Authors: Garson Kanin
“Order it yourself,” I said.
“What’s goin’ on here?” he asked, confused and worried.
Star was already on the phone raising hell with Room Service.
“Lousy dump,” She said, returning. To me: “You want to tell him, or do you want me?”
“You.”
“All right. Here it is. My beloved, according to this one, tried to jump on her bones. That’s his way, y’know? He does that once in a while. So I don’t know what’s her angle, but she’s set to blow the whistle. So what do
you
say? You want that? You want to do that? She’s
your
employee, not mine, after all. So what do you say?”
Art looked at me.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I don’t think a man who does that should be allowed to get away with it.”
“Come on,” he said impatiently. “Get back on the ground, willya? So a guy makes a pass, so big deal, so what? Listen, didn’t I make a pass at you myself back there in the beginning? So you said no, so that’s it. Curtain.”
“You didn’t throw me around and tear my clothes off and belt me.”
“And
he
did?”
“Yes. He did.”
“But don’t worry,” said Star. “She fought him off because she’s bigger and stronger, so her cherry’s still intact.”
“I don't know why I’m sitting here,” I said, and got up.
“No,” She said. “You stay.
I’ll
go.”
She got up, I sat down.
“Here it is,” She said. “The bottom line. I don’t need aggravation, I’ve got plenty, so I’ll tell you this, any more shit about this—talking, blabbing, complaining, law—and it’s going to make me so sick I’m not going to be able to
talk,
let alone sing. I’m going to be in a state of shock. My doctor’s going to order a complete rest. Complete. Six, seven months probably. Got that? Oh. If that milk ever gets here, which I doubt, stick it up each other’s ass.”
She was gone.
We sat without talking for five minutes.
“Once out of the well,” said Art.
“What?”
“You don’t know that one? Richard Harding Davis was writing a serial once for a big magazine. One episode ended with the hero looking for the heroine in the middle of a Central African jungle, and he falls eighty feet into an abandoned well filled with snakes and rats and lizards, and he breaks both legs and faints. End of episode. Now Davis gets into a big money hassle with the editors and walks out. They get every writer in town to try and continue the serial, and nobody can—so they have to come to terms with Davis. O.K.? He sends in the next episode and they can’t wait to read it. It begins: 'Once out of the well—’”
“I see.”
“Whenever I get into an
impossible
situation—that’s the story I think of. I mean, what’s the use? You know I’m with you—why should you be harassed by this louse? Why shouldn’t you stand up for your rights? Y’know? But She’s not bluffing, this bitch. She’d hang us, like She just threatened, in two seconds.”
“Couldn’t you
prove
She was faking?”
“Come on,” he said. “You want me to get you a certificate signed by
four
doctors saying you have to have complete isolation because of a nervous breakdown? I’ll have it for you in the morning.”
“Well, then
what?”
“A drink,” he said.
We had several, and talked of other things.
“Let’s sleep on it,” he said.
So that is what I am about to do. Sleep on it.
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Friday, December 21
COMPANY
: I have long believed that it is the principal function of a director to create an atmosphere in which creative work can take place.
Moreover, I find that to accomplish this, it is necessary to have the cooperation of all members of the company, stage management, and the crew.
We are professionals and not amateurs. Oscar Hammerstein once defined the difference as follows: “A professional works while an amateur hopes.”
Congratulations on a smooth and highly professional opening-night performance at the Kennedy Center.
My thanks to you all.
L.G.
TICKETS
: If you are going to need tickets for any of the performances in the next four weeks, you are advised to put your request to Henry Wadsworth in as soon as possible if you want choice locations. Do not wait till the last minute and then be disappointed when you can’t get good locations.
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: SHARON VAUGHN
(Ginny)
Born in the heart of Harlem. Tough kid. Lena Horne my absolute all-time idol. My room plastered with her photos. Did everything as much like her as possible: Hair, eyes, clothes, walk, mannerisms, singing. Saw JAMAICA 55 times. One day an agent said to me, “You remind me of Lena Horne.” I kissed him right on the mouth…I am a graduate of The High School of Performing Arts…My mother and father are divorced and both have remarried so I am in the fortunate position of having two mothers and two fathers—all wonderful…My real father is a news-film editor for CBS, the other one is an English teacher at Martin Luther King. My mother runs the most beautiful dress shop in Harlem and my stepmother is a dentist which explains my
beautiful
teeth. (Free, what’s more!) I have not yet decided whether I want to be a singer, a dancer, or an actress. The trouble is, I do them all so brilliantly.
