Authors: Garson Kanin
“Best offer I’ve had today,” said Larry.
It was not as easy to arrange as Gene thought it was going to be. Larry, although not exceptionally tall or large, is nevertheless not an easy fourteen or sixteen. Men are different, it turns out. I shopped and shopped. Woodward & Lothrop solved most of the problems in the end, except for shoes. A specialty shop in Georgetown provided those.
I helped Larry to dress and make up. He turned into a surprisingly attractive (if somewhat butch) female. He practiced walking around the apartment, sitting and rising, for one whole day.
Meanwhile, Gene, having enlisted the support of Jenny, Alicia, Ivan, and Star—talked to Art on the subject of Clay. As he predicted, it was a breeze. Art saw it at once as the practical and, of course, inexpensive solution. Ziegfeld would have been harder to convince.
Art sent for me.
“You’re a major disappointment to me,” he said.
“I am?”
“What happened to you? You started out so good, now you got me in a spot where you’re costing me a fortune.”
“In what way?”
“In the way Gene tells me he’s got to bring his own secretary down from Chicago. He doesn’t want you anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t ask me. Maybe he doesn’t like you. Maybe he doesn’t like your work.”
“Maybe his secretary is more than a secretary,” I said.
“No, no. He’s too square for that kinda caper.”
“No one is.”
“He claims you’ve got too much other things to do and on your mind.”
“Well, that’s a damn fact. He probably
does
need someone full time—now that we’re in the stretch.”
“Hey, y’know? I never thought of that. Him boffing his secretary. How
about
that?”
“Happens.”
“Yeah, but not where I’ve got to pay first-class air fares and a hundred dollars a day per diem, plus salary. Just so a horny writer can get his rocks off!”
This whole conversation was not as amusing to me as I thought it was going to be.
The first two nights went well. Larry and Gene sat together, communicating—Larry making notes.
A meeting afterward at Gene’s, the notes discussed.
Next day, Clay put them in. Progress—slow but unmistakable.
The third night, for some perverse reason, Art insisted on meeting Gene’s secretary. He had something he wanted to give her.
Fortunately, I had put long fingernails on Larry’s fingers that afternoon, given him a manicure with bright-red polish, and added false eyelashes to his makeup.
The introduction in the lobby was scary.
“Art, this is Mrs. Elizabeth Borden.”
“Hi, honey! This is for you.” He handed her a box containing a gold pen-light.
Larry coughed and said, “Oh, thank you!” in a hoarse whisper.
“Laryngitis,” Gene explained. “From the plane.”
“Don’t I know!” said Art. To Larry: “Look, honey, if that’s not better by tomorrow, I’m sending my doctor to see you.”
Larry nodded enthusiastically.
When he and Gene had gone to their seats, Art said to me, “You were wrong. Nothing’s playing there.”
“How do you know?”
“How do I know? I know because I know a dyke when I see one. I’ve got a built-in dyke-detector.”
“Don't be silly,” I said. “It’s
Mrs.
Borden.
Mrs.
Elizabeth Borden.”
“Yeah? How much you want to bet her husband’s name is
Mary?”
But at least the game was saved.
The
modus operandi
of Larry-Gene-Clay moved into high gear. The show improved, and even Star was enjoying it more because the audiences were—and although She knows very little about the theatre, She knows
all
about audiences.
Gene was happy at last, and confident, and up, and his mood took the form of expression I most prefer. We made love. Constantly, it seemed. Not once, and then again, and later again as before—but one long continuing nonstop magical exchange.
One night—laughing, slightly stewed fucking, then blissful sleep. I am awakened by the most aphrodisiacal sensation between my legs. He tongues me awake and then to sleep. I awake again. He is asleep beside me. I move my hand to his beloved organ and fondle it. It comes alive in my hand as he awakes, slowly. He takes charge, rolls over, mounts me, and enters me powerfully, this time not to perform the act of love—but simply to be there—a reminder of what delights have been and a herald of joys yet to be. Gentle, tantalizing movement—the sudden withdrawal.
“Breakfast,” he shouts, and dashes for the shower. I order an enormous breakfast and join him in the shower, where we enjoy one another’s bodies. Soaping, rinsing, clinging. Drying, rubbing. A slow slow breakfast and a long long newspaper read. I get the feeling he does not read papers so much as he
consumes
them. Marking, clipping. After breakfast, we crawl back into bed and nap. The phone rings.
