The Autograph Hound

by John Lahr

  When I look up, Garcia has gone.

  The hot water sizzles the inside of my arms when I lift the wire-mesh basket from the sink. I’m in charge of two sinks, one for rinsing and one for washing. There’s nothing to see but the clock, nothing to hear but the chinking of silverware and the drumming of the fresh water filling the tubs. I can’t pull any faster. My arms ache. After I dunk the basket into the clean hot water, I slide it to the side and let it cool. I load more dirty silverware into the first tub. I change the soapy water in the second tub. Then I sort. Then I wipe the sweat from my neck and eyes. Then I start again. The rubber gloves don’t work—silverware keeps slipping out of my hand. By the end of the shift, my skin’s speckled with pink fork pricks. My fingers are wrinkled like the apple the teacher kept on our school window to show us how the world ages.

  Gloria meets me at 46th Street and Broadway. From here, we can see the news spelling itself out on the Allied Chemical building and the funny cartoons showing the time on the Accutron sign. It has more than one million lights and operates twenty-four hours a day. At the bottom is the time—not ordinary time, but the hour, minute, second, and tenth of a second. Something new is happening each blink of the eye. At 10:53:3:9, a man in a straw hat knocks on a door. A woman answers and hits him over the head with a broom. WHAM is spelled out on the sign. He falls. He bounces up. She hits him again. This time his hat is banged right down around his arms. He’s spinning like a top. Then she kicks him right off the screen. It’s a riot, and all in twenty seconds. At 11:02:3:6, a hockey player skates for the goal. He slaps the puck with his stick, it sails past the goalie into the net.

  “I wish every clock had a story.”

  “Benny, did the Chef make everything okay?”

  “You see on the top of that building?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yogi Berra used to be up there. He blew Camel smoke rings. Each puff the size of a pizza.”

  “That big?”

  “A perfect circle every time.”

  “Did you find a job?”

  “The Chef says I should look.”

  “You were going to look today.”

  “Well …”

  “Will you look at what I brought to show you?”

  Gloria hands me Stargazer, A Guide to Tomorrow’s Talent. “It cost me fifteen dollars. It came out today.”

  “It’s not worth it. Cheap paper. Sixty-four pages.”

  “You’ve got to improve yourself, Benny. That’s what I’m trying to show you. If you look on page twenty-three you’ll be very surprised.”

  There’s a picture of Gloria and a whole page about her.

  LAURETTE

  (Dancer/Singer/Composer/Actress)

  CONTACT: Screen Femmes

  111 W. 42nd St. (212) 289-3533

  HEIGHT: 5’3½"

  WEIGHT: 119

  MEASUREMENTS: On request

  EYES: Blue

  HAIR: Brown

  AGE: Over 21

  BACKGROUND: Lake George High School The Gaslight Club Viola Wolff Dance Studios

  SINGING EXPERIENCE: High school choir, church choir

  BAND EXPERIENCE: 4 years high school band, 2 years all county band

  FAVORITE COMPOSERS: Sigmund Romberg, Beethoven, Mozart

  FAVORITE GROUPS: The Ink Spots, The Harmonicats, The Beatles

  NO. 1 DISC HIT: “Cottage for Two” (own composition)

  TASTES IN MUSIC: All types of music

  FILMS: A Bird in the Bush, Double Clutch, and (soon to be released) A Doctor’s Dilemma

  “My name stays in for a whole year. Eight issues. You never know who’ll see it. It’s one dollar on the stands.”

  “We should have this kind of magazine for restaurants.”

  “You’ve got a union. Pull some strings. That’s the only way to get ahead. Of course, if you don’t have talent, no push is going to help. But when you do, all you need is that little extra …”

  “I didn’t get anybody tonight.”

  “Not one?”

  “Zero.”

  “Are you feeling okay, Benny? You can’t get depressed. You can’t let little things throw you.”

  “They put me on silverware.”

  “You’ve got to hold a good thought.”

