Authors: Garson Kanin
Taking a cue from Patti, I said nothing. Silence, I was learning, is often better than golden—it could be, it
was
in this case, cast iron. Funny, that.
Cast
iron.
“Sit down,” he said. “I have to do a few letters. Here O.K.? Or you rather the production office?”
I walked away, giving him his answer. He followed me across the stage, up one flight, down the hall.
“Be right with you,” he said. “I got to take a leak.”
Dainty Art.
He came into the production office, buttoning his fly. An expensive, tailored suit, no doubt. No zipper.
“I’m a little nervous,” he said. “I admit it. A lot could go wrong. I don’t mean mechanically. That I’ve checked out. I mean, he could think it over and conk out. I mean, later, when he cools off. Right now, he’s hot—and like they say, 'A stiff prick’s got no brains.’ Pardon my French. Jesus—don’t tell me you’re blushing. I haven’t seen a blush since New Utrecht High School. Look, I’m sorry—but I have to tell you. Around this bunch, you better get used to it. O.K. This first one is to Arnold Weissberger. 'Dear Arnold…’ See, the thing about Hy is—oh, no. That’s not to Arnold. I’m just sayin’. The thing about Hy is—he ain’t smart but he’s suspicious. He trusts nobody. Not me. Not even Fred—and Fred’s his partner. Nobody. So if he even gets the teeniest hint she’s playing with him for something—anything—he’s just as likely to stand 'er up. Another thing: a lot of these guys around here like him—they talk a great game—but when it comes pants-off time they fold. They scare out. That could be him. I mean—he doesn’t know this little broad. He might figure, hey, What if she’s a blab—some of 'em are. It gets around the company. It gets to his wife. Is it worth it? Y’
know?
…Where was I?”
“‘Dear Arnold,’” I said.
“Yeah. 'Dear Arnold As you have no doubt heard by now we are a smash up here and that is why I believe we should try to wind up everything on rights before—’”
He paused.
“Maybe I ought to coach her—no love games, no kind of serious shit—just keep it frankly a nice hot ball, that’s all. I heard he gets real sentimental sometimes and makes a whole thing out of it. Old-fashioned. Not like these kids, they just do it like as if it was dancing, and I don’t mean only the dancers—I’m talkin’ about the singers, too, and the principals and
everybody.
I hope he knows. And can play it like that. I wonder if she knows about stocking up on booze? Does she know what he drinks? Do you?” I shook my head. “Look, I’ll do the letters later. Hotel. See y’.” He was gone.
Between shows, I went to dinner with Clay and Chris. Locke-Ober’s. A crowd waiting for tables. In a booth for six—Hy and Patti. He is in an expansive mood—probably because the matinee really did go marvelously—and he is going good, too. A bottle of Stolichnaya on the table. The manager drops by and sits with them for a while. I almost feel like calling Art to tell him not to worry. There’s not a chance anything can go wrong. One odd note, only. Patti, usually a life-of-the-party type, is rather subdued. Or is this part of her routine? I wish I knew.
Art’s suite.
This morning—or rather, noon—Hy comes in. He looks well—rosy, in fact—and is gotten up in his customary well-groomed, snappy dresser way. He is a clothes ham and someone said the other day that when he and his wife go to Paris—which they do every year—
he
spends as much on clothes as
she
does.
“Tea?” asks Art.
“Coffee,” says Hy.
“Anything with it?”
“Yeah. A hit song.”
“I wish I could get you to kick coffee, Hy. It’s bad for the heart.”
“Wrong. You know what’s bad for the heart? I’ll tell you what’s bad for the heart. Being number
two
on the Hit Parade—that’s bad for the heart.”
“Got that?” Art asks me. “Coffee.”
“Yes.”
I go into the other room and order from room service. By the time I return, they are at it. Art is saying:
“—and it’s drivin’ me to
insanity!”
“Well, let’s face it, Art. You haven’t got far to go.”
I sit down at the desk.
Art goes on: “I don’t claim to know so much technically—I mean I don’t know one music key from another.”
“I
do.”
“But believe me—I’m like the audience and I feel things—like them—and they’re all ready for that Nora Bayes number—and it doesn’t happen—boy! That’s gonna cost us—you’ll see.
Cost
us. It’s like we’ve got them in the sack and we go on and on—and comes the moment and nobody blows their load.”
Hy says, “Listen you cheap vulgarian—if you’re going to talk like that—send her out.”