I love my part in this show but wish I had more to do. In addition to flirting with all the powers to this end, I go every morning to the Baptist Church and take it up with them there.
HOLIDAY
: The Christmas tree and grab-bag are on stage left. The company party will be in Georgetown on Sunday, December 23, after the evening performance. Check Call Board for details tomorrow.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“I’ve been a bad girl all my life,
I’ve drank my share of booze,
But you’ve got to give me credit, boys,
I never wore white shoes.”
An Everleigh Girl’s Epitaph
There are now 42 days remaining until the New York opening.
Reviews here excellent, especially Richard Coe in
The Washington Post,
who said, “A sure-fire, gold-plated hit in the grand tradition.”
Gene is back. I have not told him about the Val incident. Maybe I will someday, but as of now, what’s the point? He’s back and that seems to be all that matters in life.
The Christmas party was run by Saul who came down especially to do it. Everyone connected with the show is too frazzled to think in terms of celebration.
But Saul did it perfectly, as apparently he does everything. He took over The Foundry in Georgetown and invited
everyone:
cast, orchestra, crew, front of the house. Informality was the order of the evening. No one dressed up. Blue jeans, turtlenecks, sweaters, ponchos. We made a colorful group. Two bands. A conventional dance orchestra and an all-girl rock group alternated. The food was grand after-theatre stuff: Lobster Newburg, Welsh Rarebit, hamburgers, hot dogs, chicken curry, Japanese and Chinese specialties. Wine from barrels and beer from kegs. A wild event. The dancers danced all night, the singers sang, the principals talked.
A tree. Presents. Art Clune, padded and dressed as Santa, presided. At the appropriate moment, he gave out boxes and bundles.
Neysa hovering. She has decided now to love the show.
With the party in high, Saul joined Gene and me at a corner table somewhat removed from the noise.
“Terrific,” said Gene. “I wish
I
knew how to give a party.”
“Money,” said Saul.
“And imagination,” said Gene.
“What about Dad as Santa? Is that something?”
We say nothing. He goes on. “A misunderstood man, my father. Tough. Tougher than he has to be, I know—but toughness was forced on him early on and became ingrained. He took me down to show me where he was born once—it was appalling. I’d forgotten there were such places in New York. A slum. How do you get out? He did by
working
his way out. The jobs he had—newsboy, messenger, stockboy, runner for a numbers man. Petty thievery. Busted. Reform school—about the only schooling he got. Finally into the agency as a mail boy and—well—you know the rest. So if he wants to be Santa Claus—it’s all right with me. If he believes it’s all money—it’s because that’s what the world taught
him
and it worked out that way. For him.”
“There’s another side, Saul,” said Gene. “But this is hardly the time and place.”
“Of course,” said Saul. “I understand. But remember—he may change. We all do. Won’t success help?”
“It might,” said Gene. “And it might make things
worse!”
Saul laughed. “Oh, no! Oh, please
no!”
Suddenly, a fistfight in the middle of the dance floor. Saul rushed in to deal with it.
“Shall we melt away?” asked Gene.
“With pleasure.”
“Oh. By the way.”
“Yes?”
“Merry Christmas,” he said.
“Merry Christmas.”