  “I hate to think about leaving The Homestead.”

  “We’d better hurry.”

  “Where?”

  “Let’s try the Majestic.”

  At the stoplight, we look up on the second floor. Four go-go dancers are twitching their backsides in the window.

  “Do you dance, Benny?”

  “No time.”

  “That’s how I broke into show business.”

  “Chorus line?”

  “Ballroom. My first job in New York.”

  “Arthur Murray or Fred Astaire?”

  “No, I was uptown. Viola Wolff. Young kids. The upper crust. They wore white gloves when we danced.”

  “Where did you learn?”

  “Dad taught me the basic steps. We’d practice each Friday when Mom went for Bingo. By the time I was thirteen, I could two-step, bunny hop, Lindy. I could do the rumba without the wiggle.”

  “Arthur Murray had a television show. He wore a tuxedo. He taught famous people the latest steps.”

  “Joan Crawford started as a dancer. Lucille le Sueur was her name then. She did the Black Bottom.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Sure. But you have to wear a shimmy dress. I don’t like it.”

  “In dancing school?”

  “Viola gave me money for a gold gown. It wasn’t really gold, but it was beautiful. Wasp waist. Strapless. I wore gold shoes. Viola would stand up by the piano and click her clicker. Everybody would stop and stand in a circle. ‘Gloria, would you do the Grapevine?’ she’d say. ‘When you’re ready, Gloria!’ I’d wait a second or two—the pianist always wanted to hurry. But when I was in the mood, I’d start to dance—big, swirling box steps. Around and around the room, slow at first, then faster and faster. I could see the boys’ little heads shiny with hair tonic. The girls holding punch glasses with paper napkins, giggling in their pink dresses and patent leather shoes. Then the music would stop, and I’d go up to one of the young men and ask him to dance. He’d say yes, and we’d dance. I was a good teacher. I knew from experience. They liked dancing with me. They were polite. When Miss Wolff would click her clicker, they’d say, ‘Thank you, Miss Franzen.’ And we’d change. That way everybody got to dance with everybody else.”

  “Another duet?”

  “The spotlight dance. I was the best, I was always in the spotlight. The kids liked watching me.”

  “No, what was the dance?”

  “A waltz.”

  “Nobody waltzes. It’s all jumping and twisting and shouting. Waltzes are only for big-deal celebrations.”

  “You don’t know these kids, Benny. Some of them grow up to have seats on the Stock Exchange.”

  Sypher is standing on the curb by the Majestic.

  “Get lost, Louis. She’s ready. She’s as good as any of us.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “I’ve taught her the tricks.”

  “I’m not conning you. Listen to Louis the Lion-Hearted, sweetheart. The Garden’s a gold mine. You gotta walk before you can run. Ethel Waters, Paul Anderson, the world’s strongest man, and Billy Graham—Mr. Religion himself. Got them all. The place’s packed. Everywhere you turn there’s another famous face. They’re all kneeling. I mean they’re sitting ducks.”

  “Benny showed me what to do. I have my pad.”

  “Opening night crowds are a bitch, honey cake. The first people through those doors will be the critics. They’re the ones dressed in gray and running. Forget them. Next, there’ll be a lot of rich types from uptown. Speak clear—they think every stranger’s out to strangle them. The stars go backstage. You got to be quick.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Gloria says.

  “She will, too, Louis.”

&nb
sp; The ushers swing the exit doors open and jam wooden pegs underneath to hold them in place. We can hear the applause and see the white light from the stage. Most people are standing and yelling “Bravo.” For a moment, there’s nobody in the lobby, then suddenly people shove through the doors, blinking in the fresh air.

  “Don’t just stand there, Gloria.”

  “I’m making a wish.”

  “Go right up. Remember Sardi’s.”

  “Hey, some technique you’re teaching, Walsh …”

  “Star light,

  Star bright,

  First star I see tonight,

  I wish I may, I wish I might

  Have the wish I wish tonight.”

