Authors: Garson Kanin
“You want my opinion?”
“Of course.”
“You haven’t asked for it.”
“I’m asking now. Don’t be so touchy.”
“The fact that there’s not enough Nora is because there’s too much She. The material’s there. It’s just that She wants to remain She. She’s a performer, not an actress.”
“No, no,” he said sharply. “Don’t lead me into
that.”
“Into what?”
“Passing the buck. Blaming others. Or the audience. Time enough to do that after I’m convinced that what
I’ve
done is as much as I can do. My feeling is that they love her when She’s a tart—and then they resent her a little when She’s a star.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Everything!
It’s ass-backward. I want them to be unhappy about her when She’s in the house and then—along with the public, the world—adore her as a star. That gives us an emotional climax, a satisfying end to the evening.”
“Why
is
it upside down? Any idea?”
“Not yet. Unless She herself is happier, more comfortable in the first part. Wait. This may be it. She comes on too strong as the star. The real ones—the big ones—are relaxed somehow. Confident. They know they’re good, so they don’t have to be so goddamn insistent.”
“Talk to Larry?” I suggested. “He’s a wonder. He can do great things with her. Things She doesn’t even know he’s doing.”
“Absolutely. But let’s get the stuff right first.”
“Larry could come down here. If you wanted him to.”
He stopped and looked at me.
“Do
you
want him to?” he asked.
“Me? What have
I
got to do with it?”
“Do you?”
“Of course not.”
We walked again.
“She’s too winning in Scene One. That’s why She doesn’t seem like a real hooker. Winningness is not a common attribute of whores. Strange as that may seem. It’s because they hate life. And that’s what Nora has to do in Scene One. Is that in the text? Come on, now. Truthfully. You’ve probably got it committed to memory by now. Is it?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“And later, when she makes it—she
loves
life. Is
that
in the text?”
“No.”
“All right. There’s the job. Lunch at The Shelburne all right?”
“Let’s try The Claridge. We had
breakfast
at The Shelburne.”
As soon as we had ordered lunch, he asked, “Have you ever been married?”
“No. Never.”
“Why not?”
“I’m too good for them.”
“No. Seriously. Come on.”
“None of your business.”
“Of course it is. Human beings are my business. Especially the female of the species. And when I encounter a bright and beautiful girl of well, say—well—whatever. Post-teens, let’s say.”
“Let’s.”
“And she’s still single, I wonder.”
“I’ve had my share of beaux,” I said. “Would you care to see my references?”
“If you’re going to turn ugly on me,” he said, “I'm going to ask for a table for a party of one. Me.”
“Please don’t. I’d rather have lunch with you than by myself. Even if I have to tell you the story of my life.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in the story of your life?”
“Waiter!” I called out. “I want a table for a party of one!”
“How many serious proposals have you turned down?” he asked.
“None,” I said. “Not a one. Can you believe it?”
“No, I can’t.”
“Neither can I—but it’s the God’s truth. I have had no proposals—propositions, yes.”
“I’ll be damned. What a generation!”
We finished our excellent lunch in silence. Crabmeat Louis, Persian melon, coffee. I could not tell if he was thinking of me or of Nora, but whichever it was, I knew it was better not to interrupt him. He smiled now and then, frowned a good deal, winked at me once.
He began rewriting directly after lunch. I went to my room, read, and waited.
At four, he phoned.
“Order tea,” he said. “No food. In here. Twenty minutes.”
I hated him. So curt, so demanding. Did he ever ask if
I
wanted tea? Was I his slave? I wanted to be.
I called Room Service and ordered one tea, cream and milk and lemon—how should
I
know? And for myself, coffee with hot skim milk and a piece of pound cake.
Half an hour—not twenty minutes—half an hour later, I sauntered down to his room. He was having tea, reading some pages.
“They made a mistake,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Yuh. Sent one coffee.”
“That’s what I ordered.”
“You did?”
“Oh, sure—I’ve got quite a little mind of my own. You’d be surprised.”
“The operative word there is 'little,’ I think. What’s this goofy sensitivity you play with? Tea, coffee. What the hell’s the difference? We’re busy.”
“You
are.”
“Well, you’re
going
to be. Let’s get going on this.”
He handed me about twenty pages of manuscript.
“One and one,” he said.
“—make two,” I said.
He stood up.
“Oh, God!” he said. “I came down here with a girl, and she’s turning into a
woman!”
I moved back and forth from his room to mine all evening. We did not stop for dinner until after nine—and then had it sent up. A charmless meal: steak, baked potato, salad, ice cream, coffee—eaten in silence.
