Little Did I Know: A Novel (17 page)

I retrieved my car from the near-empty lot next to Cohen Auditorium and drove to the pay phone on the corner. I called Veronica, not knowing what I’d say even if I did catch her before she shut down the motel office for the night. I let the phone ring more than ten times before giving up. Disappointed, I repocketed my dime. I put the top down on the Mustang and looked up at the star-studded New England sky. The air held a distinct chill, so I turned on the car’s heater while I considered my next move. I decided to drive to Secunda’s Back Bay digs and drag his sorry ass out of bed. We’d grab a beer in Kendall Square, where I’d tell him of the incredible day he had just missed while we’d watch a collection of nubile Boston University coeds shoot some pool.

Secunda and I sat in Jimmy’s, a dive bar off of Kendall Square about two narrow blocks from Fenway Park. The place was a hybrid of college hangout and holding cell for hundreds of rabid Red Sox fans. If the Sox won, the joint was happy. If not, the beer poured more freely. Whatever the outcome, whatever the season, I always found the pool table occupied with the lovely “Terriers” from Boston University who came to the bar in tight jeans or short skirts to meet boys. I always left Jimmy’s happy.

It was inching toward 2 a.m. and we were on our third or fourth brew. Even at this late hour, Secunda wore a light gray suit with midnight blue stripes and an electric blue shirt with some sort of dots all over it. I wore my jeans and a cutoff faded chambray shirt. Secunda’s beard was neatly trimmed and his boots spit-polished.

“Sammy, you have to focus on the task at hand here. I don’t give a fuck who is fucking who in Plymouth. I don’t need to like Barrows or his illegitimate daughter who poses as a legal eagle and then spends the night playing with Molson’s testicles.” He paused to let the word “testicles” hang in the air for effect. Then he continued. “Now you tell me, for at least the fourth time in the last hour that you can’t believe that Barrows’s wife is fucking that douchebag I punched out the other night. Well, why not? I would do her, and so would you. Oops, you didn’t.” He chuckled. “So the mom, also known as the hot lawyer, is chasing Davey boy, the wife is doing the grandson, and soon they’ll have a bunch of kids with no teeth and all move to Louisiana.”

“Secunda, you can’t pretend that this stuff is normal. Something is going on and we should get to the bottom of it.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

He ordered another round from a waiter who looked like a chorus boy past his prime. We both took a moment to notice the glee of the girl pack nearby. One of them, a short Rubenesque redhead with big boobs had holed out the table, and her girlfriends cheered her on as if she were Carlton Fisk. Josh motioned for our chorus boy and ordered the girls a round to honor Red’s success.

“Because it’s fucked up!” I said. “Nobody is telling us the truth about what’s going on. Veronica’s brother is in prison because of that asshole . . .”

“You don’t know that do you, Kojak?”

“Who said they have to tell you anything, let alone the truth? Just hope they stay out your way so you can be Hal Prince instead of some Jewish Shaft. Do you want to play cops and robbers, or do you want to make some money so I don’t lose my trust fund and you can pay back all those crazy people who love you so much they gave you money?”

“You know that when good men do nothing bad things happen.”

“Who said so?”

“Me.”

Secunda laughed long and hard. He pulled out two expensive cigars and offered me one. I declined. He bit the end of his stogie and then took his time lighting up. The smoke billowed up to the old tin ceiling. After a moment, the air cleared a bit, and I found Secunda staring at me through the lingering smoke.

“This stuff is important,” I said. “You should take things with a tad more consternation.”

“A tad more consternation? Who says that sort of thing? Who are you, George Hamilton?”

He got up from the table and approached the girl pack surrounding the pool table. Their conversation was animated and friendly. They all looked my way while a nerdy-looking brunette with a rockin’ bod caught my eye and smiled. I nodded acknowledgment and quickly drained the remainder of my beer.

In a moment, Secunda sauntered back my way smoking like the Jersey refineries on Route 95 and sat back down. He waved our chorus boy over and ordered an assortment of drinks: new beers for us and a bottle of tequila for the table. “The girls are joining us in ten minutes,” he said. “What else do you have to tell me?”

