Rich and Famous (2 page)

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

Chapter

“Well, what are you going to do, George?” Stanky
said.

“Commit suicide, probably,” I said. We were lying around Stanley's room messing the place up with banana slushes we had made in his blender.

“Good thinking,” Stanky said.

“You think I'm kidding,” I said. I slurped at my banana slush. “Why do you have to go to music camp this summer?”

“Because I want to,” Stanky said. “Besides, what difference does it make? You aren't going to be around.”

“Maybe I will be,” I said.

“What time are you supposed to meet Woody?”

“At three o'clock,” I said. “He says this guy is the biggest guy in the record business in New York. He says to be there
punto,
baby.” Woody Woodward was always saying stuff like baby and groovy and being places
punto,
which is Spanish for being on time, I guess, although I'm not too sure, because I got a D in Spanish.

“I don't know why you're so worried about it. You keep saying that nothing ever comes from these big deals that Woody has. What about that television show you were supposed to be on? What about that movie you were supposed to be in?”

“I was supposed to be in it for a minute,” I said.

“Well, anyway,” Stanky said.

“Yes, but this one might work out. I have a feeling.”

“Come on, George,” Stanky said. “You had a feeling about that movie, too.”

I put my banana slush down on the floor beside Stanky's guest bed where I would be sure to kick it over if I forgot and got up suddenly, and lay down on my back. I was feeling pretty gloomy.

“Well, I didn't have the
same
feeling about that movie. I just have a feeling this one might happen. And there I'll be shoved off upstate watching Cousin Sinclair be perfect for four
weeks.”

“You'll just have to explain it to your father.”

“Stanky, give it up will you? How can I explain it to Pop? I'm not supposed to
know
I'm going to get shoved off all summer watching Sinclair be perfect.”

“Did you tell your Pop that Woody has this hot new record deal going?”

“Sure I told him. He just said what he always says, „Don't get your hopes up Georgie. These things of Woodward's never work out.'”

We didn't say anything. I felt around for my banana slush without looking.

“You're going to knock that over,” Stanky said.

“Where is it?” I said.

“A little closer to the bed. Watch it.”

I got hold of the banana slush and had a good noisy suck at it. The Stankys are rich. Well, not exactly rich, but they have plenty of money and they always have straws and things around.

“I'm getting bored with this conversation,” Stanky said. “Let's play ping-pong.”

“I'm getting bored with being beaten in ping-pong,” I said. “Anyway I have to go home and get changed so I'll get there punto.”

I walked home through Washington Square. It was May. The leaves on the trees were unfolding, the squirrels were running around like mad, the N.Y.U. students were out there without any shirts on, playing frisbee, and the junkies were dozing on the benches. You can always tell when spring comes in Greenwich Village because the drug addicts come out of hibernation or wherever they spend the winter and take up half the benches in the park.

But I was too worried about my problem to pay attention to spring. The truth was that Pop didn't want me to make a record and get rich and famous and retire at twenty-five. Oh, he let me go to the auditions Woody got me, and he pretended to take it seriously, but that was just because he didn't believe that anything would ever come of any of the means for getting rich and famous Woody was always coming up with. If he'd thought anything was likely to come of them, he'd have blown up. It was his belief that anybody who got into the music business was bound to drop out of school and die of an overdose of drugs about six weeks later. Oh, maybe I'm exaggerating. I don't know what Pop really would have done if any of Woody's means for getting rich and famous came true. But having me sing on a record wasn't going to turn him on, that was for sure.

I
took a shower, put on my brush denims and my coolest looking shirt, which wasn't too cool because Pop won't buy me anything too cool, and took the subway up to Camelot Records. It was in the Camelot Building, a huge thing about eighty stories high on Sixth Avenue near Rockefeller Center. They had a pretty snazzy office— you know, glass tables and gold record plaques on the walls and small trees growing around here and there. But being around the music business I'd gotten used to places like that and when I told the receptionist my name I acted cool and nonchalant, as if I were already a star. She phoned up somebody and in about three minutes Woody Woodward came out. He put his arm around my shoulder and kind of walked me over to the side of the reception lounge. “Listen, baby, this guy we're seeing is the Camelot A. and R. man. Everybody calls him Superman because he's put together so many hits. He's got a real commercial feel. He can smell a winner a mile away. He's got about twenty kids lined up waiting to try out for this deal but I persuaded him to see you first. One thing, he had polio when he was a kid. He walks around on crutches, and he's very sensitive about his legs. Don't stare or anything. Okay? Groovy, baby. Let's go.”

We walked down a maze of corridors to Superman's office. It was a really terrific place with a huge desk and enormous windows that you could see out of for miles. You could even see LaGuardia Airport, and tiny planes coming in for a landing.

The A. and R. man was sitting behind the huge desk. A. and R. stands for “Artist and Repertory.” In a record company the A. and R. man is the one who really decides which records to make and I guess this one was considered terrific about knowing which records would sell. He was completely bald, as if he had shaved his head. He had hardly any eyebrows, either, and his eyes seemed to stand out like blue eggs. His shoulders and arms were big, the way they usually are with people who walk on crutches. He was wearing a T-shirt that said “I Love Camelot” on it. He didn't get up when we came in. I guess it was too much trouble for him. He just stared at me, and after awhile he said, “Hmm.”

“I told you he was a good-looking kid,” Woody said.

Superman stared at me through his big egg-eyes. Then he opened his desk drawer, took out a huge cigar, smelled it, bit off the end, and lit it. “Havana,” he said. “Illegal here. No
way
a customs inspector can tell Havana if you take the labels off.” He rolled it in his fingers, then he lit it and blew out a huge puff of smoke all over me and Woody. “Have the kid turn sideways, Woody, so I can get a look at his profile.”

The
way he said it made it sound as if I were a poodle in a dog show. I didn't say anything, but just turned sideways. “Hmm,” he said again. “How old is he, Woody?”

“Thirteen,” Woody said.

“Hmm,” Superman said. “Born the year I went to jail.” That was a pretty interesting remark, and I quickly tried to figure out some polite way of asking him more about it, but I couldn't come up with anything in time.

“But he's got the kind of face that could pass for anything from eleven to sixteen,” Woody said.

Superman blew smoke all over us. “Maybe twelve. Eleven I doubt. Does he have to shave yet?”

“No,” Woody said. “He won't start shaving for years. They mature late in his family.” That was a complete lie. I'd already shaved twice.

“I don't know,” Superman said.

He stared his egg-eyes at me some more. “He isn't flipping me out with his personality. Have him bop a little, Woody.”

“Bop a little, George,” Woody said.

“What?” I said. I was getting pretty tired of being in a dog show, and besides, I didn't know what he meant by bopping.