by John Rowell
“I’m eighteen, ma’am. Almost nineteen,” I say, though I feel my hands start to tremble where they’re hanging down by my sides. I’ve never met a real star before; it’s a whole lot different than meeting regular people.
“Well, that’s legal in some states, I guess,” she says, winking at Arthur, and the two of them have a good little laugh. I just smile, trying to be polite. I quickly reach up and touch my cheek to see if it’s as hot as it feels.
“So … you want to be in show business, Will Ford?” she says. “Is that what you’re here in the big city to do?” Boy, she sure is direct.
“Yes ma’am, that’s right. I wanna be an actor.” And then I add: “More than anything.”
“More than anything? Good God Almighty! Can you vouch for this kid, Artie?” She starts waving her cigarette in the air and looking around like she needs an ashtray. Immediately, some guy standing in back of her holds one out. She stubs out her cigarette then waves his hand away. She squints her eyes a little and looks at me up and down, sizing me up, like she’s trying to decide if she’s gonna buy me.
“Oh, sure. The kid’s a natural,” Arthur says, lighting up his own cigarette. Arthur is from Illinois originally, but he’s good at talking in Hollywood phrases. He’s been teaching me to always say things like: The Business. Pictures. Metro. Box Office. Hangers-on. Arthur’s fond of calling me “’Bama Boy, Who Likes the Pitcher Shows.”
“Artie, would you excuse us a minute?” Miss Ball says, draining the last of her drink and handing it off to the same guy who offered the ashtray. “I wanna talk to your little friend here. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh …” Arthur suddenly looks very surprised. When he hesitates for a second, Miss Ball says, “Don’t worry, I’ll give him back to you.”
This makes Arthur let out a nervous laugh, and he runs his hand through his hair again and readjusts his glasses. “Oh. Of course, of course. No problem,” he says. “Nice to see you again, Miss Ball. As always.”
“And you, Arthur,” she says, but it’s me she’s looking at now. She waves at Arthur, but she’s really waving him away. She’s staring right at me; I don’t know what to do. Arthur moves off to another corner of the room, but I can still feel him watching me, which, I realize suddenly, is not the same as watching out for me.
“You’re a real pretty boy, kid,” Miss Ball says, after a second or two of looking me over. “I guess people have told you that before.”
“Well, I don’t know really, ma’am,” I say back to her. I pray I won’t start to stutter.
“You know, I could give you a shot on my show, if you’d be willing to do something a little … well … let’s just say, a little out of the ordinary.”
I stare at her for a second; then when I realize what she’s said, my mouth flies open and hangs there, like I’m some goofy cartoon character. I’m sure my mama would say, “Close your mouth, Willie-Bud. You tryin’ to catch flies?”
“Um … well, yes ma’am” is all I can come up with. I’m thinking I must be experiencing some kind of fever dream, like when I was five and had measles.
“God, that accent. Jesus. What they couldn’t do for you at MGM, honey. Well, anyhow, for what I have in mind, you won’t have to talk much. Here’s the deal. I sometimes like to play little tricks on my husband, Desi,” she says, taking another Philip Morris, which has been handed up to her from the same guy, who then produces a lighter. He must be somebody Miss Ball pays to hand her things.
It sounds funny to me the way she pronounces Mr. Arnaz’s name so that it rhymes with “messy,” rather than the way I’ve always said it, which is more like “Dezzy.”
“And I think,” she continues, “that you could probably help me out. This thing’d kill him, if I pull it off right. Oh boy.” And she laughs, a real raspy laugh that sounds more like coughing than laughing.
I can tell Miss Ball is a tough dealmaker, like my Uncle James who sells cars at Hollinsville New and Used Pontiac.
“We have a script coming up in a few weeks where we need about eight showgirls. You ever put on one of your mama’s dresses, kid?” She stares me down hard; I look around for Arthur, but he’s gone. It’s just her and me; the people around us have turned their backs completely now, and are talking among themselves.
“Dresses?” I say.
