The Autograph Hound

by John Lahr

  “I reported everything to the Precinct. I gave them my list. I just need some signatures to tide me over. I’ve got so many to catch up.”

  “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

  “I know you’ve got extras, Benny. Have a heart.”

  “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, Delia. It’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

  “You’ve all got your noses up the devil’s ass.”

  Delia walks away.

  “You’re tough,” says Gloria.

  “You’re as good as what you earn.”

  The room’s just the way I left it. Shade pulled almost to the bottom of the window by the fire escape so burglars can see my Protecto-grate. Pan still soaking off the scrambled egg in the sink. Variety opened at “Legit Bits” on the bed. It’s all the same. Only the clock has changed from when I left for work. It was 10:05 in the morning. Now it’s nearly 1:30.

  “Benny, there’s bugs in the hallway.”

  “Just a second, Gloria. I’m not letting you in until everything’s just right.”

  “A deal’s a deal.”

  “‘Cleanliness is next to godliness.’ You’re the one who said it.”

  “No funny business. I’m no chippie. I earned my surprise. And I happen to have Guardian in my pocketbook, for your information.”

  I take the keys out of the seashell on the dresser. I open the grating locks and push the grate back. I roll up the shade. The moon’s over the playground. The dust on the windows gives it a nice misty look. I stack the magazines on their piles. I smooth the green felt on my autograph table. I unlock my files.

  “The instructions say … Benny? Can you hear me?”

  “I’m sticking a picture back on the wall.”

  “You’re very quiet in there.”

  “Gloria, would you mind taking your ‘Chase Me’ shoes off? The heels are very sharp …”

  “The instruction says—‘Immediately renders attacker harmless when sprayed directly into the face of assailant. Also sprays identifying dye for police identification.’ So keep your distance.”

  I pull out the file trays so Gloria can see how tightly packed and colorful they are. The index cards are straight as soldiers. No dog-ears in the bunch. I hide the key back in the shell and put Mom’s letter under it, along with her others.

  “It’s very rude, Benny. The girl’s supposed to go into a room before the man.”

  I stand back in the corner by the TV for one last look. The room isn’t much. Nobody’d pay to see it like I did to walk through Truman Capote’s. Of course, Capote makes fourteen cents a word. But someday these autographs will be worth a fortune. Maybe a million dollars. Sometimes, I sit in my easy chair thinking about the value. I can almost feel it growing. Then I get nervous and stop thinking. Where could I get a room twenty-five sneakers by fifty-two sneakers for the same rent?

  I open the door. “Make yourself at home.”

  After all her complaining, Gloria won’t come in right away. She stands in the doorway and looks around.

  “Did you do this by yourself?”

  “With a stepladder.”

  “This should be in a magazine.”

  “Why waste space is what I say.”

  “How did you get all these pictures on the ceiling?”

  “Tape. Glue makes them bumpy. Anyway, Mrs. Berado won’t permit glue on the walls. Says it pulls down the plaster.”

  “How many do you have up there?”

  “I guess about two hundred and thirty-seven.”

  Gloria walks right by me with her head in the air. “You could spend hours just looking at the ceiling.”

  “Days.”

  “That’s Virginia Mayo. And, let’s see, Ida Lupino—she was great—Spring Byington, Stu Erwin, Ricky Nelson with Ozzie and Harriet right next to him. Look at Lana’s angora sweater! That’s the one she was discovered in. There’s Huntley and Brinkley. Who’s that?”

  “Mayor Daley of Chicago.”

  “How’d you get him?”

  “Just wrote. He sent a picture.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Some of these pictures are very old.”

  “With the lights on, the glossies sort of glow. They look fresh.”

  My movie wall’s the next to catch Gloria’s eye. All these pictures are large and out of the ordinary. Some have been blown up from snapshots, others are taken straight from the Broadway billboards. Bogie, Marilyn, Marlon, Joan, Sandy, Marlene, Rita, Bert, Bea, to name a few.

  “Why did you put Joan and Rita together?” Gloria says.

  “Don’t you like Rita?”

  “She doesn’t have Joan’s cheekbones, the architecture. Joan never posed suggestive.”