“Okay, listen up. We were at it today for more than ten hours. We need twenty-four kids to cover all the roles and doubles. Some of the company you already know. We saw this girl today from Amherst. Unbelievable voice. The room shook. When she sings ‘Another Hundred People,’ watch out.”

“How were her legs?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

“Just fuckin’ with you.”

“Be serious for a minute. You know Christina Stewart?”

“I remember you dated her. Can she sing?”

“Well enough, but she’s funny. Who knew? She’s like Imogene Coca! She’s hot and funny. She’d even make
you
laugh, you fuckin’ churl.”

“Good.” He puffed the stogie and his eyes scanned the room.

“This girl came all the way from Yale. This girl had the best tits I have ever seen.”

“Better than Janet Kessler?”

“Yeah, better.”

“You’ve had enough to drink.”

Secunda held up one finger and gestured to the girl pack to give him one minute. With his other hand, he held the waiter at bay for a moment. He smoked his cigar and drained his beer. He looked at me with a mixture of contempt and affection. Then he stood and took my face in his hands, pulling me from my chair. I felt like Fredo before Michael gives him the kiss of death in
Godfather II
.

“I know this matters. I’m going to show up every day down there, and I’m going to act my ass off. I’m going to listen to what you say and make sure others do as well. But I’m going to have fun as well. And so should you. I put up money for your dream because I love you and think you’re good at this. It’s not my bliss or greatness that got me on board. It’s yours. Ten years from now, of the fifty people you plan to bring to theater camp, maybe two or three will earn a living doing the stuff they are going to love doing with you for the next four months. You’re going to break more hearts this summer then you ever could imagine. Just fuckin’ relax and act your age. Be a kid a bit longer, for Christ’s sake. Because when that’s over, it’s over. This may be your game, but it’s my football. What do you have at stake? Some borrowed money which we would have to really fuck up not to pay back. If you get in my face, though, then I pass. I take my money and go home.”

He still held my face in his hands, but backed away so there was some distance between us. “Now these girls are coming over to join us and have some fun. I’m telling you to have some fun. Flirt, dance, and if you’re lucky, make out. Take someone home. The tall geek with the glasses likes you.” Then he looked into my eyes with a combination of fury and deep fondness and gave me the kiss of death.

I sat back in my chair dazed by alcohol and reprimand.

“Fuck you, Secunda! I have plenty at stake. There is more to me than chasing pussy and drinking. If we’re not good this summer, then why bother?”

“I work tomorrow. Tonight, I continue to play. Caring too much is just as bad as not caring at all, Sammy!”

The girl pack joined us, and the chorus boy brought the drinks. Secunda poured everyone a shot of Patron, and with glass held high he said, “To my friend Sammy. May he gain some perspective before exuberance is lost and life becomes a boring burden. Drink up, everybody.” They did.

“You too, Sammy.”

“Asshole,” I muttered and put the shot glass down.

After a moment and a deep breath, the jukebox came back into focus. I heard Eric Carmen singing “All By Myself” loud and specifically for me. The nerdy-looking brunette walked over and sat on my lap. She had let her hair down, removed her glasses; she looked pretty damn good to me.

“Hey, Sammy,” she said. “My name’s Lucy. Dance with me.”

I sat still, thinking about my exchange with Secunda.

I fuck up and I go home
, I thought.
Yeah, like that’s a win for me. Pick up shit forever while everyone else moves on to the next gig and I have one foot in the purgatory of failure.
I sulked some more. Then I noticed that Lucy’s eyes were playful and full of late-night longing. Even through the bar smoke, I smelled a hint of perfume. Her tank top clung tightly to her body, and her firm breasts were at eye level.

“Come on, Sammy. It’s four o’clock. What do you have on your agenda that’s more fun than dancing with me?”

“I’ve got to work in the morning.”

“It
is
morning. It’s just up to you to know what to do with it.”

With that, Lucy walked me to the middle of the bar, put my hands on the cheeks of her ass and placed her head on my chest. I smiled weakly. The jukebox played “If You Leave Me Now.” Lucy rubbed up against me.