“That’s right, dresses. Don’t be coy. I’ve got a little scene I want you to do. If you’re interested, of course. But you’ll have to be in a dress. That’s the deal. So.” She turns around to the guy behind her: “Hey, Bunny, where’s the damn ashtray? And can I get a fresh drink? Please?” She turns back to me. “Jesus Christ, you’d think we were in church.” She notices I’m empty-handed also. “And get this kid here something, too.”
The guy she calls Bunny looks at me. “And what kind of drink would that be? A Shirley Temple?”
Miss Ball laughs again, hoarsely. “Yeah, right, a Shirley Temple. A Shirley Temple with a big splash of vodka. Do you know what we call that, kid?”
“No ma’am.”
“A Deanna Durbin. Hop to it, Bunny.” And he does.
Instantly, she’s back to business again, fixing her eyes on me. “So, kid … about my little proposition. What’ll it be?”
She blows so much smoke waiting for me to answer that I start to feel all those vapory gray swirls going right into my own lungs, filling them up like a dark balloon. I cough a little, then smile. She watches me think … boy, does she ever watch me think …
And what I think is: You don’t say no to Lucy.
So here I am on this soundstage making my debut in show business, which is great, though it’s not exactly like I’ll be able to tell everybody back home to watch me on the show when it comes on. Just to make fun of me, Arthur said: “Hey, Mama? Daddy? This is your boy, Willie-Bud. I’ve got some good news, and I’ve got some bad news …” He thought that was just real ha-ha funny. I didn’t even crack a smile. But they’re paying me a lot of money, or at least it’s more than I’ve ever made before, and Mr. Trent was real good about letting me off work at the flower shop where I have my part-time job, so I could have the day at the studio to rehearse and film the show. Miss Ball had one of her assistants work with me alone late one afternoon, so I wouldn’t have to come to regular rehearsal with everyone else. This morning, he also sneaked me into hair and makeup early, before anyone else got to the studio.
Now I’m standing here in six-inch white heels, a white, feathery ball gown that looks like something out of the Ziegfeld Follies, and a big blond wig, topped with a huge ostrich-plumed show hat. Makeup, of course, and lots of it: pancake, heavy rouge, even a beauty mark on my lower right cheek. Nobody would recognize me in a million years, except maybe my Aunt Eugenia, since I thought when I saw myself all done up like this in my dressing room that I kind of looked like Starla Scott when she placed fourth runner-up last year in the Miss Delta Flats beauty contest, though I have to admit one thing: I’m prettier.
Miss Ball recognizes me, of course. She’s been real nice, real friendly, personally handling everything with the casting people and the wardrobe and makeup people and the people who sign the checks and stuff like that. She made sure I got my own dressing room, away from the other girls in the scene, all of whom seem to be real genuine girls, at least as far as I can make out. Of course, they haven’t all been cordial to me, since it looks like I’m getting special treatment from the star, but that’s OK; nobody in our high school production of Romeo and Juliet liked me either, once I got all the best reviews in the Hollinsville Daily Dispatch. I was Romeo, of course, but now I’m thinking that since I look so good as a girl I probably could have played Juliet just as well, too; I know I woulda been better than that no-talent Linda Beth Creech.
“All right, girls, take your places, please,” the director tells us. “This is our final dress rehearsal before we bring in the audience, so look snappy!” In this episode, Lucy Ricardo, who wants to get into movies real bad (like me—ha-ha) has gotten he
rself a job as a showgirl in a big Hollywood musical. And they give her a huge headdress to wear and a specialty walk down the staircase, but in the scene she keeps falling over because the headdress is too heavy, and the director of the movie keeps threatening to replace her. It’s amazing to watch Miss Ball work out all her “comic business” (another professional saying Arthur taught me), snapping in and out of character just like that, like on a dime. One minute she’s Miss Ball, and I have to say she’s real professional and businesslike; she doesn’t suffer foolishness and she’s not very hob-nobby. Then as soon as the director yells “Action!” she becomes Lucy Ricardo and does all those falls and faces and stuff, and it’s so hard for me to keep from laughing just watching her, but I can’t, because I’m in the scene—I have to keep reminding myself of that. If I’m going to make it in show business, I can’t be breaking up like an ignoramus, gawking at the stars the way I would if I was just at home watching them on television.