  “Jesus, Walsh!”

  “What did you ask, Gloria?”

  “I’m not telling. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.”

  “No, our way. ‘Cottage for Two.’”

  We move into the crowd. Autographs are like tuna fishing on the TV. The minute you snare one, you haul it in, flip it away, and go after the next. At openings, speed’s important. There’s no time for singing.

  “Benny!” Gloria waves. “Rosemary Clooney’s here … Hurry!”

  Gloria doesn’t understand that shouting spooks the stars. They want to be recognized, but quietly. She’s getting excited. An usher starts to follow her.

  Sypher grabs Gloria around the waist. “The number one Louis Sypher rule—I taught it to Moonstone, I’m telling it to you—rumor.”

  Sypher steps in front of the usher. “Apologize to Cary Grant!”

  “Where?” The usher turns around.

  By that time, Gloria’s inside.

  I wait under the marquee. After a while, Gloria appears, smiling. “I got twelve signatures, Benny. Once, I didn’t even have to ask. The man just took my pen and signed. You know who? Fernando Lamas.”

  “I got five.”

  “I’m pooped.”

  “You have to conserve your strength, Gloria.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you see me with Rosemary Clooney? I yelled.”

  “I didn’t want her.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Sypher left. He mumbled something about ‘Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.’ I waited.”

  “Look at these names.”

  We lean against a car and stare at the marquee lights.

  “You don’t get your name up there easy.”

  “Hard work,” says Gloria.

  Gloria counts her autographs again. “They laughed at Lucille le Sueur. She made her own dress for a sorority dance, and they made fun of her. It gave her strength. She vowed to succeed.”

  “Now that you’re collecting more, you’re going to have to learn about other people besides Joan Crawford.”

  “Will that be tough?”

  “The starlets are hard. After a while you’ll see it.”

  “I will?”

  “Energy.”

  “You mean get up and go?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know that already. When you become an actress, you have places to go, people to see. You have appointments.”

  “There are other things. Guts. Patience. It takes time. Look at The Homestead. Garcia shouldn’t rush everything—the food, the service, the busboys. That’s not how artists work …”

  Gloria reaches into her purse. “You made me realize something Joan said. I’ve never understood it till now.”

  “I did?”

  Gloria opens a piece of paper folded into a small square in her wallet.

  “‘Then I found that incredible thing, a public.… From this moment on, I had a sense of audiences as warm, loving people who would care for me in direct proportion to the energy and talent I would give to a public to whom I owed a loyalty and from whom I’ve always received loyalty.…’”

  “I am loyal.”

  “What can I do for you, Benny?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know somebody who might have a job …”

  “On Broadway?”

  “Near it.”

  “Sypher said Madison Square Garden’s packed. That’s more important.” Gloria takes my arm. “I never thought of myself as a public.”

  The Garden’s so crowded that the only place we can see Mr. Graham is in his special Prayer Room. The usher shows us to the door. Inside, Mr. Graham’s being broadcast on a six-foot screen behind the altar. When he asks the people to pray, they bow their heads. When he says come forward, they leave their wooden seats and kneel at the altar. “Let’s do it, Benny. Praying helps.”

  “The reception’s terrible. You can’t pray to somebody you can’t see.”

  “It’s Billy Graham, Benny. He prays with Presidents.”

  “I always get in trouble in Church. Bad thoughts.”

  “My mother reached out and touched Oral Roberts during Temporary Interference. It still worked.”

  “We’d get up early and go to Rumson for Confession. I’d tell everything. But when I knelt down in Mass, even with Mom next to me, I’d feel the hard wood against my stomach. The perfume from the girl in front of me—always the same redhead—tickled my nose. I couldn’t think holy. Bad thoughts would begin. There was nothing I could do. I’d follow her high heels up to the altar. I’d try to concentrate on the priest. But then I’d peek. Her mouth would be wide open, her eyes shut, her tongue would curl out. She really sucked the wafer, pulling it in from the tip of her tongue, scraping it between her teeth! It was embarrassing. I’d pray hard for forgiveness when I received Communion. But each time I walked back to my seat, hands folded the way Mom taught me, I’d see her. Praying in the raw. I’d get so nervous I’d chew my wafer.”