When we finished, he pushed the table into the hall. We went back to work and kept at it until just after midnight.
As I handed him a sheaf of retypes, I yawned.
“Sleepy?” he asked, absently, examining the pages.
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m just practicing my goldfish imitation.”
“I think you’re sleepy. Why don’t you go to bed?”
“Why don’t
you?”
“Why don’t we
both
go to bed?”
“Why don’t we both go to bed together?” I asked.
He regarded me with the kind of tenderness I associate with women rather than men.
“It’s been on my mind,” he said. “I thought it best to wait for the right moment. I wonder if this is it.”
“The right moment,” I said, “is when both of us want to.” I started out. “I’ll be back.”
It took me a long time to prepare. My anxiousness slowed me down. How could I be perfect for him? What would he want? Could I provide it? What if I failed? Would I ever get another chance? I kept taking deep breaths.
In my nightgown, slippers, and dressing gown—and carrying one small case—I made my way down the hall. When I reached his door, I did not ring or knock—I walked right in. The door was open. I knew it would be. How?
I closed the door behind me and locked it. I went into the dimly lighted bedroom. He was standing at the window, wearing a robe—and I knew, somehow, nothing else. He turned to me.
“I’ve been talking to God,” he said. “He approves.”
I went to him. We embraced. We kissed. I shed every stitch I was wearing and got into bed. He joined me there. Why was the kiss lying down so different from the other? His fingers moved gently on my body. I reached down impulsively and took his genitals into my hand—testicles, penis, pubis, all. His penis, aroused, was hot to the touch. As I held it, I felt a powerful, throbbing pulse beating within it. His face was nuzzling my neck.
“Sleep,” he whispered.
“What?!” I was astounded.
“Yes,” he said. “Sleep. I’ll meet you—right back here—presently.”
“Impossible,” I said.
“Try. You’ll see. Think of what’s in store. Float away. 'Hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free.’”
What on earth was he talking about? The words were vaguely familiar. What did they mean? I was comfortable, too comfortable.
“Listen to the sea,” he said.
I did so. It became music. I slept.
I am awakened by a soft kiss and by the weight of his body on mine. My face is caressed by his lips—my ears, eyes, neck, breasts, where he lingers, making friends with my nipples, teasing them wittily and lovingly.
I spread my thighs and lift my knees, inviting his penetration. I feel his stiffness on the inside of my thighs. He raises himself above me—seems to be hovering there, levitated. I feel the tip of him confidently resting precisely where it is wanted. He enters me with reverence, the head of his prick fondling my engorged bud. I am flowing copiously. I hear myself talking. I am saying it all, expressing what I feel, telling him what I want. It has never been so. My hands move down his back. I grasp his firm buttocks and press them to me. He goes deeper into me, and deeper still. He is farther inside me than I thought possible. I cry out as I arch to him. He moves from side to side, exploring the cave within me. I try to hold back, to prolong the ecstasy. I fail. I succeed. A paroxysm of joy overcomes me. Only now does he begin a powerful rhythmic thrusting—exciting and agitating beyond imagining my already frantic nerve ends. I want to beg him to stop, but fear that if I do so, he will. His body is moving upward on mine, the pressure of his shaft is precise and maddening. It moves out slowly.
“No!” I heard myself cry.
He plunges back into me. A scream. Mine?
He pulls himself up and out and holds as I move to him, pursuing wonder. Now together we move away—toward—farther—closer—together—meeting, meeting joyously.
I am melting. I am terrified. It is all too much. I explode.
He holds me close, rolls away, and we lie, side by side, still joined. We kiss. In time, I return to earth, to the surface of his bed, and find that he is still inside me, still aroused. Most delicately, he turns again until I am above him. He manipulates my body, my arms, my legs, until we are in perfect physical accord. His hands, behind me, guide me. Now parts of me are found and satisfied—I lose track of time and place and space. There is no world other than this.
Later, he is above me once more—senses my need, waits for me, and then pours his warm essence into me.
I feel utterly safe for the first time in my life.
How can I describe the indescribable? How can I convey, even to myself, what the following hours meant? We stayed together, dozed, made lazy love, napped, laughed, talked, played with each other, joked—were suddenly on fire—wild and passionate and seemingly insatiable. Abandoned. Daring. Crazy.
I was discovering love.
Of course, I had done my share of fucking—but this was something else again. I had taken pleasure and given satisfaction. I had done what was asked of me, or expected of me. I had fucked and been fucked—well and clumsily. I had sucked and been sucked—happily and dutifully.