Miss Ball gets into position with her giant headdress at the top of the stairs. Of course, in real life the headdress isn’t heavy at all, and Miss Ball walks around with it real easy, talking to the director, to the script girl, getting makeup touches. But, oh boy, as soon as she becomes Lucy, she staggers and falls and trips down those stairs from the “weight” of the thing. Mr. Arnaz doesn’t appear in this scene, but he’s always somewhere on the set, dressed in a tuxedo and wearing makeup, with a handkerchief tied around his front to keep the pancake from getting on his costume. He and Miss Ball don’t talk to each other much, but since he’s the producer, he oversees everything. He mostly stands in the corner by himself, smoking, and every now and then goes over to the director or the cameraman, whispers a few things to them, and looks through the camera viewfinder to check out the shot—at least I guess that’s what he’s doing, since I’ve never been on a set before today.
I’m on Miss Ball’s right, and as she walks up the stairs to start the scene, she winks at me. “How you doing, kid?” she whispers, hoarsely, handing off her half-smoked cigarette to an assistant girl, who scurries up with an ashtray, then dashes away. I nod and smile; she told me not to speak much, since somebody might hear my voice and figure things out.
“We ready? Action!” says the director.
Almost instantly, the actor playing the director in the scene says the same thing: “Is everybody ready? Ac-tion!”
The music starts, and Miss Ball—I mean, Lucy Ricardo—starts her walk, and then her side-to-side tumble down the stairs, as the rest of us follow like well-mannered ladies-in-waiting behind a fairy-tale queen. I think to myself, hell, if Starla ever gets married, I can just be one of her bridesmaids. I’ll even keep the beauty mark.
“Cut! Miss Ricardo, what are you doing?” asks the actor playing the director.
“All right, cut!” says the real director. “We need to adjust Lucy’s key light. We’re getting shadow. Herbie?”
“Oh for God’s sake,” says Miss Ball to nobody in particular, looking peeved, as the assistant girl comes rushing up with the burning cigarette in the ashtray, just as if she’d been cued.
“Fix it, and let’s get going, fellas,” says Miss Ball, in a voice different and louder than the one she speaks with as Lucy Ricardo. “We haven’t got all day here. And this headdress is goddamn hot. Hurry it up.” She goes to sit and smoke in her high-backed director’s chair, which is red and has Lucille Ball written on the back of it. The assistant girl hovers next to her, holding the ashtray and looking all rabbity and jumpy.
The rest of us stay on the set, under the burning lights, waiting. I notice one of the other—I mean, one of the girls—looking over at me. She’s a brunette—real pretty, it seems like, though who can tell under all this paint. She smiles at me, but she also looks at me kind of funny, like she knows something is up. I make a mental note to avoid her.
“All right, everybody, places please!” yells out the floor manager after a couple of minutes. The assistant helps Miss Ball out of her chair and over the lengths and lengths of cables on the floor, back onto the set. “Listen up, folks,” he says. “We’ve got exactly an hour and a half before the studio audience comes in, so please let’s try and get this done so we can move on.”
And we pick up where we left off, which is to say, we start all over again.
“You’re the quiet type, aren’t you?” asks the showgirl who had been eyeing me on the set. We’re hanging out in the back of the studio after the filming in front of the live audience, still in costume and waiting to get clearance that everything “made print.” She seems to be zeroing in on me, which makes me jumpy. Her demeanor is a little tough, like someone my daddy would call “from the wrong side of the tracks.”
“No,” I say, and I’m so nervous my voice actually sounds high enough to be a girl’s.
“The other ladies thought you might be one of Miss Ball’s relatives or something, since you had your own dressing room.”
Immediately, I decide that’s as good an excuse as any, and take her up on it. “Yes. I’m … Lucille is my cousin.”
“Oh yeah? Well, how ’bout that. One of her southern cousins, obviously. Well, that’s just bitchin’. My name’s Lena.” She sticks her hand out, very confident, almost like a man. “Pleased to know you.”
