Dr. Archie Gold was surprisingly young. Subconsciously he had expected a guy with thick glasses, a beard, and a German accent. But Dr. Gold was clean-shaven and nice-looking in a subdued way. He accomplished very little in the first session. Jerry had come right to the point: “I can’t make it with my wife in bed, yet I love her and there is no other girl. Now, where do we go from there?” Before he knew it the fifty minutes were over. He was stunned when Dr. Gold suggested three visits a week. Jerry had been positive that whatever was bugging him could be straightened out in an hour. It was ridiculous! But he thought of Mary—the muffled sobs in the bathroom… . O.K. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays.
On his third visit, he did the entire session on Robin Stone. Gradually Amanda crept into the sessions.
At the end of two weeks he felt better. After some intensive Freudian soul-searching and probing back to his childhood, he had come to some disturbing revelations. He had personality problems but he was not a fag! At least that subconscious gnawing doubt had been removed. They discussed his father, an enormous virile-looking man who had ignored him during his childhood. Then he suddenly began going with him to the football games, and his father had cheered for Robin Stone until he was hoarse. “Now, that boy’s magnificent!” his father would shout. “That’s what I call a man!” He recalled one specific incident when Robin had whipped through an impossible wall of players to score a touchdown. His father had leaped to his feet. “What a boy—that’s it, son!”
Through Dr. Gold’s gentle probings he recalled other fragments of ego-damaging evidence. When it was finally conceded that Jerry was not going to grow any taller than five feet nine, his father had snorted, “How could I have spawned such a shrimp? I’m six foot one. Christ, you take after your mother’s family. The Baldwins are all puny.”
O.K. At least he understood some things now. In trying to gain Robin’s friendship, he was still seeking his father’s approval. He was jubilant with this discovery. “I’m right in my diagnosis, aren’t I?” he asked Dr. Gold. The cool gray eyes merely smiled. “You must answer your own questions” was the reply.
“What the hell do I pay you for if you don’t give me the answers?” Jerry demanded.
“I’m not supposed to give answers,” Dr. Gold said quietly. “I’m here to prod you into working things out and coming up with your own answers.”
The week before the show opened he stepped up his visits to daily sessions. He gave up his lunch hour. Dr. Gold preferred to see him between five and six, but Jerry refused to give up the Lancer Bar. He insisted it was his only way of escaping tension-sitting with Robin, having a few drinks. But when he missed the train, he was torn with guilt for Mary and the dinner that was ruined.
On such occasions Jerry would be abrasive with Dr. Gold, demanding to know why he suffered such guilt. Why did he have to go to the Lancer Bar each day and sit with Robin, knowing he would suffer guilt toward Mary?
“I can’t go on like this—wanting to please Mary, wanting to please myself. Why can’t I be like Robin? Have no conscience, be free.”
“From what you say about Robin Stone, I’d hardly say he was free.”
“At least he’s his own man. Even Amanda feels she has no real hold on him.”
Then Jerry told Dr. Gold Amanda’s searing confession about carrying Robin’s towel; Dr. Gold lost his usually bland expression and shook his head. “She really needs help.”
“Oh come on! She’s just a highly sentimental girl in love!”
Dr. Gold frowned. “That’s not love, that’s an addiction.
If a girl seemingly has all the attributes you give her, her relationship with Robin Stone should give her a sense of fulfillment. Not this kind of fantasizing. If he ever turned her against him …” Dr. Gold shook his head.
“You can’t just sum up people this way. You don’t know them!”
“When will Robin Stone be back?” Dr. Gold asked.
“Tomorrow. Why?”
“Suppose I meet you at your Lancer Bar. Then you can introduce me to Robin and Amanda.”
Jerry stared at the ceiling. “But how would I explain you? I can’t very well say, ‘Hey, Robin, my shrink wants to case you.’”
Dr. Gold laughed. “It’s conceivable we could be friends. We are about the same age.”
“Could I say you’re just a doctor, not a shrink?”
“Some of my best friends are people,” Dr. Gold answered. “Couldn’t you have one friend who is a psychiatrist?”
