Where could he eat? There was a Sambo's and there was DuPar's, but no. He wanted to celebrate. He pulled the Corvair up to the door at the Sportsmen's Lodge. He wanted to say, "I'm Mickey Ashman. On Wednesday I'll be playing the brother," but he didn't. In the old days he would have. But he was getting to be shy. Quieter. Sometimes he reminded himself of Mrs. Polnazy's little son, Rico. Rico Polnazy was a five-year-old boy who lived with his parents in the same apartment building as the Ashmans. Mickey's mother called Rico "a little devil." And Mickey and Harvey always egged Rico on. They would teach him dirty words to say to his parents and practical jokes to play on people in the building, and Rico would listen carefully, laughing with an excited look in his eyes, and then run off and say and do the things they'd taught him. And every single time Rico's mother would get furious and smack the shit out of him. Harvey and Mickey could hear it. Her slapping him and him screaming. And one day Mickey noticed that the excited look in Rico Polnazy's eyes was gone. The kid was only six years old but he was through. His spirit was broken and it was Mickey and Harvey's fault. Now when Mickey looked at himself in the mirror, he didn't see the old spirited Mickey looking back. As though someone had been smacking the shit out of him a lot too. Maybe God was punishing him for egging on Rico Polnazy.
The dinner was great and Mickey didn't even mind eating alone. He had so much to think about. He felt happier than he had in months, and eating alone was only bad when it was a baloney sandwich you were eating. Not when it was a thick rare steak.
When he got back home there was a large manila envelope between his screen door and his door. CBS! It was real. He didn't imagine it. The minute he got the door open and the light on, he tore the script out of the envelope. I Give It Six Months. Yes. That was the name of it. He remembered. A pilot for a situation comedy. LARRY, KAREN'S TWENTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD BROTHER. THINKS OF HIMSELF AS A SWINGER. HE'S NOT. Cute. He liked that. Larry. Larry. Larry. He leafed through the script. A scene with Larry and Karen. Lots of lines. Lots of them.
KAREN
Well, brother dear. Where are you off to tonight?
LARRY
That, my dear Karen, is none of your business.
KAREN
Is it a blonde none of my business or a brunette none of my business?
(LARRY LOOKS OFFENDED)
This was cute. And he had two scenes. Two nice scenes. The phone was ringing.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Ashman?"
"Yes?"
"This is Donna over at wardrobe on I Give It Six Months. I'm really sorry to bother you at this hour, but I know you're working over here this week, so I need to get some sizes on you for shirts and pants."
"I can come in if you want," Mickey offered.
"Could you? That would be great. Tomorrow?"
"What time?"
"At your convenience."
Mickey smiled. Either they shit all over you or they treated you like a king.
"Ten," he said.
"I'll leave a drive-on for you and the guard will show you how to get to the costume department," she said.
"Great."
The next several days were a whirlwind of dreams coming true. Fittings on Tuesday morning. Script revisions arriving later that day. Learning lines. A welcome-aboard telegram from the producer, Arlen White. And at last, after a sleepless night, making the drive to the studio. A drive-on pass. A little trailer dressing room with his name on the door. So what if it was written on a piece of masking tape and then stuck on the door? It was his name. And Karen, the girl who played Karen, a knockout named Ginny McConnel, and the director, Jeff Bain, Mickey remembered him now from the reading, and Arlen White. They were all there. And a girl brought him a contract to sign. After everyone arrived, they all sat at a table. And there wasn't a camera around anywhere.
"This is a three-camera tape show," Bain said to the actors. "So we'll be rehearsing and blocking for the next few days and on Friday night we'll tape in front of a live audience. Twice. We'll bring one group in to watch our dress rehearsal and another for the actual running of the show. Then after the audience leaves we can do pickups. So let's read the thing down. See what we have, and what we need to fix, and then after lunch we'll get it on its feet."
