Authors: Garson Kanin
Gene was goggle-eyed, like a small boy at a circus.
After the show, we went to a jazz joint on Race Street, where I drank too much. I always drink too much in jazz joints.
“It’s a real strength,” said Gene. “Isn’t it? Lord, I love magic. Maybe it’s even better than the number. What do
you
think?”
“I think hearts are being broken, and careers damaged, and people hurt and humiliated. I think girls are smiling and dancing while suffering from excruciating menstrual pain. I think health is breaking down along with morale, and a sense of fairness and loyalty and honesty—all for the sake of a goddamn musical show.”
“What a spill! Finished?”
“No. I think Art Clune is a no-good stinkin’ rotten son-of-a-bitch bastard. And some of it rubbed off on me. Clay good but weak. Hy talented but amoral. Ivan a genius. Alicia a mystery. Jenny a tragedy. Larry in trouble. Gene Bowman a great man and I love you and nothing in the world you could ever say or do would change that and I know it’s hopeless and I know I'm not up to you and never will be but I don’t care because I’ve had you in my life and my life’ll be better for the rest of my life because of it and I think I’m a goddamn mess but it’s not my fault and I think I never want to see another musical as long as I live and maybe I’ll do what I should have done in nineteen-sixty-seven that would have made my mother so happy she wanted me to take vows and become a nun and I should have but then I wouldn’t have known you and maybe that would have been better after all. You asked me what I think. Well, that’s what I think. What do
you
think?”
“Check, please!” he called out.
He took me home and put me to bed.
In my dream, he became my doctor—a distinguished gynecologist who took care of me beautifully and tenderly. He was dressed in white and wore white rubber gloves and when he decided to operate, did so with gold instruments. The result of the operation was an enchanting four-year-old boy, dressed in a white sailor suit, who looked exactly like the distinguished gynecologist or like me, depending on the angle from which he was viewed. We were all three in a pool, swimming and splashing.
The smell of strong coffee awakened me. Gene stood beside me with a steaming cup in his hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I will be as soon as somebody gives me the top of my head back.”
“Take a sip,” he said. “Sit up and take a sip.”
I tried, failed.
“Could you turn off the light?” I asked.
“That’s not the light, you old souse—that’s the sun.”
“Well,” I said, “would you turn
that
off?”
He pulled down the shade and went out. I sat up, trying to sip the hot coffee and feeling ashamed, remorseful, embarrassed, abashed, and miserable.
He returned, bringing a tall glass filled with a crimson liquid.
“What is it?” I asked. “Blood?”
“I hope so,” he said. “Drink it down.”
“Not till you tell me.”
“Doctor Bowman’s Magic Elixir for cramps, pimples, arthritis, female weakness, and slow second acts.”
I drank it down in one long draught and could hardly believe what happened next—my hangover was gone within five minutes.
“What the
hell?”
I asked.
“When I know you better,” he said, “I’ll reveal the secret formula. It was given to me by a millionaire Chicago devout alcoholic about fifteen years ago.”
I went into the bathroom, showered, and went directly from the shower back into the bedroom. There he was, wearing a robe only, engrossed in his inevitable newspaper. He looked up.
“You’re soaking wet,” he observed.
“I couldn’t wait,” I said, getting into bed.
“You’re wet,” he said again.
“So are you.”
“I think I’d better dry you off.”
“Do.”
And so the day began.
Gene. I love writing his name. Gene Gene Gene Gene. God, I'm like a teenager with a crush on the football star or a movie actor.
I am trying to be sensible about the whole thing, and practical and reasonable, but it is no use.
The relationship with him goes beyond sexual expression, fantasies or a perfect future, or the sheer joy of being with him. It is a state of being that is utterly new to me.
Lovemaking, at least in my life, used to be a pleasant activity—often more than that. Exciting, intoxicating, stimulating. But it always had a beginning, a middle, and an end. A hunger satisfied. A desire achieved.
Not so with Gene. With Gene Gene Gene there is no beginning and no end. It goes on ceaselessly. It stretches back to always was and goes on into infinity. It is hard to explain, perhaps impossible, but I am trying to explain it to myself.
I am truly more concerned about his health and happiness than I am about my own. A new experience for me, especially in relationships with men.
I think of us as one. He makes me laugh. He takes his work seriously, but not himself.
The physical part of our life together seems to be in the hands of forces beyond our control. There is never any verbalization. It always happens because it is meant to happen—no matter what the time or place.