  “It’s a very famous picture of Rita—kneeling in her nightie on the silk sheets Ali Khan gave her.”

  “Go without a bra, let your hair down, wear scanties—and the men sniff around.”

  “Maybe you’d like my political wall better. Everybody’s well dressed. Not a girl in the bunch.”

  Gloria stops at my dresser. “Who’s that?”

  “The picture’s not in my collection. It doesn’t count.”

  “That’s a beautiful upsweep.”

  “I’ve got a great picture of LBJ and his scar. Someday it will be very valuable. You never see the personal side of Presidents.”

  “I know—it’s Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “There was a big fuss over this picture. It was sad. Everybody’s got scars—I do. I went to the penny arcade and had a picture of mine taken. I sent it to the President. Misery loves company.”

  “You’ve got underworld connections?”

  “That’s Mom and Uncle Mort. It was taken by a professional photographer. I was just a kid.”

  “He didn’t even tell them to take the cigarettes out of their mouths.”

  “Uncle Mort paid for Mom’s three Bluestreak Sixty-Five hair driers and the electric nail buffer. Mom’s first job was Uncle Mort’s hands.”

  “With your memory, you don’t need a picture,” says Gloria.

  “Mom made me put it up. She’s always asking, ‘Where am I?’ You’ve got to have an answer. The dresser’s the highest spot in the room.”

  “You’re a grown man, Benny. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

  “It’s in honor of the years she’s worked her fingers to the bone for me.”

  “Notice my half-moons.” Gloria holds up her hands.

  “You missed a few spots with the nailbrush.”

  “Those are the moons, stupid. Didn’t your Mom teach you anything?”

  “She was very busy. The hair driers were always warm when I came home. I didn’t see her much. But we had some good times—we watched TV together—walked on the boardwalk to Bradley Beach. She’d try and step on my shadow and I’d try to get hers.”

  “I’d better be going. I’ve got an early call.”

  “Just a few more minutes, okay? What do you think of my sports wall? I invented it myself.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I’m flattered. I worked a long time getting the right people, whittling it down. Ty Cobb, Crazy Legs Hirsch, Jolting Joe …”

  “But it’s just names and numbers.”

  “That’s right. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “You’ve just painted a lot of numbers on the wall. It looks messy, if you ask me. Photos’d go with the rest of the room.”

  “Read the sign on the wall. I got it from Red Barber on the radio.”

  “‘Eternal vigilance is the price for accuracy in statistics.’”

  “It helps with autographs, too.”

  “I still don’t get it, Benny.”

  “If you had pictures of all these athletes, you’d only have them on one of their many good days, against one opponent. But they all had great careers. Statistics help remember them in action. Nobody can think of Willie Mays’s face
or Bob Feller’s. They’re not like movie stars, you don’t see them close up. Bob Cousy looks like a businessman, Casey Stengel could be a cabdriver. What’s great is how much these guys have produced. That’s all in the numbers. Statistics are certified true. Look where it says DiMaggio. Under it, I’ve got ‘fifty-six.’ That was 1941, but Joe’s consecutive hits are as clear as yesterday. Clearer than that. His front spike up, his elbows high, lots of space between his bat and his neck. No hitch. And then, even without wanting to think about them, the two batting championship years before that, .381 in 1939, .352 in 1940, are right on the tip of your brain. And it’s all on my wall.”

  “I don’t see it.”

  “You’ve got to concentrate. People don’t just become successful overnight. That’s a lot of baloney.”

  “Millie Perkins in Diary of Anne Frank. Sue Lyon in Lolita. Julie Andrews in The Boyfriend …”

  “You’ve got to improve yourself. I developed this system. My autographs are revolutionized.”

  “You think a lot of yourself.”

  “I think a lot of my autographs.”

  “‘The more important the person, the more inconspicuous.’ Emily Post.”

  “She can’t be a star.”

  “She’s an expert.”

  “There’s a difference.”

  “I really have to go,” says Gloria, lifting a compact from her purse and doing her lips. She takes a Kleenex and blots them. There’s a print of her whole mouth. “‘Paint the Town Pink’ by Revlon.”