“I’ve heard
you
talk worse.”
“Not in front of this nice respectable Armenian girl, you haven’t.”
“Half Armenian.”
“Really? Which half?”
“So come on, admit it. Deep down, God damn it—you
know
I'm right. You’re no fool.
You
feel it, too, standing back there.”
“It’s the orchestration,” says Hy. “We’re fixing it.”
“Orchestration, my ass—”
“Didn’t I tell you—don’t talk like that with the girl here. It’s embarrassing. Or tell her to go. Go ’way, Midge.”
“You want the truth?” asks Art. “I’ll give you the truth. We’re gonna have a serious half an hour here in a minute—and I want a witness. That’s been a policy of mine for many years’ standing. I always have a witness.”
The room-service waiter arrives. I sign the check. He leaves. I serve Hy his coffee. Silence.
“Go ahead,” says Hy, sensing trouble.
“To put it plain, I don’t think the substitute number works. Neither does anybody.”
“I’ll change it. We’ll do a
new
number.”
“How about 'Shine On, Harvest Moon’?”
“Never.”
“O.K. How about this number?” He reaches over, picks up the little Sony and presses the play button.
(Room noises. Glasses. Ice cubes. A man laughs)
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: Come on, truth. Was that accidental this morning at rehearsal? That bending and stretching? Or were you trying to drive me nuts? Or drive my
nuts
nuts?
(
P
ATTI’S
laugh)
I cannot bear to look at Hy, but from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of him. He is sipping coffee, but he has turned into a mechanical man. He reminds me of one of those people who work in the shop windows on 5
th
and 57
th
Street sometimes; living mannequins who mystify the passersby with their trick of not moving a muscle or blinking or anything—but once every fifteen minutes or so giving a single wink.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Let me have a look at them—then I’ll tell you.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: I’ll be Goddamned! First time my nuts’ve had to
audition.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: I’ve auditioned plenty for you, mister.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: Hey. Like we used to say—I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Why not? That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?
(A sound)
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: Jesus Christ, baby! What’re you trying to do—stop my clock?
The coffee cup in Hy’s hand begins to shake. He spills coffee all over the front of his white shirt. He puts down the rattling cup.
Art presses the fast-forward button of the machine. It screeches as though in pain. Now the play button.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: —and be right with you. Where is it? In here—oh, yeah. I see. Thanks.
A pause. Hy is looking at Art. His face is crazily controlled to a point where I cannot read the expression. Is it anger or fear or hate or terror or all of them?
Another scream from the Sony as it races forward,
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: —to get you something to help.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: What’ve you got?
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Vaseline, cold cream.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: No, no. Look in my briefcase there—you’ll find a tube of K.Y.
(
P
ATTI’S
laugh)
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: You son of a bitch—you’re a real pro, huh?
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: I’m a Boy Scout. Our motto is “Be prepared.”
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: How’d you know I was going to let you go up my ass?
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: I could tell. It’s that kind of an ass.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Yes, it is, isn’t it? The sweet little thing.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: C’mere, c’mere.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Easy, baby.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: Let
me
let
me
let—
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Aahh!
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: What’s the matter?
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Cold.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: I’ll take care of that.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Careful, huh? Don’t tear me.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: Don’t worry, baby. I’ll give it to you an inch at a time.
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Wait.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: No…
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Here. Let me.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
: You
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: There. Easy.
H
Y’S
V
OICE
:
Jesus!
P
ATTI’S
V
OICE
: Aaahh!!!
Hy comes out of his chair, tries to stand, fails, and falls to his knees.
“Oh, my God,” he moans, and begins to retch. “Oh, Jesus. Oh, my God! What’s
happening?”
He breaks down and sobs uncontrollably.
It is all surrealistic. A nightmare. An insane movie. What in God’s name am I doing here? Why don’t I get out? I can’t. Why not?
Hy’s double voice in the air. On the machine—moans of ecstasy—through which words float: “Oh, yeah. Oh, good. Good for you, baby? Tell me! Good for you?”
“Oh,
yes!”
“Oh, good. Hold it. Hold still…”
In the room, moans of another kind from Hy on the floor. And whimpers. And words: “Oh you bastard, you low fucking slimy bastard. The worst. You’re the worst. You’ll pay your dues someday, you cocksucker. You’ll see.”