“No,” he says, and holds me.
I am hungry for him, for the texture and taste of his stiffness in my mouth. My power over it is heady stuff. It grows and throbs and responds to my lips and to my tongue. In the ecstatic inebriation of complete let-go—it seems often to belong to me as much as to him. Gently then firmly, gently then wildly, gently then powerfully, I coax the nectar from his being. He cries out, thrashes about, lies very still. We have triumphed once again.
At first, it was difficult to understand what Larry was doing and why he was doing it—at such considerable inconvenience to himself. His name is off the show, off the house boards, and programs and publicity. Officially, he has nothing to do with it. What audiences and critics and the profession will never know is how much of the show is his—was invented and executed by him. Moreover, he has forfeited any material gain—didn’t have to, could have had a settlement of some kind—why didn’t he? For the moment of declaring himself free and unencumbered, I suppose. Expensive moment. Now he is back—struggling into drag night after night, going to the theatre, watching the show, making notes, getting ideas, discussing them with Gene and Clay until 2:00, sometimes 4:00 in the morning. Clay puts the stuff in, Larry checks it during the next performance. He has so often said to the company—“The
doing
is what matters.” I always took that to be part of the pep talk—but now Larry is living out his own philosophy. Beyond that, I think the show means more to him than his own ego. Is that the mark of an artist? One who cares more about the piece of creative work than anything else? Probably. At any rate, that may explain Larry and what he has been doing these days and nights. The show is getting a blood transfusion and a face-lift and a Dr. Niehans treatment all at the same time. And it is responding joyfully.
The only thing they are having trouble with is getting out Star’s inane interpolations. They get one out, another, another, then the first one goes back in.
“But it’s not in the script, dear,” Clay said one morning, close to exasperation.
“So what? It works, don’t it? Gets a pisser of a laugh?”
“Too expensive, that laugh.”
“I’ll pay, O.K.?”
“Mr. Bowman feels—”
“Hey, come on, fella. Tell Mr. Bowman he ain’t Shakespeare and his show ain’t exactly
Tristan and Isolde.
It’s a show. For the people. So why don’t we give them what they want?”
“Tell her,” said Gene, a few hours later, “that audiences don’t
know
what they want. It’s up to us to
tell
them what they want, and they like us better if we don’t tell them to like trash.”
In time, Clay conveyed the message in his own way, in his own words—but it was no use.
He suggested to Gene that he himself have a shot at her. Gene did, with good, if not perfect results.
The routine was tiring Larry. It would have been so much simpler to do it in a straightforward, professional way, but given the personalities involved, it was not to be.
“It’s getting better,” said Gene. “There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind about that. This show is getting better every night.”
Larry laughed. “Oh, Gene,” he said. “Oh, Gene, you lovable tyro! Getting better. Don’t you know you’ve just enunciated the Broadway kiss of death? The theatre’s illusion-delusion? Getting better. Most shows fail. What is it? Nine out of ten? Eight out of ten? Most. An investor—big—once said to me, 'I cannot understand it. Good people with good track records. They start out and come up empty so much of the time. How come?’ So I said, 'Well, first of all, let me ask you, who was the greatest baseball player of all time—the greatest hitter?’ 'I don’t know,’ he said. 'Babe Ruth?’ 'Right,’ I said. 'That’s what most people say. Babe Ruth. O.K. You know how many times he struck out? Over
three thousand.
Struck out three thousand times—to say nothing of the times he flied out or hit into double plays. So theatre people are human, too, and the theatre’s full of imponderables.’ And then there’s that goddamned Getting Better. Look. You start a show—first days are chaotic. Nobody knows where to go, what to do, or how to do it. Days go by in agony. Now the players begin to play, put down their scripts, a scene comes to life, a song pleases. Hey! It’s getting better! A cut—better. A change—better. A replacement—
much
better. And because it’s getting better—not only better but better and better—we poor besotted stagestruck nuts actually believe it’s getting
good!
But no. It’s not getting good—it’s just getting
better!
See?”
“I see,” said Gene, “but I don’t agree. This one
is
good—and getting better.”