Jerry was nervous when he saw Dr. Gold walk into the Lancer Bar. Robin was on his third martini and today of all days Amanda was working and meeting Robin later at the Italian place for dinner.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Jerry said as Dr. Gold approached. “An old school buddy of mine is dropping by.”
Jerry threw his arm around the doctor. “Archie”—the unfamiliar name almost stuck in his throat—“this is Robin Stone. Robin, Dr. Archie Gold.”
Robin looked at the man with little interest. Robin was in one of his silent moods. He concentrated on his drink. Dr. Gold wasn’t exactly loquacious either. His cool gray eyes calmly appraised Robin. Jerry began to babble nervously. Someone had to talk!
At one point Robin leaned across and said, “Are you a surgeon, Archie?”
“In a way,” Dr. Gold answered.
“He cuts out ids.” Jerry tried to make his voice light. “Would you believe it, Robin—Archie’s a shrink. We ran into one another at a party and renewed old acquaintance and he told me—”
“Freudian?” Robin cut in, ignoring Jerry.
Dr. Gold nodded.
“Are you a psychiatrist or a psychoanalyst?”
“Both.”
“You went through a hell of a long training—then you had to go through two years of personal analysis yourself, didn’t you?”
Dr. Gold nodded.
“You’re a good man,” Robin said. “It must have taken a lot of guts to go through school with a moniker like Archibald. You must be very secure.”
Dr. Gold laughed. “Insecure enough to shorten it to Archie.”
“Were you always interested in this gaff?” Robin asked.
“Originally I wanted to be a neurosurgeon. But a neurologist often comes face to face with incurable illnesses. He can only prescribe medicine to ease the symptoms. But with analysis”—Dr. Gold’s eyes suddenly became expressive—”he can cure the ill. The most gratifying thing in the world is to see a patient recover and begin to function, take his place in society and use his full potential. In analysis, there is always hope for a better tomorrow.”
Robin grinned. “I know your bag, Doctor.”
“My bag?”
Robin nodded. “You like people.” He slapped a bill on the bar. “Hey, Carmen.” The bartender came to him immediately. “This takes care of my tab. Give my friends another round and keep the rest for yourself.” Then he held out his hand to Dr. Gold. “Sorry I have to shove off, but I have a date with my girl.” He walked out of the bar.
Jerry stared after him. The bartender placed fresh drinks before them. “Compliments of Mr. Stone. Quite a guy, isn’t he!”
Jerry turned to Dr. Gold. “Well?”
Dr. Gold smiled. “Like the bartender said, he’s quite a guy.”
Jerry couldn’t conceal his pride. “What did I tell you? He got to you too, huh?”
“Of course. I wanted him to. I was more than receptive.”
“You think he has any hangups—or bags?”
“I can’t tell. On the surface, he’s in complete control, and he seems to genuinely care for Amanda.”
“How did you get that? He never even talked about her.”
“When he left he said, ‘I have a date with my girl’ —possessive. He didn’t say, ‘I have a date with a girl,’ which would be negating her importance, making her one of many.”
“Do you think he likes me?” Jerry asked.
“No.”
“No?” Jerry’s voice held panic. “Yo
u mean he dislikes me?”
Dr. Gold shook his head. “He doesn’t know you exist.”
The control room was crowded. Jerry found a seat in the corner. In fifteen minutes The Christie Lane Show would go on the air—live! The entire day had been bedlam. Even Amanda had caught some of the tension. At the last rehearsal she had held the hairspray in the wrong hand and hidden the Alwayso label.
Christie Lane and his “gofors” seemed to be the only people unaffected with pre-show hysteria. They joked together, Christie mugged for the crew, the “gofors” went for sandwiches. They actually seemed to be enjoying the frenetic rehearsals.
The audience had already filed in. Amanda had said Robin was going to watch the show at home. Funny, Robin had never said a word, one way or another, about Amanda doing the commercial. Several times he had been tempted to ask her about Robin’s reaction, but he couldn’t without losing face.
Danton Miller entered, impeccable as ever in a black suit. Harvey Phillips, the agency director, rushed in. “Everything is shipshape, Mr. Moss. Amanda is upstairs having her makeup retouched. I told her to stick with the blue dress for the hair spray, and change to the green for the lipstick.”