Mickey was so happy it embarrassed him. He was afraid his excitement would make him look amateurish so he tried not to grin too broadly at anyone or laugh too loudly at the jokes. The actor who played Karen's husband was Jud Mann. He'd been on lots of television shows. He and Ginny McConnel read the opening scene. Mickey was nervous. He was in the second scene with Ginny McConnel.
(KAREN'S LIVING ROOM. A TYPICAL WORKING GIRL'S APARTMENT. KAREN IS DOING EXERCISES WHEN LARRY ENTERS FROM THE BEDROOM AND TRIES TO GET OUT THE FRONT DOOR BEFORE SHE CAN NOTICE.)
KAREN
Well, brother dear. Where are you off to tonight?
Mickey heard his own voice. The scene was on its way. He had good jokes. Better ones in the revised script than there were for Larry's character in the original. Everyone at the table laughed when he read his lines. After the first read-through Ginny McConnel smiled at him.
"You're great," she said.
Great. Great. She said he was great. One more read-through and they broke for lunch.
Ginny McConnel left with a guy who Mickey figured was probably her agent. Arlen White and Jeff Bain drove off in Arlen White's Mercedes. Mickey went into his little trailer and sat on the sofa looking at himself in the mirror for almost the whole hour. Great. Ginny McConnel said.
At two o'clock everyone was back and they blocked the scene. Then they ran through the blocking with scripts.
"Tomorrow we block cameras, people," Bain said.
Mickey went home so filled with energy that for the first time in months he cleaned the house. He scrubbed the kitchen floor, he mopped the bathroom floor, he even cleaned out his dresser drawers. Then he drove to the market and bought an entire grocery order, came home, put the groceries away, and made a spaghetti dinner for himself, which he ate while studying his lines, being careful not to spill the meat sauce on the script.
Show business. By Thursday the group was already feeling comfortable together. Joking about billing and about how they would feel about one another when the show was in its twentieth year and what the episodes would be about.
"How 'bout a story called Larry Gets Dentures?" Mickey said.
Everyone laughed. They decided to send someone for sandwiches instead of going out and they all had lunch together at the table. It was starting to feel to Mickey as if they were a family.
Thursday, when Mickey got home, he fixed himself a snack, then brought the phone into the kitchen, and while he was eating he dialed his parents' number in Chicago. No one was home. He dialed Harvey and Libby's. No one was there either. He was so excited he was afraid he'd never sleep tonight, and then tomorrow he'd be a mess. So he went to the La Reina theater in Sherman Oaks, where there was a James Bond movie playing. A few weeks later when someone asked what the movie was about, he didn't remember and he realized he had looked at the movie but he hadn't seen it. A live audience.
The cast call wasn't until late on Friday, but Mickey got to the studio early anyway and sat in his trailer and read a few magazines just to make sure he was there on time.
After one run-through, the cast took a break and when Mickey went back to his trailer there was a telegram waiting for him from Arlen White that said "Break a leg," and a little doll holding a cardboard calendar that came with a card that said, I give it more than six months, I hope! Break a leg from Ginny McConnel.
Mickey opened the door of the trailer and looked out. It was almost time for the dress rehearsal. People who had written in for tickets were already standing in line waiting to go into the studio. For the first time since he'd found out he had the part, Mickey was nervous. He lay down on the sofa to relax, and he thought back over the last five years. He had paid his dues. He had been pushed around a lot by the business. But now things were going to change. No
more envying everyone else. He would go to Levitz's workshop this coming Monday and everyone would say, "Hey, Ash. Where you been?" And he'd say—"Oh, I been workin'." "Yeah? On what? "I played the brother in a pilot over at CBS. Worked with Ginny McConnel. She's a real doll." They'd be so impressed.
"Mr. Ashman?"
"Yeah?"
"We're ready to do your makeup now."
"The dress rehearsal was a little choppy because there were laughs in places you didn't expect them," Jeff Bain told the cast.
Mickey was numb. He picked at the between-shows cheeseburger someone handed him.
"But, all in all, it'll be perfect if you all just take your time. We'll be starting again as soon as they bring in the audience."