I compare the circumstance to others I have known.
The overt assault: sometimes bold and sudden and violent; often gentle and suggestive—a thigh touched, a breast considered, an ear brushed with a gentle kiss. In any case—a set of signals to which the response might be affirmative or negative: moves, touches, gestures, looks.
Or words. Some I have encountered have been:
(1). “I want you, baby. I
need
you.”
(2). “How about it?”
(3). “I’ll
die
if I don’t get to fuck you.”
(4). “Shall we go to bed?”
(5). “Let’s go to bed.”
(6). “Here. Give me your hand. Feel this. Want it?”
(7). “I honestly think, Midge, that we’re ready for a relationship.”
To which the replies might be:
(1). “Not here, honey. Not now.”
(2). “Yes.”
(3). “Please don’t use that word.”
(4). “No, I can’t.”
(5). “All right. If you really want me to.”
(6). “Get away from me, you creep!”
(7). “The trouble is—I’m in love with someone else.”
And in extended affairs I have known, there was generally an approach by either party.
(1). “You feel like it tonight?”
(2). “Let’s go home—I’m horny as hell.”
(3). “Baby? You want to?”
Or simply a touch in the dark, which might be accepted or rejected.
But in this life with Gene—as I have said, it all happens automatically.
We went for an early-morning walk in the country. The air was crisp and the depth of the fallen autumn leaves made it difficult to walk briskly. But we were breathing deeply and savoring the air. How did it happen? There we were, lying in the leaves, firmly and joyously joined. The scent of the earth around us was overwhelmingly erotic. Love.
I came in late one afternoon. He was working. As a rule, he never even looks up until he is ready—but this time he did and smiled and held his look, and I went to him and knelt before him and unzipped him and took him.
We were watching a performance at the theatre from the back of the house. It was going extremely well. All at once, we moved together out the door, up the alley, through the stage door, up one flight, into the production office. We undressed quickly, spread a mat, and reveled in one another until just before the end of the show.
Gene.
Whenever I talk to him, he listens. Not only that, but he understands—and if he doesn’t he questions me. I feel ever in close contact with him.
But it is going to end. Soon. In a matter of weeks. And then what am I to do? Will I be able to accept it for what it was—a lovely, romantic interlude in the heat of the excitement of the creation of the show? Or is there a cumbersome torch to carry waiting for me out there in the near future?
The more I know about his life, the more I see that there is no room for me in it.
Only this strange time and place and extraordinary way of life is making it possible.
One consolation. I will always know that once in my life I was in love, so I know what love is and what it is worth.
I should be sad about all this, but in my present state I cannot find it within myself to be anything but euphorically happy.
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Friday, November 30
RUNNING ORDER
: Please check the Call Board for running order tonight.
COLDS
: That dreaded small epidemic appears to have begun in spite of all our efforts.
Large doses of Vitamin C are suggested: also, if you stay alkaline, your chances of picking up a cold are greatly reduced. This can be accomplished by consuming fruits and fruit juices, fresh vegetables and vegetable juices, particularly unsweetened apricot juice and various alkaline waters, such as Vichy and Perrier, or check for local ones at your grocers.
Moreover, watch the changeable weather carefully and change clothing accordingly.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: RUSS KELLY
(Assistant Director)
I owe just about everything to P.A. also known as The High School of Performing Arts. Without it, I would no doubt be a street bum along with the rest of my boyhood pals. Very few of us make it out of the slums. But P.A. did it for me and I went to work at The Long Wharf in New Haven, Conn., as a production assistant directly after I was graduated.
I have done masses of Children’s Theatre which I would like some day to make my specialty.
The Big Break for me was, of course, being engaged by Larry Gabel, who has made it possible for me not only to learn but to
un
learn. So many people in our profession spend years perfecting their mistakes.
I am the only one in my family in the theatre. My father is a barber in the Bronx, two brothers in the used-car business together in Yonkers; one sister, married, who lives in Dayton, Ohio, and has a baby a year. And she’s not even Catholic!
I do not intend to be an assistant all my life.
BACKSTAGE MANNERS
: It is important for us all to cooperate in creating an atmosphere in which creative work can take place. For this reason, it is requested that no card-playing, knitting, crossword-puzzling, eating, or drinking take place on the stage
or
in the wings. The above activities should only be pursued in dressing rooms, Green Rooms, or below the stage.
No Smoking
in the wings.