Jerry nodded. There was nothing to do but wait.
Dan told the director to click on the audio switch. The announcer had come onstage to do the usual corny warm-up. “Anyone here from New Jersey?” he asked. Several hands went up. “Well, the bus is waiting outside.” The audience laughed good-naturedly. Jerry looked at his watch. Five minutes to air time.
Jerry suddenly began to wonder if the show would make it. It would be hard to tell even with the audience reaction. A studio audience loved every show. Why not—it was free. Tomorrow the reviews would come out, but reviews didn’t matter in television.
Nothing mattered but those damn numbers. They’d have to sweat it out for two weeks. Of course he would get an overnight rating, but it was the second week that counted.
Three minutes to air time. The door opened and Ethel Evans slipped in. Dan nodded coolly. Sig was the only one who stood up and offered her his seat, but Ethel waved it off. “I’ve got a photographer with me. Right now he’s taking some candids of Christie so I can service them to the papers.” She turned to Jerry. “After the show I’ll have him take some shots with Amanda and Christie.” She flounced out of the booth and headed backstage.
One minute to air time.
Suddenly there was complete silence in the control room. Artie Rylander was standing, holding a stopwatch. He threw his hand down, the orchestra went into a theme, the announcer shouted, “The Christie Lane Show!” The show was on.
Jerry decided to go backstage. There was nothing he could do by remaining in the booth. His place was with Amanda, in case she developed any last-minute jitters.
She was sitting in a small dressing room fidgeting with her hair. Her cool smile gave him renewed confidence. “Don’t worry, Jerry, I’ll hold the hairspray so you can see the label. Sit down and relax, you look like a nervous mother.”
“I’m not worried about you, honey. It’s the whole show. Don’t forget—I’m the one who made the recommendation to the sponsor. Did you watch any of the rehearsals?”
She wrinkled her nose. “For about ten minutes—until Christie Lane started making idiotic mating calls.” She shuddered. Then seeing his face, she added, “But don’t go by me. As a man he’s repulsive, but the audience will probably love him.”
The door opened and Ethel barged in. Amanda looked at her. It was obvious she didn’t place her. Ethel’s glance covered the room. She seemed surprised at finding just Amanda and Jerry. Then she quickly smiled and held out her hand. “Good luck, Amanda.”
Amanda’s expression was polite but curious. She knew she had seen the girl somewhere.
“I’m Ethel Evans—we met at P.J.’s last year. I met you with Jerry and Robin Stone.”
“Oh yes.” Amanda turned away and began spraying her hair.
Ethel sat on the edge of the dressing table, her large hips crowding Amanda. “It seems we’re destined to be thrown together.”
Amanda backed away, and Jerry tapped Ethel’s shoulder. “Off, Ethel—you’re blocking Amanda’s light. Besides, this is not exactly the moment to renew old friendships.”
Ethel’s smile was friendly as she got off the makeup table. “You’ll be great, Amanda. They’ll go hoarse whistling when you come on.” She took off her coat and, without asking, hung it on the wall. “I’ve got to park this somewhere. Listen, I came by for two reasons: one, to wish you luck; two, I’d like you to take some pictures with Christie Lane after the show.”
Amanda looked at Jerry who nodded slightly. Then she said, “All right, but it won’t take long, will it?”
“Just three or four pops of the bulbs.” Ethel started for the door. “I’ll sit out front and watch the show. And look, Amanda, you’ve got to be a sensation. God, if I had your looks I’d own the world!”
Amanda felt herself thawing. There was an urgent honesty in Ethel’s voice and she saw envy in her eyes. She said, “My aunt always taught me it takes more than looks to bring happiness.”
“So did my mother,” Ethel answered. “But that’s a lot of shit. I’ve got an IQ of one thirty-six, and I’d trade it in for half a brain and a pretty face. And I’ll bet anything that your fellow with his big brain would agree. By the way, is he coming to catch the show?”
“Robin, come here?” The idea of Robin sitting in a studio audience was so preposterous that Amanda laughed. “No, he’s watching at home.”