Larry has fallen ill. I am not entirely surprised. The pressures to which he has been subjected in the course of the past several weeks would be enough to wreck anyone. But he has had the additional load of Art Clune’s determined effort to grind him down, using whatever methods he deemed necessary. These included scoldings, humiliations, 4:00 a.m. phone calls, threats, nit-picking, petty criticism, personal criticism, interference, rudeness, deliberate provocations, memos by the score, planted rumors and scuttlebutt and gossip, to say nothing of his assigned spies (Russ and Buddy and Paul), who report to him every move Larry makes, every remark, every meeting. He sends for big-name directors and choreographers to come down and look at the show, provides them and their parties (of four or six or eight) with limousines and suites and dinners or lunches or suppers, or all of them, plus extravagant presents. They are innocent and have no idea of what he is up to. They come down, he parades them around the lobby during intermission, introducing them to anyone he can—preferably press people and New Yorkers. The rumor mill begins to grind. Thus far, he has had Bob Fosse, Gower Champion, and Michael Bennett down. He hopes to get all the rest.
Larry, seasoned and experienced as he is, knows the score and hangs tough, but now and then I see it wearing him down. His inhalator is working overtime.
In addition, Art, by various means, has begun to build a sort of political party based on the principle: If you are not for me, you are against me. He doles out favors and presents and money and invitations. Thus far, he has won to his side Hy Balaban and, by extension, Fred Monroe, Russ and Buddy, of course; Phil; surprisingly, Clay; and, not surprisingly, Jenny.
Ivan and Nadia and Alicia and Gene remain steadfast and refuse to play Art’s game.
Star is unpredictable, as are most of the members of the cast—except for Calvin Sharp, the so-called leading man, who believes Art’s snow about his next show—a musical based on
Ruggles of Red Gap.
The fact that Art does not own the rights does not deter him from discussing it as though he does.
A few weeks ago, I noticed a red splotch on Larry’s forehead and thought it might be a bruise of some kind. Later, it developed into a rash. He treated it with drugstore ointments and lotions and took my suggestion of witch hazel, but the rash spread and continued to spread. A week ago, the area around his eye began to swell, and I insisted on making an appointment with the hotel doctor, who came up and had a look at him. A diminutive man in his eighties, brusque, self-assured, no-nonsense. He hands us each a card as he comes in. I have never before met
anyone
with three initials. It reads: A.M.W. Hall, M.D., Ph.D., FASP.
“Any allergies?” he asked.
“None that I know of.”
“Anyone hit you?”
“No. Some would like to, but no.”
“Well,” said Dr. Hall, “it could be nothing, and it could be herpes zoster. I hope not.”
“Spell it,” said Larry.
“H-e-r-p-e-s z-o-s-t-e-r,” said the doctor. “Commonly known as 'shingles.’”
“I thought shingles hit around the middle,” said Larry.
“You thought wrong,” said the doctor. “Where’d you take
your
M.D.? You’d better see a dermatologist, fast. I know a good one. In the morning, all right?”
“I have a rehearsal.”
“What time?”
“Ten.”
“No matter. I’ll ask him to see you at eight. Can you make that?”
“If you think I have to.”
“It’s up to you. I know what
I’d
do. I’d find out for sure.”
I went with Larry the next morning to see Dr. Kantrowitz, because I thought that left to his own devices, he might blow it.
It did not take long for the specialist to confirm Dr. Hall’s suspicion. Herpes zoster. Shingles. Painful and potentially dangerous. Daily treatment required, by him and by an ophthalmologist, to protect the eye.
“What is it actually?” asked Larry.
“A virus.”
“Contagious?”
“Rarely.”
“Do you two sleep in a double bed?” asked the doctor. “Share a bathroom? Towels? Things?”
“I would,” said Larry, “but my wife won’t let me.”
I was blushing.
“We’re not married,” I explained. “I’m Mr. Gabel’s secretary.”
“Oh,” said the doctor. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” said Larry.
A new morning routine began. I would meet Larry for breakfast every morning at 6:45 in the dining room, and we would proceed: first to Dr. Kantrowitz, who unbandaged, treated with radiation, and rebandaged Larry’s head; then to Dr. Wilford’s office for attention to the eye.
Even with this extraordinary amount of ministration, the condition grew worse. Larry’s head bloated alarmingly. He began to resemble a prizefighter after a losing bout.
In a matter of days, Larry’s left eye was unusable, swollen shut, although Dr. Wilford assured us that the eye was still safe.
“It’s not infected,” he said. “Not yet.”
Larry and I exchanged a look. He sighed.
Not long afterward, Larry asked Dr. Kantrowitz for a painkiller.