I had plenty of stakes in this game, more than anyone had yet to realize. Yet Lucy was right: the stakes would be there later this morning. For now, fun was beckoning. I pulled her closer, lifted her chin ever so slightly and kissed her. The music seemed to swell, I thought about Veronica, which was unfair to both girls, and was grateful that nine o’clock was no longer just a heartbeat away.

I
pulled into the Cohen Auditorium lot just short of 8:30 a.m. It was a perfect late-spring morning. The air filled with a sweet combination of crisp clean grass and honeysuckle. A tall, gangly runner was doing sprints on the track while a couple of coeds ran leisurely side by side in serious conversation. There were less than a half-dozen cars about, and the early-morning sun was warming the day nicely. I hadn’t been to bed, but I felt alert and eager for the day to begin. I had stopped at the local convenience store to wash up and brush my teeth in their men’s room. I needed a shave, but so did many recently graduated college kids who were up early in Beantown under a budding May sun. Before heading over to the auditions, I stopped at the local diner and picked up a twenty-ounce coffee that I mixed with lots of heavy cream and seven sugars. I was ready to greet the day yet had nearly thirty minutes to spare. I sat on the steps outside the auditorium, opened the
Globe
to the sports section, and began to drink my coffee.

Secunda walked up from behind me and sat down. He carried a box of doughnuts and a large container of java. “I brought you some breakfast,” he said sheepishly.

“Thanks, but I already picked up some coffee.”

“Then have a doughnut. They’re fun. Can never have too much fun, you know. You have fun last night?”

“Yes, yes I did.”

“Too much?”

I thought for a beat and smiled. “No, just the right amount.”

“Have a fuckin doughnut. We have to start work soon or Jojo will have our ass.”

He held out the box, and I took a moment to choose one. I opted for a glazed. It was still warm. I took a bite. “That’s a damn good doughnut.”

“Made it myself,” Secunda said. “I looked something up for you this morning. It’s about Mickey Mantle. You heard of him?”

“Yes, Josh, I have heard of Mickey Mantle.”

“Did you know that he played eighteen years in the big leagues? He got up to bat more than ten thousand times. He struck out more than eighteen hundred times and walked more than seventeen hundred times. So do you know what he had to say about that fact?”

“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

“Yes, I am. The Mick said that the average player gets up to bat five hundred times per year. Therefore, he spent seven years of his time in the big leagues never hitting the ball.”

“I can’t imagine Mickey Mantle ever saying ‘therefore.’ What’s your point?”

Secunda continued. “Do you also know that Mickey Mantle struck out more times than anybody who ever played?”

“Yeah, but he also hit more home runs than anybody but Aaron, Ruth, Mays, and Killebrew.”

“That’s right. Now let’s not be late.” He stood up, holding the remaining doughnuts. “You’re Mickey Mantle. You’re going to strike out some, but you’re gonna hit a lot of home runs this summer, many of which will head deep into the night and never come down. That’s what happens when you swing for the fences. Every time Mantle came to bat, he had stakes in the game. Just like you.”

Then he headed toward the front door of Cohen Auditorium. I followed. Just before we went inside, a strikingly handsome young man charged in front of us. Breathlessly he asked, “Do you guys know where the auditions for the Priscilla Beach Theatre are being held?”

“Downstairs in the basement,” Secunda told him.

“Thanks,” he said, and dashed off.

We went inside.

W
e began seeing people at nine sharp and worked without a break with the goal of concluding by five. We saw dozens of kids in all shapes and sizes. Some with talent and some that deserved a bus ticket home. We saw some people who wanted the gig so bad that we felt an institution would be a safer place for them to spend the summer. We saw others who were cavalier and seemed simply to be passing through on their way to someplace else. Best of all, we saw some terrific people. Dancers with long legs, flat tummies, and tight tushes who could hit the beat and then hit it again and again and again. We had singers who gave us goose bumps, who were quick learners and pitch perfect, and we had actors who could read the phone book and make it sound funny.