“Are you listening, God?” asked Larry.
Clay, still having problems with Star, comes up to see Art. Art greets him, expansively, and gives him a present. A Vuitton briefcase. Clay would prefer a less intransigent Star.
“You want me to talk to her?” asks Art. “I’ll talk to her. What it’ll get us, I don’t promise. You know how She is. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, She loves me. Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays, She hates me. Sundays, She rests and changes the schedule. So I never know—but I’ll try.”
“We’re approaching a pretty good level of precision now,” said Clay. “Except for her. I have nightmares about opening night.”
“It’s par for the course, Clay. You learn that after a while. You want a Star, you pay the price. Like Billy Wilder said that time when somebody said to him—'Wasn’t Marilyn Monroe a real pain-in-the-ass to work with—a lot of trouble?’ And Billy said, 'Damn right, but let me tell you. My Aunt Ida—if I hired
her
for the part—I promise you—I’d stake my life—she would come on time and know her lines perfectly and do what I tell her with no discussion and not say a word to the cameraman or hairdresser or wardrobe or makeup persons—she would work overtime and undertime and be a perfect lady. The only trouble is—My Aunt Ida doesn’t look like Marilyn Monroe and can’t act like—so that’s why I decided to go with Monroe—a pain-in-the-ass and plenty of trouble.’”
“Yes,” said Clay. “I see what you mean.”
“What’s more important, Clay, is for Chrissake, why didn’t you ever tell me what a good director you are?”
Instead of replying, Clay looked at me and smiled.
Art went on. “I mean it, kid. Do you
know
how good you are?”
“Yes,” said Clay.
“Even Her Nibs mentioned it in her high-toned way the other day. She said to me, 'You see that, you ass-hole? Terrific director right under your nose and you don’t even
know
it? Does that
prove
you’re a shithead?’ I took a bow, naturally.”
“If She thinks I’m so terrific, why won’t She listen?”
“Because She’s a Star who thinks She’s a
super
star, and all superstars have invisible hearing aids that they turn on and off any time it suits them. But never mind her. Back to you. I want to talk to you, seriously. You know
Ruggles of Red Gap?”
“Of course.”
“What do you think of it as a musical?”
“Why not? With the right elements.”
“The right elements to me means no Hy Balaban. He’s too flaky for me—and an easy bleeder besides. You heard what Ivan did to him, didn’t you? Flattened him with one roundhouse. Ivan! The man’s about ninety-two.”
“Hy writes excellent show music.”
“Not enough,” said Art. “His yenta wife comes with it. Miss Blinding Jewelry. Who needs it? Anyway, for
Ruggles,
I want an English songwriter—like Noel Coward.”
“Noel Coward is dead,” said Clay.
“Did I say Noel Coward? I said
like
Noel Coward. Jesus, you’re as tough to talk to as every other talent schmo.”
“There is no one like Noel Coward.”
“But English,” said Art. “Or British.”
Clay looked at me, then said to Art, “I don’t see why. It’s an American story, with only one sequence—the opening—and one character—Ruggles—that are British. And even if there were more—what does it matter? May I remind you that
My Fair Lady
was written by Alan Jay Lerner of New York, and Frederick Loewe of Vienna?”
“You may remind me that I sure in hell don’t want
you
on the goddamn show. You’re good, like I said, but you’re a card-carrying smart-ass.”
“There you are,” said Clay. “Fired before hired. That must be
some
kind of record, wouldn’t you say?”
“Send it in to Guinness,” said Art. “Don’t tell
me.”
“Shall we take it from the top? What did you want?”
“When?”
“Today. You sent for me.”
“I did?” asked Art.
“So I was told.”
To me: “I did?”
“About the credits,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yeah,” said Art to Clay. “I want to make a deal with you. You got an agent?”
“No.”
“Better. We’ll make sense. How about one percent, and a half for road companies, and credit equal to the other creative elements? Generous enough?”
“Not generous at all,” said Clay. “The royalty terms you mention are the absolute minimum required by the SSDC.”
Art turned to me. “Didn’t I tell you a smart-ass?”
“However,” said Clay, “those terms are acceptable.”
“Good. Deal.”
“As to the credit—no.”
“No? What do you want?”
“No credits. No way.”