But I had never
shared
lovemaking, never known such joy in it or gratitude or imagination—had never known such heights.
I had known and had boys, jocks, studs, hot-shots, fellows, boyfriends, beaux, sexpots, even a belle, once!—but never before a man, not until now a Gene. A man, a gentleman, a lover, a complete and wise and sensitive and caring and loving and ardent understanding man. How can I hold him, keep him?
The shape and color of our days in Atlantic City changed.
We worked and ate and drank and walked and made love—except that I kept trying to think of another name for it. It was unique. Not what others do.
Then, one rainy afternoon, we decided to take a nap instead of walking. We kicked off our shoes and lay down on the bed. The nap was brief, interrupted by his hand where I wanted it. Shortly after that, he removed my panty hose with skill and care and buried his face where his hand had been. And there he stayed—for hours. I was kissed there and licked and lapped and nibbled and bitten and tickled and teased and sucked and eaten and swallowed. I wanted to return the rapture in kind, and eventually I did. Love at last, Midge, I thought—and knew.
And then, on the ride back to Philadelphia—it struck me. This would end. The show would open and Gene would return to Chicago and to his life. And what would
I
return to? It would all seem pale from now on. A gloom settled over me. I tried to dispel it first with romantic dreams, next with desperate plans. I tried to laugh at myself, could not.
We were back in Philadelphia.
Second week in Philadelphia.
Sammy and Patti have begun to stop the show regularly with their number, “Big Town.” It has been fascinating to watch the development. It started as a simple little filler that Sammy, as a street-corner food vendor, did to eat up time for a scene change and a complete costume change for Star. Then Larry suggested it might go better as a duet. To this end, he tried several of the girls. They were all good. Hard to make a choice, but Art insisted that he use Patti. Buddy worked out a routine for them; Jenny came in and polished it. Larry gave them some performance pointers. It began to go well, a satisfying moment in the show, if not a spectacular one. Soon I began to notice something. Sammy and Patti rehearsing. In the dressing room, in the lounge, at the hotel, in the lobby, on stage some mornings. They never stopped. They kept doing that number as though nothing else in the world mattered. The performance began to get loose—looser, confident—but more important, it began to achieve precision. They were moving to the music, breathing to the orchestration. I would have bet at times that their hearts were beating not only as one but both of them to the drummer’s beat. One night—a Friday—a lively house, they did it and stopped the show. In the wings they hugged and kissed and slapped each other around, I’m told.
I was sitting with Larry. He said, “That’s it! They’ve got it! Now it’ll happen every performance.”
“How do you know?”
“Because now a magic takes over. How they convey to the audience in some subliminal way I have never understood that this is a showstopper. Something to do with the rhythm of life.”
The battle of “Big Town” rages. The disturbances began precisely from the time when the number began to get a nightly ovation.
One could feel first the nervousness, then the tension, and finally the resentment all emanating from the camp of Star.
A blowup on the subject in her dressing room tonight.
S
TAR
: I don’t give a fuck who gets a hand or who has a number to do. Shit, I can’t do them all! I’m doing too much as it is.
L
ARRY
: Then what?
S
TAR
: The routining, you schmuck. The spotting. What the hell have you got that number right in front of my dreariest scene in the whole goddamn show? I come on, and with, for Chrissake, what I’ve got to do it’s like a goddamn stage wait.
L
ARRY
: They’re working on it.
S
TAR
: Oh, for Christ’s sake, don’t give me that! “They’re working on it.” They’ve been working on it since Year One. It’s
never
going to get any better because it’s horseshit to begin with. What do you think they’re going to come up with? Chocolate-covered horseshit?
L
ARRY
: It’s an essential scene, dear.
S
TAR
: Well, then move it someplace where I can handle it.
(
L
ARRY
laughs)
What the hell’s so funny?
L
ARRY
: How can you move the scene? We’re telling the story A-B-C-D-E-F-G and so forth. It’s
chronological.
That’s where that scene comes.
S
TAR
:
(A scream)
Then move the fucking
number,
I tell you! Someplace else. I'm not going to play that goddamn scene where it is. Do you understand what I’m saying?
L
ARRY
: Perfectly. Now sit down and let me tell you something. No show means a damn thing to any player if the player doesn’t learn something from it. You get better all the time, and it’s because you’re learning.
S
TAR
: Don’t butter me up, buster. I’m not a piece of toast.
L
ARRY
: Let me tell you a story. One of the greatest revues that ever happened in the history of Broadway was a show called
As Thousands Cheer.
