat the one clause in this deal with Bowman that tied Bowman in to any and all subsidiary rights. Art took the position it meant publishing only—not stage or screen or television. But he lost. The arbitrators interpreted it differently.”
“But wait, if Bowman
is
in now—and
is
getting his cut—can’t we use what we want out of his book?”
“I don’t know. I imagine so.”
“Well, Christ, if nothing else—we ought to use a funeral frame. Read it. I’ll lend you my copy.”
“I’ll have to ask Art.”
“Never mind.
I’ll
ask him.”
When the meeting was over, I asked Larry if
I
could read the book.
“Of course,” he said.
It kept me up all night—first time that’s happened since
The Book of Daniel
by E.L. Doctorow. What a writer, this Bowman man. Does it matter that he is—as they say—a reprehensible rat?
Who
says? Art and Neysa and the Bayes bunch. I wonder. I begin to wonder. There is such a vast difference between the Nora Bayes he re-creates and the one we have in the show. What is the main difference? The one in the book is believable. The one in the show is a stage figure. In the book, human. In the show, cardboard. Book: moving and lovable. Show: sentimental and cloying.
I thought our script was all right, but compared to the book, it is pale and dumb.
And Larry is so right about opening and closing with the Bayes funeral.
Further, I now see how whitewashing her, or trying to, has removed power from the show to a distressing degree.
In the book, Nora is one of the Everleigh girls. A prostitute. What’s more, he limns such a clear story line that you understand how she got where she did, how it was virtually inevitable. And there she is. The fact that The Everleigh Club catered to class, that John Barrymore would move in and live there during his Chicago engagements, that politicians and bigwigs were the core of the clientele—does not mitigate the fact that Nora was a whore.
Then—from this degrading beginning, she makes her way out and up—through love and talent and aspiration and work, continues up up up until she is one of the brightest stars in the Broadway sky.
But if she begins as a girl who plays the piano, for God’s sake, in the club—what’s
that?
It simply means that she was an entertainer playing a bum gig and that as time went by, she got better and better jobs.
The tragedy is that this basic change is not going to be made. As I see it now—no way.
Art sent for me.
“This Bowman bastard’s arriving. To make trouble, no doubt. I don’t want to talk to him—in person on the phone. Nothing. And I don’t want to write to him, either. But I’ve got to have some communication, so you’re it, O.K.? Find out where he’s staying. Maybe here, but I hope not. Tell him you’re my assistant and—”
“Production Secretary.”
“No, no. Don’t use the word secretary with this bum. He won’t even
talk
to you. A snob on top of everything else. No—my assistant. And tell him we’ve complied with all contractual obligations, including even a program bio—and if there’s anything else contractual he wants to tell me, to tell you. And of course he’s welcome to see the show—arrange seats for him, charge to me, but—now here’s the but and it’s a big one. I would appreciate it if he did not, repeat
not,
come to rehearsals at the theatre and not, repeat
not,
talk to Chris or Larry or anybody. Tell him any comments he can put into writing and send to you and you’ll take them up with me. In view of our past troubles, he’ll understand.”
It didn’t take me long to find Gene Bowman. He was at The Barclay—on the twenty- first floor! With us.
I called him, told him who I was, and I had a few messages from Mr. Clune, and asked if I could see him.
“By all means,” he said. “Anytime.”
“This evening?”
“Well, this evening I'm going to the theatre. There’s this show in town.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “I’m to arrange tickets for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“Surprise number one,” he said. “I hope there aren’t going to be too many. I’m a man of a certain age. But make that
ticket
not
tickets.
I’m alone.”
“Very well. Could we meet before, perhaps? Or afterward?”
“How about dinner? Are you free?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why 'of course’?” he asked.
“Oh. I meant on this job I never have dinner dates. I’m, you might say, on call.”
“All right, then. I’m in luck. Where and when?”
“Curtain’s at eight—how about six-thirty?”
“Suits me,” he said. “And where?”
“Here?”
“Can we do better?”
“Yes. There’s a really first-class French place—Le Champignon—but it would mean leaving here at six-fifteen.”
“I’m game.”
“Lobby, then, six-fifteen.”
“Right. I’ll be humming a tune and tapping my toe.”
At six-fifteen, I went down. There he was—humming a tune and tapping his toe.
He took off his hat and we shook hands. Those perfect teeth. Real? Gray hair, pink face. Rugged. Scar on chin. Tall. Stolid. Athletic. Male as hell. Was he a young-old man or an old-young man? I couldn’t tell. I still don’t know. My first impression was that here was a man who not only loved life but enjoyed it. In the hours ahead, I was to find that my first impression had been—as it rarely is—perfectly correct.
We stepped out, and I asked the doorman to get us a taxi.
“I have a car,” said Gene Bowman.
“Of course,” from the doorman.