  “I’m trying to show you my collection, Gloria. The files are open. You haven’t even noticed. That’s one of the first rules. Be alert.”

  I hold out my chair for her to sit down. I turn on the table lamp. The felt’s as green as dollar bills.

  “What’s new about file cards?” she says.

  “What’s on them makes them new.”

  “New York’s full of people with big ideas …”

  “Autographs are one of the best things about New York. They’re not ideas, they’re for real.”

  “Philosophicals confuse me,” Gloria says.

  “There are more signatures per square block in New York than in any other city. If you were in L.A., you’d need a car. Here, everybody’s outside your door, waiting to be asked.”

  “New York’s a very tough town, Benny. If you went to more movies you’d see that. Everybody knows it. New Yorkers just pass you by.”

  “You sound like my mother. She said Benny stick to the linotype, collect the pension. She said stay at home, summers we can play shuffleboard. She sure tried to make it sound good. But at the Press I was indoors most of the day reading about all the big names. In New York, you can go up to anybody, any hour of the day. They’re everywhere. I haven’t had a dull moment since I checked my bags at Port Authority in ’sixty. Autographs really keep you hopping.”

  “Ever heard the song, ‘A New Town Is a Blue Town’?”

  “Don’t believe it, Gloria. That was written in 1954. In 1945 they were singing ‘New York, New York, It’s a Helluva Town.’ You should have respect for old age.”

  “There’s too much to remember, too many autographs to get. I have my work. I couldn’t organize. I couldn’t keep up.”

  “You could do it.”

  “I’m too set in my ways.”

  “First, get rid of the Players’ Guide. It slows you down. You can’t wedge or two-pad with it. Hang out with the Horn and Hardart crowd. Their sloppy seconds are as important as most people’s firsts. Read, read, read. That’s my straight-from-the-shoulder advice. Actresses have to be up-to-date. They’ve got to know things. It’s a good way.”

  “I’m not the mental type.”

  “There’s nothing to it. I cut the autograph out of my book. I glue it to the white side of the index card, leaving enough room around the edges so no glue touches the ink. On the back, I list the important facts. Marriages. Divorces. Accomplishments. Awards. Any conversations. When they die, I switch them to the brown file marked DEAD.”

  I pick a grade-A out of the file. Gloria comes close to have a look.

  BOB HOPE (Leslie Townes Hope)

  BORN: England, 1904.

  EDUCATION: High School (me too),

  FIRST B’WAY APPEARANCE: Ballyhoo, 1932.

  FILMS INCLUDE: Road to Zanzibar, Road to Singapore, Road to Rio, Road to Hong Kong, Road to Utopia, Caught in the Draft, Call Me Bwana.

  AWARDS: U.S. Congressional Medal, 1963.

  REMARKS (To me at The Homestead): “Laugh and the world laughs with you.” Jan. 4,1965.

  Me: “Do you have the time?” Mr. Hope: “Time to get a watch.” Feb. 2,1968.

  Gloria can’t take her eyes off the autograph.

  “Take a card. Any card.”

  I turn my back and put my hands over my eyes. “I’m absolutely not looking. I’m blind as a bat. There’s no way I can see what you’ve picked. Don’t bend the card, please.”

  “Okay,” says Gloria.

  “Now read me any fact on the back of the card. You don’t have to read the first one. Begin anywhere.”

  “‘Membership: 1,651, 240.’”

  “Jimmy Hoffa.”

  “That’s right!”

  “I got him at the Copa.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “The head of the biggest union in the United States.”

  “How did you know who he was?”

  “There’s a lot of luck in this business. I thought I was getting Ernest Borgnine.”

  “Can I try another? Don’t look.”

  I can hear Gloria fingering the cards for a hard one.

  “Take from any file cabinet. I think I can guess from all three. I study them after work. I add conversations to the back even if I already have the autograph.”

  “’Forty—nineteen—thirty-five and a half.’”

  “That could be anybody.”

  “You’ll never get this one, Benny.”

  “I think I’ve got it.”