Jeff Bain had singled out a number of things Jud Mann did that didn't work, and a few things Ginny McConnel screwed up, but nothing for Mickey. That was either a very good sign or a very bad sign.
There were only a few minutes before they started the performance. Mickey paced around behind the set trying to remember if he knew any prayers. Prayers. Now I lay me down to sleep. No.
"Break a leg," Ginny McConnel said to him. She looked great in her makeup and perfect hairdo.
Arlen White was doing the warm-up himself. Out front. Talking to the audience. Explaining to the audience about the monitors and the applause sign, and telling them to use their most sincere laughs, which made them laugh. And then the first scene started. Ginny and Jud were smooth and professional and the audience loved them. But there was a sound problem during the first take so they did another one, and then the crew set up Ginny's living room. Mickey's heart felt like it was in his throat. Relax. Now I lay me—"Well, brother dear . . ."
Now he was sailing. Thriving. Cooking. Joke. Laugh. Joke. Laugh. Joke. Laugh. Exit. Applause. My God. Applause on his exit. He paced as he listened to the other scenes being played. His cue. Enter. This scene played even better. Larry, the brother, was a lovable character. Mickey, the actor playing Larry, was making him Lovable. Applause.
When the taping was over, there was a curtain call. They had rehearsed it yesterday. Some of the people with very small parts came out to bow and got light applause, but when Mickey came out to bow, the rise in the volume and enthusiasm of the applause was noticeable and his heart sang.
When the audience left, Bain did a few pickup shots and when he said "That's a wrap," everyone congratulated everyone else, and headed toward their trailers to gather their belongings and go home. Mickey walked slowly out of the studio toward his trailer to change. He didn't want it to be over. He hadn't felt so elated since that day, very long ago, when he got the message to call Lowell Spears.
"Ashman."
It was Jeff Bain coming toward him.
"You were great," Bain said, shaking Mickey's hand. "Confidentially, in fact, you were the best one."
Mickey smiled.
"Thanks, Jeff," he said.
"And I have every intention of using you again and again," Bain added. "Thank you for everything," Bain patted Mickey on the hand, then turned and walked back into the studio. Mickey changed, gathered his things and said goodbye to his trailer. Outside he pulled at the piece of masking tape that had his name on it and stuck it on the plastic duffel bag he was carrying. He wanted to keep the tape as a souvenir.
thirty-four
Barry hated the Troubador. Being there always reminded him of his desperate times. The nights when he'd sat alone at a table to watch the show, nursing a beer, hoping the waitress hadn't noticed that he'd neglected to order another. Not only because he couldn't afford another, but because two beers made him blurry. Unsure if the weakness he was feeling in his legs and the ringing he heard in his ears in those days was because he was losing his mind from loneliness, or just no good at drinking. Now he could afford the beer, he could even afford the brewery, but instead he ordered Coca-Cola. And he was alone. Just like before.
He hadn't planned to come here tonight, but Magic Hat was playing and recording a Live from the Troubador album, so at the last minute he decided to drive in from the beach.
"Hi, Barry. I love your beard," said a girl who was a secretary at World Records. He forced a smile. He wished the show would start. It was the waiting, when everyone saw him sitting by himself, that was hard for him. He knew they were all feeling sorry for him since Harley died. Wondering what the millionaire faggot would do now. It was enough to make him never leave his house at the beach. He was surprised that Magic Hat was doing all this business. It was probably a "freebie" night. Where the record company paid for everyone's drinks. There were some people who'd go to anything that was free.
Jim Garland. Bob Frank. Nick Jonas. Nick's girl Jerri.
"Hey, Golden." Bob Frank came over to greet him. "How ya doin'?" Barry remembered the days of sitting in on Harley's meetings with those guys and being knocked out just by the way they looked. So successful. Their shirts and their watches and their hairstyles. Now he could buy and sell them all. And they knew it. He nodded hello. These guys were okay. Barry knew they sincerely felt bad when Harley died, not just because he was the most successful artist on their label, but because he was a good person. Even in the worst disagreements, when Harley would hate the way they were promoting something of his so much that he'd storm around the house for days in anger, it was always Barry who was the bad guy to them. "It's my job," he told Harley. And now he was being the bad guy again. They wanted to release an album called Goodbye, Harley. It would be a combination of all of his hits, but they would promote it as the Harley Ellis memorial album. A must buy. A cult souvenir. Barry hated it. Harley would have hated it.