At last at last at last Art shuts off the machine. Hy manages to get back into his chair. He mops the spilt coffee from his clothing with a napkin. I sit there unable to move. I am dripping wet. I hate everybody, including myself. I have no idea how long it is before Hy speaks—a hell of a time, that I do know. When he does, he is surprisingly calm.
“What do you want?” he asks.
“You
know what I want.”
“Say it.”
“A rider. I want a rider in our contract—Fred’s too. The right to interpolate whatever.”
“And what about that?” Hy asks, pointing to the Sony.
“It’s yours.”
“What about the copies? How can I trust a lousy fucking unconscionable swine like you?”
“No copies. You got my word.”
“Your word is
shit.
Give me a letter. Indemnify me. If a copy ever turns up anywhere—you owe me a million dollars.”
“No,” says Art.
“No?”
“Make it I owe you
ten
million.”
“Deal.”
Art goes over and extends his hand.
“No,” says Hy. “I’d rather not touch you. Just draw the papers.”
“Here they are,” says Art, and hands them over. Hy signs without so much as looking at them. Art gives him another set and says, “And get your daffodil to sign this right away.”
Hy is pale—or is it slightly blue? What if he has a heart attack here and now?
He gets up and crosses the room to the door, moving like an old, old man. At the door, he stops. Is he reconsidering?
He turns into the room and speaks.
“Tell me, Art. In all honesty. Was it worth all that? For a lousy couple of songs in a show? Was it really worth it? To
kill
a man? For a
song?”
No answer. Hy leaves.
“O.K.,” says Art. “Here’s our copy. Make copies. For Arnold and Larry and Cindy and—”
“I’ll be back in a while,” I say.
“Why? Where you going?”
“To my room. I have to throw up.”
“Do it here,” he said.
I went into the bathroom and took his advice.
SHINE ON, HARVEST MOON
Company Bulletin
Wednesday, October 31
HALLOWEEN
: All authentic witches and warlocks in the company: Please report to Clay Botsford at midnight for instructions.
THURSDAY AFTERNOON RUN-THROUGH
: Please observe the following important rules for the conduct of our run-through of Act I at 3:00 P.M.
COLOR
: Today’s color is Orange; tomorrow’s, Purple.
QUOTE TO REMEMBER
:
“Author, director, scene-designer, and actor must become completely the servants of the play. Each must resist every temptation to score personally. Each must make himself a free, transparent medium through which the whole flows freely and without obstruction. No one at any moment can say, 'Ah, this moment is mine! I shall show what can be done with it.’ There is no part of the play that is done for the benefit of anyone. It must all be inevitable, impersonal and untrammelled. It requires a complete surrender of selfishness. In fact, it demands of everyone the honest rigidity of the true artist, who will stoop to nothing because it is effective or conspicuous or because 'it goes.’”
Arthur Hopkins,
from HOW’S YOUR SECOND ACT?, 1918
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP: JENNY FLAGG
(Choreographer)
I danced my ass off for Jerry Robbins and Bob Fosse and George Balanchine and Gower Champion. I was underpaid by David Merrick, Ray Stark, Herman Levin, Joe Papp (especially), Lester Osterman, Feuer and Martin, The Shuberts, Fryer and Carr, Fryer and Cresson, and just plain Fryer.
When my pins began to complain, I became Everybody’s Assistant and worked on hits such as: THE ROTHSCHILDS; JESUS CHRIST, SUPERSTAR; A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC; and SHENANDOAH. Also no-hits such as: FRANK MERRIWELL; SUGAR; SEESAW; and MOLLY. Finally, a few almosts, among them: COCO; GIGI; and FOLLIES.
I was born in Weatherford, Texas (me and Mary Martin), on January 11, 1940. Don’t count. I’m 39. Dancing school from the age of 5. New York at 16, lied re age and got my first job in the chorus of COPPER AND BRASS with Nancy Walker, then replacement in WEST SIDE STORY, replacement in THE MUSIC MAN, lines in THE BODY BEAUTIFUL, and I was launched.
It has all been interesting, educational, glorious, depressing, humiliating, insulting, gratifying, fulfilling, exhausting, sexy, lonely, beautiful, and horrible—and don’t ask me if I’d like to do it all again. I might tell you.
I love dancers. I love them better than singers or actors or trumpet players or stage managers or plumbers or cops. Dancers are the best in the world, especially
my
dancers.
There are now 26 days remaining until our Philadelphia opening.