Amanda’s cool detachment vanished the moment Ethel left the room. She reached out and grabbed Jerry’s hand. “Oh, I hope he’ll be proud of me. Has he said anything?”
“What has he said to you?” Jerry asked.
“He just laughed and said if I wanted to get into this rat race, it was my headache.” Her eyes went to the large clock on the wall. “I’d better go down, the show’s been on for ten minutes.”
“You’ve got five minutes, maybe more.”
“I know, but I want to phone Robin and remind him to watch. You know him—he might have made himself a few martinis, stretched out and fallen asleep.”
The only phone in the theater was near the stage door. Jerry fidgeted as she stood and dialed in the drafty hall. The music was blasting, the applause was strong, the show seemed to be going well. Amanda hung up as the dime fell into the coin-return box. “It’s busy, Jerry. And I go on in a few minutes.”
“Get going now, you’ve got to cross behind the curtain to your set.”
“Wait—I’ll try him once again.”
“Beat it,” he said almost gruffly. “You’ve got to be in place when the camera swings to you. Go check your props. I’ll call him for you.”
He waited until she disappeared behind the backdrop and appeared on the small set designed for Alwayso. Then he dialed Robin’s number. The droning busy signal continued. He kept dialing until the actual moment of the commercial. “Damn Robin,” he swore to himself. “He knows the girl is going on, why does he have to do this?”
He walked to the wings in time to give Amanda a smile of assurance. Her face lit up and he knew she interpreted it as a signal that he had reached Robin. She was poised and at ease when the camera came to her.
He watched her on the monitor. She photographed like an angel. No wonder she made so much money. She was breathless from nerves when it was over. “Was I all right?”
“Better than all right. Just great. Now you can relax for five minutes—then change, do the lipstick spot, and you’re home.”
“What did Robin say?”
“I didn’t get him. The line was still busy.”
Her eyes brightened ominously.
He grabbed her by the shoulder and steered her to the staircase. “Go up and change. And don’t you dare cry and ruin your makeup.”
“But, Jerry—”
“But what? He’s home, at least you know that. And he was probably watching whil
e he was on the goddam phone. It might have been an emergency, even an overseas call. War could be declared for all we know. Maybe an atom bomb dropped somewhere. Believe it or not, The Christie Lane Show is not the biggest happening in the universe. We only act as if we’re discovering a cure for cancer in here.”
Christie Lane ambled over. Bob Dixon was on stage doing his medley. “Didja hear that applause! And all for me! I’m the greatest!” He put his hand on Amanda’s arm. “And you’re the beautifulest. If you play your cards right, Uncle Christie just might take you out for a sandwich after the show.”
“Take it easy,” Jerry said, easing Christie’s hand off Amanda’s arm. “You haven’t put Berle or Gleason out of business yet. And what’s with the uncle bit?”
“Haven’t you heard what Dan-the-man has been saying all these months? I’m the family image. I remind everyone of their uncle or husband.” He turned his watery blue eyes on Amanda. “Doll, do I remind you of any relative? I hope not, because it would be incest with the thoughts I’m thinking.” Before Amanda could answer, he said, “Well, the movie star has finished his off key number. Now watch the real pro go out and kill them.” Then he dashed onstage. Amanda stood very still, as if she couldn’t believe what had occurred. Then she turned and started for the phone.
Jerry stopped her. “Oh no, you don’t. You’ve got exactly six minutes to change your dress and touch up your makeup. After the show, you can call him. And I’ll bet you a late supper at ‘21’ that he’s watched you. As a matter of fact, I’ll take you both there to celebrate.”
“No, Jerry—I want to be alone with him tonight. I’ll bring him some hamburgers.” She looked toward the stage at Christie Lane and shrugged. “Maybe I’m crazy, but they do seem to like him.” Then she ran up the stairs to her dressing room.
Amanda did the second commercial with equal ease. When the show ended, the small backstage area turned into a mob scene. Everyone was shoulder-punching one another. The sponsors, Danton Miller and the writers were clustered around Christie, shaking his hand. The cameraman was flashing pictures. Ethel came over and grabbed Amanda. “I want to get a picture of you with Christie.”
The Love Machine Page 9