“It’s pretty bad,” he said. “Wakes me. I need the sleep.”
“Trouble is,” said the doctor, “anything effective in this line, say Demerol, tends to be addictive. But I know how excruciatingly painful the condition is, so—”
“How did it happened, Doctor? Any ideas?”
“Usually the result of massive emotional pressure or strain. Overwork. Frustration. Anxiety.”
Larry laughed. “Story of my life,” he said. “But I thought you said 'virus.’”
“Yes,” said the doctor, “but a virus needs a nonresistant field. We’re all exposed to viruses and bacteria and bugs all the time, but a healthy body fights them off.”
“I see,” said Larry. “In the circumstances, Doctor, I suggest you send your bill to Mr. Art Clune.”
Art on the phone to his lawyer in New York: “Stubborn son-of-a-bitch, I tell you! Me in his shoes, I’d go lay in a hospital someplace. Not him. But listen, he’s going on one eye now, so maybe with a little luck, the other eye’ll close up on him and then I’ve got ’im, right? I mean, a guy can’t see can’t direct a goddamn show, can he?…Act of God, my ass! He’s supposed to be ready, willing and able—right? So how is no eyes able?…Get a second opinion. Ask Roger. You don’t know everything. You know how many lawyers in New York? Thousands!”
He hangs up in a temper, has me get his doctor in California on the phone. Dr. Hyman Engleberg.
“It’s me. So what did you find out? Contagious or not?…But what does that mean, 'possible not probable…’ Yeah, but is it possible enough so it’ll stand up in a suit? It ought to be. I got a company here all together over a hundred and fifty people. What if it starts going through the company? Isn’t that dangerous?…What do you mean 'chicken pox’? Who said anything about chicken pox?…Oh, it is?…No, no. I
can’t
wait. It’ll be too late then. And what if it
doesn’t
happen? You don’t think I could take the position now that he’s a potential danger?…But you said
possible
…All right, all right. Thanks.”
We meet with Larry in his room. Art makes a great point of staying as far away from him as possible. He has also put on a surgical mask.
“I just got a medical opinion, Larry, from California, from a man who’s the greatest expert in the world on shingles—”
“I know. The greatest expert on everything is always in California—according to Californians, that is.”
“Look, cookie, just because you never made it out there, don’t give me that wise-ass New York snot shit.”
“What did you come down here for, Art? Just to plague me?”
“No. To ask you for Christ’s sake to be sensible. You’re a sick man. You can’t function. So why hang on?”
“Truthfully?”
“Yeah.”
“I hang on, yes—knowing I ought to resign—I hang on because I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of getting this whole show out of me for free. You don’t deserve it. You’re a fucking fiend. If you want me out, you can get me out early. You know how. Fire me.”
“Sure, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I fire you and pay you for the next three years, huh?”
“Exactly.”
“You got a dream, baby. You’re Doctor Martin Luther King. You got some dream, baby.”
“Why not?”
“What if I took you off right now—today—because you can’t function? You’re not functioning.”
“Of course I am.”
“Not
good.”
“—your opinion.”
“And I stop paying you. Then what?”
“Arbitration, and you’d
lose.”
“I would?”
“I’d stake my life on it. You’d lose.”
“All right, we’ll see,” said Art, tightly. “I got more friends around here than
you
have.”
“The kind of friends
you’ve
got, Art, you don’t need any enemies. Friends! What you’ve got is a bunch of sycophants and whores and parasites and kiss-asses—that’s what
you’ve
got.”
“Yeah? Well, we’ll see.”
He left, and I followed, after exchanging a wink with Larry.
A bad break for Larry. Late this afternoon, he fell asleep at rehearsal. Damn. Already, I make it sound worse than it was. He was actually watching Jenny restage the “Delmonico” number. I was sitting with him. Actually, he didn’t
have
to be there, but that’s Larry. He is dedicated and diligent and never stops. He even goes to understudy rehearsals.
“Would you be an angel,” he said, “and get me a cup of coffee? Black?”
“Of course.”
“Did a dumb thing,” he said. “Took an extra Demerol. Stupid. But damn—I was on the brink. Coffee’ll help.”
