Don’t
Even Try,
Sam
Not that key.
Not that key. That’s the yellow key. The one that hates to come back up. Once depressed, it is reluctant to recover. You know, dear heart, if you really want to play me, keep the pressure on evenly. It is never necessary to hammer. I take a hint better than a holler…I’ve been in storage you know. Not much call for my kind anymore. Not that it matters a whole lot where I stand. Most storerooms are more song and story than these movies I was made for. All I get to count as screen time is a little tinktanktunk in the sound track, a passing angled shot of the keyboard and my highball-ringed, butt-burnt top—oh, and then the lower half of whoever’s sitting at me, with a finger or two from a fat-wrapped, shirt-armed plinkplanker visible, as if he were in action at the board—before the lens is away to frillyville and the muddy boots of the town saloon. The camera has to find its way through extras pretending to be a crowd, everybody moving their mouths faking monkey business—cocottes galore—and sitting on breakeasy chairs that could give way and dump their rumps in sawdust. What a bore. Bar as long as a Pullman car. Bar as long as a Pullman car. Not that key, honey. The key with the hairline crack. Yes, that one. Yum. My G-spot. So ask away.
I gathered from what I could glean…whoa…try that passage again…the hairline has a habit of—ever break a nail? It’s like that…I gleaned from what I could gather of the plot that there weren’t going to be any fistfights scheduled, shootout showdowns, or barroom brawls, though there’s one close call—a lapel grabber, that’s all. No one confides in the piano of course…Well, that info was a relief to my keys and strings—my keys relaxed, my strings sighed—they hate all those loose chair legs flying about. The piano player usually runs for cover as if anybody cared but the piano has to stay put so some klutz can get a laugh by chording the keyboard on his way down. Very funny, Charlie. But I understood this cheesy heart-tugger was to be set in French North Africa. The good guys would be wearing shoes. The way the on-set people were acting (beg pardon for the word), I could see they were about to shoot the entire film or damn near it on a single soundstage as if this were going to be a murder-in-the-mansion movie. Outside would be a city scene adapted from a previous flick. I had a moveable friend who kept me wisz. Oops. I remember…I remember the ashtrays. God, the number of cigarettes they burned up in the movies those days. The most emotional moments occur when smoke curls out of an actor’s nose.
That was when they were starting to use girls as couriers because of the war, and young fems were scooting about the set like flies from fruit to roast delivering lines for the actors to learn on the spot, and fresh directions for the crew. Ordinary chaos would have seemed calm as a corpse.
I have a question. No one—not nobody—ever wanted to interview me. You’re writing a book? About the Swedish Beamer? The magnetism of the movie? Casablanca? They’re not thinking of another TV knockoff? For me it’s a coming attraction. Hey, I’ve never seen a movie. I’ve seen movies being made. Parts of them anyway. Parts in. Parts out. Parts private. So, sure, I’ve noticed lots of hanky-panky. Even a little lick-the-dickie. Boots and Britches did his broads behind the set flats. During lunch. Beauguy really did like to play chess. What else do you want to know? What? Beau guy. I always thought he was French. Looked a little like Alain Delon. Could have been French, easy. Bogie. Huh.
I know why you want to talk to me. It’s because everybody else is dead. Stars go out. Directors die. Companies fold. But some of the props get preserved. I’ve seen my friend the Vichy water bottle in the storeroom as wrapped up as the Maltese Falcon. We’d fetch a price now, wouldn’t we? See, we survive, if we’re allowed to live on our own. Even the sheet music that had to sit around looking as if it were about to be employed is still here somewhere. Waiting, like me, to be played. “Avalon” for god’s sake.
They put me up a dolly for this flick…this flick you want me to give you the lowdown on. I rolled around like my shoes were marbles. I was supposed to sidle up to a table and once I got cozy the crooner would croon love’s looney tune. Well, he would have, but the blounce couldn’t play me. So for one shot I got to listen in while my bench carrier and the lab-coat guy—his name…? you know…in the picture…? I’ve got recall problems at my age…is…ah…yes, Rick—they go tête to tête at table. My man…Sam…he does say boss real well, very convincing. Has melting eyes. He’s not the only one whose sockets seemed about to overflow; I think it must have been the cig smoke.
I’ll tell you the worst right away. You want to know the worst? You Q & A types always want to know the worst. The worst was—I have overheard interviews, over heard—so I know—I know what you want to know: the worst—well, the worst was when I realized this darkie couldn’t play me. What a vile happenstance! What a remorse for me. After months of waiting I finally get a call and an opportunity to see some action, I’m working again after a long layoff, and the guy can’t type, can’t pluck, can’t tickle the ivories. Not that my keys are, you understand. Ivory, I mean, or even bone. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was better put together than I am, but really…what a sorry résumé! What a downarounder!
I’ve got stencils though. Very cute. Cheap but cute. Stencil’d front, stencil’d side. Grandma Moses couldn’t cliché better. This time around I’m dolled up because I’ve got a part to play. I’m at the goddamn center of things. This movie’s got a key and that key is me! Oh yeah Rick’s joint has got a band, a hoochie lady for the strumming, and a gambling den I guess: see what the boys in the back room will bet…There’s a lot of sneaky people in the place, people with pasts, people without prayers. Like on a doomed ship or in the hotel of an about-to-be-bombed town. Fleeing people who just sit. Poor as churchmice, pawning their personals, but drunk on Champagne, Cointreau, and Campari. Ever try Campari? It stains. It has made me suffer. They sand out the rings and that hurts. Hurts the ego, hurts pride. They wouldn’t sand a grand.
Eyes Page 9