“Thank you.” I shake her hand, and make sure I give her the fish hand, the opposite of what Daddy always taught me to do. Hey, I figure it’s just acting. But what would I do if she found out? Her grip, I notice, is pretty strong.
“And your name is?” she says, looking me in the eyes, real direct.
“Wilma,” I say. Miss Ball cooked that up for me, in case anybody asked.
“Wilma. I see. Been in Hollywood long, Wilma?” The more she talks, the tougher she seems. It’s kind of strange to see someone looking so feminine, wearing ostrich feathers and fake eyelashes and red lips and rouge and a showgirl hat, but talking like Jack Webb on Dragnet. Or at the very least, like Miss Ida Lupino in one of those women’s penitentiary pictures.
“No. I was just visiting Lucille, and she offered to give me a chance.”
“Ah. I thought so. Nepotism—works every time.” She looks away. “You probably put one of my friends out of a job, you know, just ’cause you’re lucky enough to be a star’s relative.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. There’s never enough work to go around, luck of the draw, knowing all the right people, all that shit. Hey, I don’t care, it happens all the time; I’m just razzin’ you.” And she smiles at me real big, but I don’t smile back.
“Oh,” I say.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to shock you. It’s just my sense of humor. Say, listen, Wil—”
My heart just about stops when she says that. But then I realize she’s just shortening Wilma. She looks at me kinda curious-like, and moves in a little too close.
“Listen, if you’re not busy after the wrap, after we get out of all this shit, how’d you like to go out and get a drink with me? Maybe with one or two of my buds?”
“Oh, well, I can’t, really, but—”
“Aw, come on. There’s a little bar a few of us go to, over on Sunset. Very quiet, private. Everybody’s cool. No industry types lurking around, taking mental notes. You know.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I just can’t. I have to—um … but thank you, anyway.”
She pulls away, and I hear myself exhale.
“Sure, Wil,” Lena says after a second, studying me, and beneath all the makeup, I can see she looks a little hurt. She’s probably a lot older than me, probably close to thirty. “Sorry. Jeez, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.”
“No, no, that’s OK. You didn’t.”
“OK then, Wil. Nice working with you. We’ll see you around.” She shakes my hand again, and heads over to another part of the backstage area. I see her bum a cigarette from the stagehand. Then she looks back at me from across the floor and salutes, like a WAC in a wartime ne
wsreel. A WAC in a three-foot headdress. I smile back at her—weakly, I’m sure.
Over the PA system comes the announcement that we made print, that we’re now free to go. As I start for my dressing room, Miss Ball’s assistant girl comes running after me with a note.
“Miss Ball said to give this to you,” she says, all distracted and out of breath, shoving a note into my hand. Before I can even say thank you, she scurries off down the hall.
I open the note: Come to my dressing room in five minutes. In costume. L. B.
There’s a real gold star on the door, just like in all the movies I’ve ever seen about Hollywood. I knock.
“It’s open.”
I walk in and shut the door behind me. She’s sitting at her makeup mirror, taking off her false eyelashes. I notice she has two cigarettes burning in two separate ashtrays.
“Well, well … how you doing there, kid?” she asks me, unhooking the lashes, looking in her mirror and not at me.
“Fine, Miss Ball. Thank you.”
“So did you have a good time? It’s a helluva business, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am. I really … I did have a good time.”
“Yeah? That’s nice. Well, you did a damn good job. Looked real pretty up there, too. But then I knew you would.” She laughs and takes a drag off of one of her cigarettes. “I’d tell you to sit down, but that’s probably not so easy to do in that get-up, is it?”
“Yes ma’am. I mean—no ma’am.”
“So,” she says, finally turning around to look at me. “You gonna tell the folks back home about this?”
I swallow hard. I don’t want to offend her. “Uh … well … I’m not too sure that I …”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” And then she laughs, but it’s really more of a snort. “Well, don’t sweat it, Bill. I probably wouldn’t either, if I were you. Maybe we’ll have you back again, and next time you can be a boy. I consider this one just doing me a goddamn favor.”
“Yes ma’am. You know, I thought you were wonderful in the—”