I went off to get it. When I returned, an awful sight greeted me: Larry in his seat, fast asleep—surrounded by Art and a group he had assembled. The rehearsal had stopped. The kids stood on the apron, peering into the auditorium and laughing.
With Art: Buddy, Russ, Jenny, Hy, and Paul.
I made my way to Larry’s side.
“Coffee!” said Art. “This bum needs more than coffee. He needs a blood transfusion! He’s out cold, f’Chrissake.”
I woke Larry and gave him the coffee. He looked up, took in the scene, and was clearly mortified.
“Your round, Mr. Clune,” he said, and left the theatre.
Art, to me: “Got that? Put it down. And who’s witnesses. Four twenty-five. The director is sleeping at rehearsal.”
Clay. “There’s only one trouble, Art.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“It wasn’t his rehearsal.”
“So what? It’s his show.”
“He may be right, Art,” said Jenny. “Don’t go off half-cocked—oh, sorry!”
Hy said, “The way I see it he was like a drop-in. Not his responsibility.”
With the tide turning against him, Art lost his temper.
“Look, you assholes! Don’t f’Chrissake mastermind
me.
What am I, some dummy? This isn’t my whole case—a guy corks off. We’re talkin’ maybe a half a million bucks here. I know no arbitration’s gonna charge a guy a half a mil for a nap, f’Chrissake. This is only
one
thing—one
more
thing—I got a whole
list.
That’s how you build a case, with lots of points—not just two, three. Everybody mind their own business, O.K.? This is
my
business—and I’m minding it!”
Roger Mannering, another of Art’s lawyers, is not happy to have been summoned to Washington. It is clear he considers it infra dig. He is accustomed to having his clients come to
him.
He is pissed off, although I am sure he would not put it so. He would more likely say “perturbed.”
“I’m not in the habit of making house calls, Art. And certainly not to Washington. Are you sure this could not have been done by telephone?”
“I’m sure. I want to know about arbitration.”
“What
about it?”
“How does it go?”
Mannering. “Your contract with him provides that in the case of a dispute, the matter is submitted to arbitration. A system set up to relieve the courts of unnecessary burdens.
You
choose an arbitrator.
He
chooses one. Together they choose a third—usually a lawyer—from an official panel. Then it’s very much like a lawsuit. Witnesses, depositions, affidavits. Under oath. Penalty of perjury and so on.”
“But if one guy is mine and one his—so it’s the third guy really counts, right?”
“Precisely.”
“All right. So from what I’ve told you so far—say you were the third guy—how would it go?”
“Well—”
“That’s enough.
Shit!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A guy says 'well’ the way you said 'well’ just now like that, I know I’m in trouble.”
“Why?”
“The answer is supposed to be, 'You’d win hands down, no contest, game over!’”
“I couldn't say that, really.”
“You could if you were any good,” said Art. “You’re supposed to have confidence. You’re supposed to be on
my
side.”
Mr. Mannering stood up.
“Sit down!” Art yelled.
Mr. Mannering clenched his fists and took a step toward Art.
“How
dare
you!” he said hoarsely.
(I don’t think I have ever heard anyone use that expression in real life.)
“What?” Art was stunned.
“You misapprehend our relationship, Mr. Clune.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I am not an employee.”
“I apologize.”
“I no longer represent you.”
“Come on, Roger!”
“I shall have your files prepared for transfer.”
“What’re you doing to me? I’m in the middle of a production here!”
“Goodbye, Mr. Clune. And now, as a disinterested party, I can tell you—based on the present evidence—you would most assuredly
lose
an arbitration.”
He was gone.
“Schmuck!” said Art. “To tell you the truth, I never liked the creep anyway. Big pompous windbag. Get me Cindy. She’ll know a lawyer—a real one.
Without
a vest.”
The new lawyer is Alfred Nardino. No vest.
Life has become a series of depositions and affidavits. Some true, some half-true, some false—and all sickening.
From Jenny’s:
Q: And did you ever see Mr. Gabel asleep during the course of an official rehearsal, Miss Flagg?
A: Yes.