The management has been instructed to ask you to desist should you forget these instructions.
REMINDER
: Joey, please meet with Phil in Our Star’s dressing room at half-hour.
DAY OFF
: The entire company will be off on Monday, December 3.
UNDERSTUDIES
: Run-through will begin at 11 A.M. sharp, Tuesday, December 4.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“I had worked my way up the ladder always with my eye on the next step—assistant choreographer, then choreographer, then director—but along the way I didn’t notice I was losing things. Success is good. It gives you freedom to travel, to have a nice apartment, but it brings certain problems you can’t imagine until you’re successful. Like the different way your friends start treating you. People don’t call you on the phone and if they do they’re always afraid they’re disturbing you. It can get maddening. What they don't realize is that basically I haven’t changed. I’m still that same Michael who danced in the chorus all those years.
“Those were the happiest years of my life.”
—
Michael Bennett
There are now 21 days remaining until our New York opening.
“Big Town” is back again in the show, as Larry prophesied.
Sammy is back, doing it with Star. It is not as effective as it was, but everyone believes it is going to be. It stops the show all right, but mainly because Hy has restored the razzle-dazzle ending to the orchestration.
Larry hates it.
“It’s not a number,” he says. “It’s a goddamn
applause machine!”
Sammy, delighted though he is to be sharing Star’s spotlight, cannot seem to get with her in the way he did with Patti.
He comes up to the conference tonight. He is one of Larry’s oldest friends and has done seven shows with him, so there is no danger of a security breach.
“No,” he says, “it’s not a question of rehearsal—we rehearse all the time. She’s a fantastic rehearse—but what She isn’t is a team player. What the hell, She’s a star—they’re not supposed to be team players. Look,
She’s
stet—you’re not going to change
that
—but is there anything
I
can do? Tell me and I’ll try.”
“Yes,” says Larry, “there is. She’s got you psyched. You’re performing the number like a supporting player.”
“That’s what I
am.”
“In
life
—not on the
stage
, Sammy. Not in the number. In the number, She’s a girl who’s just arrived in New York—and you’re a chestnut vendor—and you’re telling her about New York and turning her on, so actually,
you’re
the dominant one, or should be.”
“Right,” says Sammy, thoughtfully.
“Never mind remembering how much
She
gets a week and how much
you
get—that’s nothing to do with it. Make believe it says out there on the houseboards your name and her name—side by side, same size—you should be two stars out there knockin’ ’em dead. The way you were with Patti. Remember?”
“Patti,” said Sammy, with a world of meaning.
“So will you try? It’s the only way the number’ll get back to what it was.”
“What can I tell y’?” said Sammy. “I’ll try. But it’s tough, y’know what I mean? It’s tough to establish a good rappapport with her—nothing against her, She’s great—but it’s tough to be married to her.”
“So they say,” said Larry. “But
you
only have to be married to her seven minutes a day—night.”
The transformation in Sammy, and thus in “Big Town,” is extraordinary. He took Larry’s direction precisely and began coming on much stronger—and better. He began to match her in movement and let-go magnetism. The number was becoming a high spot.
Complaints begin. First from Val, then from her.
“What’s he trying to do? Steal the number?” asked Val.
“I don’t think so,” answered Clay. “It looks better to me.”
“Look
again!”
“All right.”
“Y’know, any time She wants, She can blow him off the stage. So tell him watch his step.”
Later. Star: “What’s he trying, that little man? To push me?”
Larry: “No, no, just taking my direction.”
“Which is what?”
“To make it a duet.”
“How can it be a duet? Can he sing like me?”
“Of course not. Nobody can.”
“So what’s this duet shit?”
“I don’t mean vocally.”
“Oh.”
“I mean number-wise, scene wise. Boy-girl stuff.”
“Boy-girl?! He’s old enough to be my great-grandfather.”
“A figure of speech, sweetie. Don’t jump on me.”
“Listen, I’d jump on you in a minute if I thought it would do any good.”
“Now, now.”
“Now?”
They laughed a show-business laugh together.
But the situation remained unchanged—or, rather, it continued to develop along the lines planned by Larry. The number became an authentic showstopper—but Val and She were not happy. She could not bear sharing the ovation.
Something began to happen. The number went out of kilter. What was it?
“She’s singing too loud,” said Larry. “Can you tone her down?”
“I’ve told her,” said Clay. “Twice.”