By Irving Berlin and Moss Hart. And in it Clifton Webb and Marilyn Miller and Ethel Waters.
S
TAR
: Some show. I never heard of any of them.
L
ARRY
:
(Using his inhalator)
Your loss, sweetheart, your loss. But they were big stars, great talents, take my word for it. Now it was a revue, so the question of routining was important. What number followed what, who followed who. A number called “Harlem On My Mind” was done by Ethel Waters and a real showstopper. Not the mechanical kind, like the manufactured ones we’ve got around here, but a
real
one. Following that, Clifton Webb had to come on and do a light little patter song and dance. Well, of course, it did seem pale by comparison, and some friction developed, the same kind we have here now. Finally, Hassard Short decided that since Webb was the bigger star they ought to defer to him, so he went to Ethel Waters and asked if she would be willing to put her number in another spot. She wanted to know
what
other spot? The only place it
could
go was following a number that Marilyn Miller and Clifton Webb did that was absolutely sensational. Short suggested that spot, but said, “Unless you think that’s too big a number to follow?” And Ethel Waters said, “Hell, no, Mr. Short. There’s nothing I like better than workin’ on a
hot
stage!”
S
TAR
: Yeah, so what? What’s that got to do with me?
L
ARRY
: I’m giving you a hot stage. But you’re so tied up in your own ego, you don’t see it. You’re not taking advantage of it. You’re sulking through the scene, so of course it’s dreary, and it always
will
be dreary. Why don’t you try
playing
it a few performances?
S
TAR
: That’s interesting, what you said, you shithead, about not taking advantage. That’s the whole goddamn trouble around here is I
haven’t
been taking advantage. Have you ever seen my contract? Would you like to see my contract? Would you like to see what’s in it?
L
ARRY
: Not in the least.
S
TAR
: All right, then, let me tell you. Director approval, that’s only
one
of the things I’ve got. Director approval. Do you have
star
approval in
your
contract?
L
ARRY
: I wouldn’t want it.
S
TAR
: You wouldn’t, huh? Well, let’s get to the bottom line. The bottom line is that that number gets moved, or else.
L
ARRY
: Would you care to go on with that?
S
TAR
: With what?
L
ARRY
: Or else—what?
S
TAR
: Or else it will be your ass, buddy. If
you
won’t move it, I’ll get someone in here who knows his place.
L
ARRY
:
(Looking at her carefully)
We’re not getting along too well, are we?
(He leaves)
Two nights later—the last eight bars of the orchestration were revised. The bing-bang beats were removed. The so-called “button” taken off and although the number went well, it did
not
stop the show.
Sammy was furious, Patti sobbed—but what could they do? Sammy begged Hy to restore the finish; Patti appealed to Art.
“Relax,” he assured her, “I’ll see what I can do.”
To his credit, he did try at the next conference.
“I know what I’m doing,” said Hy. “I don’t need anybody to tell me how to handle an orchestration. What’s been happening is the worst thing that can happen—when the small part players stop the show—that’s like a sucker branch, it weakens the tree.”
Larry. “You mean like Stubby Kaye singing 'Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat’ in
Guys and Dolls
?”
He ignored him and went on. “Where you want the strength is in the star.
She’s
got to have the showstoppers.”
Larry. “Like Stanley Holloway singing 'Get Me to the Church on Time’?”
“We’ve got a star and we’ve got to protect her.”
In bed that night, I tried to get Gene to intercede. He declined, saying that he believes everyone should stick to his own department. Then he added, “And no show-talk in bed. That’s a rule! Strictly enforced.”
Apparently it was going to take more than mucking up the orchestration to spoil Sammy and Patti. They did something—I don’t know what—to compensate, and a few performances later stopped the show again with
no
help from the pit.
Another conference.
H
Y
: Lemme tell you something, fellas. The time has come for drastic. Let me ask you one question.
A
RT
:
(Terrified)
What do you mean drastic?
H
Y
: I mean cuts—not trims—y’hear what I’m saying? Cuts! Now’s the time we have to begin to cut to the
show.
What’s the show? Where’s
the show?
We got no time for detours or side trips or mingies. The show! The mainline! What do they want to see? What do they want to hear?
L
ARRY
: That’s
six
questions, Hy.
H
Y
: You’ve been
counting?
L
ARRY
: That’s seven.
H
Y
: So what?
L
ARRY
: So how about a few answers? Or even
one?
H
Y
: Answers! That’s
your
job. Mine is questions. How can we start in low gear, shift, get into high, hit the road, go, and then by God break every God damned speed limit there is? Up the hill over the top. Hit the destination an hour ahead! How can we do that?