  I take a pad and write an impersonation of the autograph. I fold it over. “The person whose card you’re holding is Vera Jane Palmieri.”

  “Wrong. You missed it. You really flubbed this one!”

  I open the piece of paper and show her my Jayne Mansfield.

  “Fantastic! You were just fooling about Vera Jane.”

  “That was Miss Mansfield’s first name.”

  “It’s unbelievable.”

  “That was a tough one. I wasn’t expecting someone from the dead file.”

  “Your mind’s a trap.”

  “I’ve trained it for autographs. Sometimes I forget my own apartment number, walk right past it. But figures of the performers are gummed into my skull …”

  Gloria wants me to do some more. I don’t want to. After spending so much time with entertainers, some of their secrets sink in—get on, get your laugh, and get off. As a favor, I tell her to take two cards and read me the names. David Merrick and Wayne Newton are her picks. I do the Merrick with short, broad lines. I keep the letters crammed tight together. I take my time, but try to make it look like I’m in a terrible hurry.

  “Tadah! David Merrick at your service.” I put my impersonation next to the real thing.

  “That’s interesting,” she says.

  “Interesting! That’s a perfect imitation.”

  “Mr. Merrick’s signature slants to the left. Yours is all the way to the right.”

  “You’re a tough critic. My Wayne Newton will surprise you.”

  “I’ve really got to go, Benny. It’s been nice making your acquaintance.”

  “Wayne Newton coming up. Please?”

  The trick to Wayne Newton is to remember he’s a singer and he’s short. Like most smallies in the business, he signs very large and swirly. I use a ball-point pen for this one. The pen skates along the paper.

  “Don’t ask me, Benny.”

  “It’s a dead ringer.”

  “Flattery gets you nowhere.”

  “I’ve be
en doing him for years. Let me try another.”

  Gloria buckles on her ‘Chase Me’ shoes. She stands up tall as Cyd Charisse, and walks to the door. “Thank you for a nice evening.”

  I pull out another card. “It’s not over.”

  “I said I’m not playing.”

  “I got this at the Pepsi-Cola Convention. I knew she’d be there. She’s on the Board. I have triples. This one’s yours.”

  She looks at the Joan Crawford for a long time. This is the part I hate—the happy ending. She takes my hand and holds it to her cheek.

  The door clicks shut. No “thank you.” Nothing.

  I sit on the edge of my bed. I sniff the perfume off the back of my hand the way I used to smell glue. I’m dozy.

  I lock up the collection for the night. I turn on the television. Abbott and Costello. I turn it off.

  Should I curl up in the chair or take the bed? I remember Mom’s letter. I’ll take the bed.

  Benny:

  Your last two letters have been about these muscle-boy football players. There must be more news of the big city. Are you a faggot? Keep well. All love.

  Francine/Mom

  P.S. Good contacts are good business.

  I turn out the lights. I put the shell to my ear. Soon I can hear Ocean Beach and my eyes get very heavy.

  Chapter Two

  THE MORNING NEWS HASN’T been the same since Jack Lescoulie retired. At 7:30—the TV’s saying that it’s Monday, that Hollywood’s dying, that theater attendance’s falling off, that the air’s killing us, that the Mets lost. That’s hooey. I’ve talked to thousands of healthy, happy people. I’ve got autographs to prove it. Americans take the word of one man sitting behind a desk who hasn’t even seen what he’s talking about with his own eyes. These young announcers think they know it all. They talk with the man in the street, not stars. The man in the street doesn’t know shit, that’s why he’s in the street.

  I cut the announcer off. I watch his head shrink to the size of a pin. I think nice thoughts. The perfume’s still fresh on my hand. I go back to sleep.

  At 9:00 things are looking better. The announcer says the astronauts are on their way to the moon. Five days, 263,000 miles away. Think of that.

  I clock in. My name looks very big on the card, BENJAMIN S. WALSH typed in baby-blue ink. There’s a special box for my card on the wall. Today, at 10:42 A.M., I slip the card into the machine, wait for the punch and the bell. I like the bell. There’s a note in my box. It’s written on Homestead paper—Mr. Garcia.