  “Mr. Graham has helped a lot of people. Don’t be shy. He might have some job ideas.”

  “Let’s go, Gloria.”

  “You’re looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

  I walk out. She follows me past the food stands.

  “Maybe I got my own idea. Gloria, and I don’t know it yet. Maybe it will come to me just like that.”

  “That’s a vision. It’s very hard to have one of those.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My mother had one, once. She kissed the bronze statue of Pope Pius XII and suddenly he spoke to her.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to leave Dad and move to Fort Lauderdale.”

  “Did she?”

  “She had to. He also said to leave me in the custody of my father. And that I’d grow up to be a very talented and successful girl.”

  “What does it take to have a vision?”

  “Faith.”

  “I have faith.”

  “My mother said she heard music—violins, harps.”

  “Does buzzing mean anything?”

  “No, but music’s a good sign.”

  Outside, Gloria says, “Can I ask you a very personal question? How much money do you have in your bank account?”

  “I don’t have a bank account.”

  “What if you get sick? What if you want to make plans?”

  “You can’t make too many plans. You’ve got to be at the right place at the right time.”

  “Think of yourself, Benny.”

  “You sound like my mother.”

  “There are other things to life besides signatures.”

  “Like what?”

  “Eating well. Having a good job. Nice surroundings. Pleasant company.”

  “I’ve got all that.”

  “You had it.”

  “Don’t rub it in, Gloria.”

  “Let’s go to the Gaiety Girls. My friend’s—”

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going home. You’ve spoiled tonight.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  “Why do you want to dig at me? Make a guy worry when he’s having a good time.”

  “You’ve got to get another job.”

  “Go find Sypher. I’m
not blind, you know. Letting him feel your arm, and say those things. Daredeviling under his nose. Yelling at me just to make me look like a fool.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “That Waldorf wise guy. Go ahead after that bulging billfold. Fall for the dazzle on those shined shoes. Girls are suckers for amateur night.”

  “Stop it.”

  “Can’t take what I’m saying about your Waldorf weasel?”

  “I want to help you, Benny.”

  “Sure. Make me a miracle.”

  “If you get a job tonight, will you believe in miracles?”

  “All I hear’s a hum in my head.”

  “You’ve helped me.”

  “Don’t remind me of certain things.”

  “My friend’s the headliner at the Gaiety. The girls there are bigger than Mae West.”

  “Really?”

  “That’s how they’re billed.”

  “On the marquee?”

  “Let’s go, Benny.”

  “Not many performers are bigger than Mae West.”

  A woman’s voice from the wings—“And now … The Gaiety Girls Revue Bar … is proud to present … the Yeast from the East, the prize who makes the men rise, that sweet confection who’ll be your reserection, that sinner who’s a winner, that quite contrary Merri with the magnificent mammaries—Miss Merri Magdalen.”

  It’s about time. “Show’s just beginning,” the man outside said. That was five minutes ago. Then Gloria left to visit backstage and they sat me here in the dark. I like to be in the light, ready to move.

  Miss Magdalen walks in large circles around the stage. She stops suddenly and comes right down to the edge. A man in the first row hops up and sits at her feet. She pats his head. Her voice is very confidential, but everybody can hear.

  “What you want—take!

  What you need—make!

  What you know—fake!

  What you got—shake!”

  She runs her hands over her body. She nudges the man with her knee. He bites at her. She rubs up hard against him, then pushes him off the stage and into his seat. The audience likes it, even the man likes it. He raises his hands above him like he’d beaten Sugar Ray.

  Miss Magdalen takes off her gold bolero and throws it in the wings. She has skin as white as lemon sherbet.