L
ARRY
: Call Hertz. They’ll send a car. Do that and get in and drive away. I wish you would, honestly!
H
Y
: You don't get me, huh?
L
ARRY
: You
talk
, Hy. Give us some specifics, why don’t you?
H
Y
: Fair enough. Right off the top of my head, for instance, in Act One we go good till that dumb filler we got stuck with—“Big Town.”
L
ARRY
:
What!?
H
Y
: Wait a second! Hear me out!
L
ARRY
: “Big Town,” for God’s sake, is—
H
Y
: If we didn’t have the change there—if She didn’t have to go to a bare-ass costume change—would we ever have had that number?
L
ARRY
: Of course not. But it fell in there and it’s sensational.
H
Y
: It’s a go. And I ought to know. I wrote it. It’s derivative.
L
ARRY
: You like the number, Fred?
F
RED
: I’m beginning to hate them
all.
H
Y
: Don’t listen to him—he’s tired, he’s depressed.
L
ARRY
: Amazing—working with such a sunny, upbeat enthusiast like you?
A
RT
: What’re you trying to do, Larry, start a whole battle here?
V
AL
: The number stinks.
L
ARRY
: Let me ask you something, Val. Do you think the
audience
thinks it stinks?
V
AL
: The audience! What the fuck do
they
know? You give ’em a big finish, with drums and a button and they go bananas. Hy knows what he’s talking. He’s done twenty-two shows.
L
ARRY
: Jenny?
J
ENNY
: I like it—but if you took it out, who’d miss it? I mean outside of Sammy and Patti?
V
AL
: Is that who you’re doing the show for? A couple of bit players?
A
RT
: We could try dropping it for two, three shows and see what happens?
A
LICIA
: And what about her change?
A
RT
: Figure something out.
A
LICIA
: Thank you.
J
ENNY
: We could swipe a trick from
Lady in the Dark.
L
ARRY
: What trick?
J
ENNY
: When they had Gertrude Lawrence dancing, dancing in the dream sequence, and the lights faded and came on and there she was on the psychiatrist’s couch in a complete change.
L
ARRY
: How’d they do it?
J
ENNY
: With a double. Gertie started, then danced through a piece of scenery and a double dancing back-to took her place while she changed.
A
RT
: So could we do that?
J
ENNY
: Not tonight—but in a day or two, probably. We’ll need a duplicate costume for the double—and I have some staging—
A
RT
:
(To
C
LAY
)
And what about the set?
C
LAY
: Well, if Jenny could do the last part of the dance in front of the street drop—yes.
A
RT
: So let’s try it.
I look at Larry, deflated by defeat. It has all been steamrolled through. At least, he knows when he’s licked.
The whole company is outraged when they hear of the cut. Sammy quits. Patti gets drunk and misses two shows. Then everything quiets down.
Supper with Gene and Larry at Bookbinder’s.
“I miss it,” says Gene. “I miss it bad.”
“Relax,” says Larry. “You’ll get it back.”
“We will?” asks Gene, brightening.
“Yes, but in a slightly altered form. And probably in another spot.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Oh, God,” says Larry, “I’ve been through this sequence so many times, it’s sickening. Here’s what’s going to happen. In a week or ten days, there’ll be heat on for one more number for Miss Wonderful. Hy and Fred will come up with two or three. No. No good. Desperation. Then someone—probably Hy—will say, 'Hey! Remember that thing we once had—“Big Town?” Should we try
that?’
Some indecision—some selling—get Sammy back.”
“Will he come?” I ask. “He left in a sixteen-cylinder huff.”
“He’ll come back. They’ll tell him the number’s back in and that he’s now going to do it with Star, no less. He’ll come back.
Patti’ll
quit. He’ll do it with Star and when it’s nicely broken in—it’ll be decided that it would be better if She did it alone. So Sammy’ll be out again, but if he’s smart, he’ll get a payoff.” He sang: “And That’s the Broad-way Mel-o-deeee!!!!”
“I can’t believe any of that will happen,” says Gene.
“Are you a betting man?”
“Ah! My secret is out,” cries Gene. “Betting. My downfall. You can’t imagine what I went through in Atlantic City.”
“Yes,” I said. “I watched you suffering. It was pitiful.”
“I’ll give you odds,” says Larry.
“It’s too tempting. Stop me, somebody!”
No one did. They made a bet.
The trick change worked marvelously. You could hear the audience gasp at every performance when She danced off and two seconds later came through the big doors in that great formal ball gown.