Bob Frank called Barry at the beach five times a day trying to get him to change his mind and agree to it. No.
"I'm okay, Bob. Jim. Nick."
"Good to see ya," Nick Jonas said.
Sure. He wasn't even looking at Barry when he said it.
"You, too."
The four of them headed for their table.
"Hi."
Barry looked up. It was Beau Daniels. And she was with a woman who looked just like her.
"Remember me?" Beau asked. How funny. What a dumb thing to say. How could anybody not remember her? She was on the cover of Time magazine last year.
"Yeah."
"This is my secretary. Connie."
She had a secretary who looked just like her. How strange. The height of conceit.
"Hello, Connie."
"Can we sit with you?"
"Of course."
"Great."
Not alone. With Beau Daniels and her twin secretary. Barry was trying to think what he could talk about with Beau. He'd caught a glimpse of her at Harley's funeral, but that and the night of Harley's concert were the only real times he'd seen her. Aside from on television. The lights dimmed and the group was announced. Magic Hat. They were good. Barry looked over at Beau, who seemed to be enjoying the music. She was an amazing-looking woman. Her tiny turned-up nose was perfect. Her short curly hairdo was being copied by every woman around. Beau Daniels. She must have felt him looking at her because she looked over at him and smiled gently. The music was very loud. She reached over and touched Barry's hand. He couldn't hear her but he read her lips.
"Are you all right?" she asked him.
He nodded.
She smiled, squeezed his hand again, and looked back to the stage. She wanted to know if he was all right. And she was in the biggest crises of her career. Breaking up with that asshole Benny Daniels, and trying to start a new life and a new show on her own. Barry reached out across the table and touched Beau's hand, and she looked at him.
"Are you?" he mouthed.
She shrugged lightly, and the two of them smiled. Beau Daniels. He really liked her.
When the show was over, Barry knew he should go upstairs to the dressing room, but he didn't feel like it. He saw Garland, Frank and Jonas heading for the steps.
"I know I should go up and see the guys," Beau said to her secretary, "but I don't
feel like it."
Barry smiled to himself.
"Want me to go up and give them your regards?" Connie asked.
"No."
Connie looked disappointed.
"I want to get back to the hotel," Beau said.
"I'll drop you," Barry blurted out. "I mean if Connie wants to go upstairs and you need a ride," he added hastily.
"Will you?" Beau asked. "I'm at the Beverly Hills Hotel."
"Is it okay, Beau?" Connie asked. "I might stay for the second show."
"Yeah."
Barry liked the idea of being alone with Beau. Maybe they'd have a chance to talk. Barry's car was parked in the lot behind the building. As he opened the door, the burst of flashbulbs shocked him. And another burst. Dozens of photographers. Barry had been with Harley when photographers or reporters followed them, but nothing like this. There were at least twenty of them. Instinctively Barry grabbed Beau's arm to move her. Either back into the club or quickly to the parking lot and into his car. To protect her. But she wouldn't move. Instead she smiled that incredible perfect-teeth smile at them and said, "Hi, boys! This is me—having a great time."
"Hiya, Beau honey." More flashbulbs popped.
She was having a great time. She was more animated than Barry had ever seen her.
"That your new fella?" one of the guys asked.
Barry tried to decide whether to smile or not. He had to admit this was sort of funny.
"Uh . . . yes," Beau said, looking at Barry, and both of them laughed.
More flashbulbs. Barry couldn't stop laughing. Beau put her arm around him and kissed him on the cheek and they both laughed again. Pop. Pop. Barry noticed she was a little taller than he was.
"He's Barry Golden," she said. "But we have to go now, boys. We've got better things to do. 'Bye."
The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel Page 29