“Are you rich?” I asked as the limo pulled up.
“Hell, no,” he replied. “But I’m going to be.”
We got into the car, I gave the driver the address, and we started off.
Gene Bowman was regarding me in the manner of a trained journalist.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were a dish? I’d have worn my good necktie.”
“Would you like to go back and get it?” I asked.
“Yes, I would,” he answered, and rapped on the separating glass. The driver opened it. “We have to go back,” he said. “I forgot something.”
The driver zigzagged his way through the tortuous Philadelphia one-way-street system until we pulled up in front of The Barclay.
“Won’t be a minute,” he said, getting out. “Play the radio. News or something.”
He did not return for about ten minutes. When he did, I saw that he had changed his clothes completely. Not only necktie—but suit, shirt, and for all I know, shoes and socks.
“There,” he said. “One minute flat. And I feel
much
better, don’t you?”
“Why?”
“Out with a less disreputable-looking type?”
Routine small talk on the way. After a few “Mr. Bowmans,” he said “Gene” would do. And would I mind “Midge”? How was his trip? Uneventful. Had he come from Chicago? Oh, yes. I used to work for Doubleday and we often had meetings in Chicago. Doubleday to
this?
How the come-down? I don’t consider it so. I find it fascinating. This assignment, for instance. I explain my mission. He laughs.
“So you’re the go-between.”
“I suppose you could call it that.”
“Remember that beautiful L.P. Hartley book.
The Go-Between
?”
“I saw the movie. Julie Christie.”
“The
book
is
my
friend. I’ll never forget the opening sentence: 'The past is a foreign country, they do things differently there.’ How many times that occurred to me when I was in the throes of Nora.”
“They’ve captured it wonderfully in the show, I think. The period. The look.”
“Have they?” he said. “A spy sent me a tape of the music. I thought it pleasant, but nothing to do with nineteen-eight except for two songs.”
“‘The Upper Crust’ and 'On the Night Boat.’”
“Exactly.”
“Well, they’ve been working hard.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here—to see in which direction.”
We said nothing more until we reached the restaurant.
We ordered. He, expertly in French. Then a long chat with the wine steward before making a decision.
“This
is
a good place,” he said. “Thank you. Times have changed. Philly used to be such a dull town. When I was covering sports for the old
Sun,
I’d have to come to Philadelphia, P.A., periodically. The sports writers used to call it Philadelphia, P.U.”
“Lovely city now,” I said.
“Did you say Maghakian?”
“Yes.”
“Armenian, then.”
“My father, yes.”
“I’ve heard that name before. Where?”
“Me, no doubt,” I said. “I’ve sent you several letters and the schedules and the press releases. I was told it was one of the contractual obligations. So you saw my signature.”
“Do you know Saroyan?”
“I’ve met him, yes,” I replied.
“We were in the Army together. Well, not together, exactly. I was a nineteen-year-old second lieutenant. He was a thirty-two-year-old private. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Didn’t want to be an officer—although he could have been in a minute. And got out of any and all promotions. But we were in the same unit in England, and I got to know him. An idol then and now. I’m sure it was his influence that got me through this damn job. I was going along, going along in that pegaway way one does when it’s a paid assignment—uninspired—just for the money, really: facts and facts and facts. After a time, I began to get a glimmer of the truth and I got fascinated. Then, God help me, I fell in love with Nora—that kept me going. Finally, after a long time, I had what I thought was the truth—at least, my truth. Come right down to it—the truth is what you happen to believe. Isn’t it? That’s when the trouble with the family began. They treated my manuscript—thirty-three months of my life—as though it were a piece of cloth they were going to cut and tailor and shape into something of their liking; something to fit their taste. I didn’t care, really. What troubled me was my own dissatisfaction with the work—with the vague story I’d found. Then Bill came through town—Saroyan—and we spent a riotous couple of days and nights with Studs Terkel—the three of us. Talking talking talking. And one early morning—we’d been up all night, Bill and I—sitting in an all-nighter, I told him my troubles. Bill laughed and he went into that drawl of his and said, 'I wrote a great line once, kid—explains your predicament fully—I said about this character: “He had found the truth and now he was looking for something better.”’ And Bill laughed but I couldn’t because it was the nearest thing to a religious conversion I have ever experienced. What they call seeing the light. All at once, I knew that the truth wasn’t enough, that I had to go beyond it and not stop and not give up and I put my arms around Bill and he was mortified and the next day he went back to Paris and I went back to work. Another seven months. I pulled out of the deal with them, returned the advance, and went ahead and published. The book bombed. But no matter—I’d written what I wanted to write. Now this. Because of the book, I seem to have an official stake in this show. It was only when they tried to freeze me out and rip me off that I served notice on them. Hence the billing and the money and the situation. What’s the message?”