“Tell her again,” said Larry. “It’s been my experience that if you tell a player to do something and he doesn’t or can’t or won’t—you tell him again, and if he still doesn’t or can’t or won’t—you tell him again, and if he still doesn’t—you tell him again, then again and again and again and again and again and again and again—”
“And if She
still
doesn’t?”
“You tell her
again.”
Clay told her again. And again. No use.
Sammy sent for.
“What do you think’s the trouble, Sammy?”
“She’s singin’ too loud.”
“That’s what
we
think, but we can’t get her down.”
“Great voice,” said Sammy.
“There’s only one solution that
I
can think of.”
“What’s that?”
“If
She
won’t sing softer—
you
sing louder.”
Sammy looked worried.
“How
much
louder?” he asked.
“To match her.”
“You think I can?”
“Try.”
“That’s some voice,” he said. “I don’t know
who
could match it. I doubt if
I
can.”
“Try.”
“When She belts—like on the last sixteen? Sometimes I see the big glass chandelier trembling.”
“Just see
you
don’t tremble. Sing louder. Get Buzz to help you. Take more breaths. I think if you come up—She’ll come down.”
Larry was wrong. Sammy did his best. Buzz coached him. He sang louder in an effort to get into the number with her. No use. He was no match for her. Still, Sammy tried gamely to keep up with her—and then a kind of killer instinct took hold of her and She seemed determined, night after night, to do what Val said She could do to Sammy—“blow him off the stage.”
Last night, Sammy appeared to go vocally dead in the middle of the number.
In the intermission, Gene found me and said, “Larry says go back and see what happened. Let me know right away so I can tell him.”
I hurried backstage, went to Sammy’s dressing room. Maurice was with him, helping him. Sammy was leaning over his washbasin, spitting blood.
“I’ve sent for the house doctor,” said Maurice. “I don’t like the bleeding.”
Sammy looked up, saw me, shrugged, and smiled wanly. He spat still more blood, then turned to me again and ran his forefinger across his throat with finality.
Maurice brought him a chair, and he sat by the washbasin, in trouble.
I went back into the auditorium and reported what little I knew to Gene, who returned to his seat next to Larry.
By the time I got back to Sammy’s room, the doctor was there, and Sammy, aided by Maurice, was getting dressed.
“I’ll take him,” the doctor said. “We don’t have to bother with expensive ambulances.”
Sammy nodded. He was holding a bloodstained towel against his mouth.
“Where will he be, Doctor?” I asked.
“Jefferson,” said the doctor.
“Prognosis?” I asked.
“You a doctor’s daughter?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Funny way to ask.”
“What’s the answer? They’ll want to know.”
“Oh, I think he’ll be all right if he doesn’t talk for a couple of weeks.”
“Weeks!” I said—but it came out as a yell.
“Easy,” said the doctor, “—or I’ll have two patients with the same trouble.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“Not sure—looks to me like a broken blood vessel.”
I couldn’t see Sammy as they left, I could see only his eyes.
Gene and I went out to the hospital after the show. Larry wanted to go—but all agreed it would be imprudent. Who knew? Art—or someone else might turn up.
We found Sammy sedated, a plasma rig beside his bed, blood being fed to him intravenously. He looked small and very old. We waited until he awoke. He smiled and saluted. He looked about, found the little slate board and chalk that had been provided for communication, and printed on it, carefully. He turned it toward us and we read:
SHIT!
“The doctor says you’re going to be fine,” said Gene.
Sammy erased the contents of the slate board and wrote: “Yes, but too late.”
“How do you mean?” asked Gene.
Sammy erased, wrote: “Will miss opening.”
Gene. “Maybe not.”
Sammy wrote: “My fault. Sorry.”
“Not at all,” said Gene. “It was Larry’s fault.
He
says. Egging you into that screaming match with the world’s greatest screamer.”
Sammy wrote: “Can I go on? Please? Can handle all but the singing.”
“Let me inquire,” said Gene.
Sammy wrote:
“Please!
Hate to conk out.”
So that’s the way it has been settled. Sammy goes on as the chestnut vendor and does all his stuff silently and performs the dance, but as for the song—why, She has it all to herself now and is as happy as a grig, and stops the show regularly.
I find it hard to watch that number, and when I do, I only watch Sammy. Writing this whole history all these weeks, I feel I have become freer with words, and find it easier to express myself and to describe what is going on, but I am
not
going to try to describe Sammy’s face every night during “Big Town.”
As to the bet Larry made with Gene, they have decided to call it off.