The Autograph Hound

by John Lahr

  “Benny, maybe you should have a rest.”

  “Not in my line. There are too many important people these days. You’ve only got so many good years. I get nervous thinking about it. We should be out on the street. Why are we waiting around?”

  “You called Big John Getz.”

  “Did he call back?”

  “You don’t have a phone, Benny.”

  “Then we’ll wait for the radio announcement.”

  “First things first.”

  “I remember my first Ann Miller movie. My first Mickey Mantle home run. The first time I saw Marilyn on Fifth Avenue. They’ll always be first. Nothing can take their place.”

  “You’ll have time for your autographs, Benny. Business before pleasure.”

  “All I have to do is pick up these triples—and everything comes back. Vera-Ellen. Sundown. 1964. Vera-Ellen. Hot and humid. Corner of Forty-ninth and Seventh Avenue, 1965. Vera-Ellen …”

  “What are you doing?”

  “See. I know the time of day I got them, and the weather. I can tell you where, too. It’s all up here in my head.”

  “You want to be a messenger walking all over New York, checking with the boss after every delivery? You want to park cars?”

  “I can’t drive.”

  “You need a good location.”

  “I’m not selling, Gloria. Big John’ll come through.”

  “Suppose he doesn’t?”

  “All you think about’s money. What do you care? I’m only another guy.”

  “Benny, you’re crazy.”

  “I’m not crazy, Miss Sell-All-You’ve-Got. I’ll go to Hollywood.”

  “How?”

  “Judy’s got fan clubs all over the country. They’ll help. I’ll work in a cabana. I’ll distribute Variety to the famous homes in Coldwater Canyon. No throwing, hand delivered.”

  “Benny, after tomorrow you’ve got no job. You don’t have enough to ship your magazines and autographs to the West Coast.”

  “I can always get something in Brooklyn. Nobody’ll know my real job. On weekends I’ll sneak away and take the subway to Broadway and hang out. I’ll save my money. I’ll buy my way back into the big time. It’s only a matter of years.”

  “All you think about is Benny Walsh. Other people have careers, you know.”

  “I’m thinking about my collection.”

  Gloria’s crying. Black lines, like dirty fingers, point down from her eyes. She pushes away from the table and stands in the corner by W. C. Fields. He’s holding a hand of cards close to his chest. He wears a high, funny top hat. Gloria’s turned towards him, not me. He’s saying what I would if I could. “Don’t worry, my little chickadee.” He talks out of the side of his mouth. Gloria should be smiling, but she doesn’t even look up at him.

  “What’s wrong, Gloria?”

  She won’t look at me either.

  “I’m crying for myself.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Benny. It’s private. Haven’t you ever had something … I don’t know … secret.”

  “My life’s an open book.”

  “Something personal.”

  “You mean like private conversations with public personalities? Sure.”

  “Deeper than that, Benny.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Your own secret.”

  “I guess I haven’t had one.”

  “It’s not supposed to be this way. People are happy at the end. Where’s the background music?”

  “The radio’s on.”

  She’s shaking now. I’m afraid to go near her. “If something hurts, leave it alone.” Mom was right.

  “There were so many times—and promises. At Lake George, he said he’d take my picture by the fort. He never came. I waited two afternoons. Another time, when I was working at Screen Femmes, he said he needed money. I was just up and coming, but I gave it to him. He had a Leslie Howard look about him. I stayed in bed a lot that winter. I read the magazines. I watched the old films on television. They didn’t treat women that way, then. He could be so nice. He said he would take me away from my film career. He bought me drapes for my window. He knew the best furniture. He said I had taste. He said I had an eye, and that he liked me. Then, after a while of liking, I’d cry like this. He disappeared.”

  “Who was ‘he’?”

  “They’re all the same.”

  “Nobody’s ever cried in front of my collection.”

  “You didn’t see me cry.”

  “Three thousand signatures and still growing.”

  “Don’t say you’re going to work for a Triple-A restaurant, if you’re not. Don’t say you’re staying, if you’re leaving. Don’t talk about being best, if you’re giving up.”

  “Why did you believe those guys?”

  “You believe Big John.”

  “There’s a difference.”

  “What?”

  “He’s famous.”

  “Well, your collection will be famous.”

  Gloria goes quiet. The worst is over. I ask her a few questions, but she’s statue still. Then, as if W. C. slapped her, Gloria’s head snaps back. Her hands grab at her forehead.

  “What’s wrong now, Gloria?”

  “A wave.”

  “Look at me.”

  “My head won’t stop. Oh! Stop!” She says “stop” three times. After each scream, she slaps her skull.

  “Don’t come near me, Benny. Stay away.”

  What am I, a sex fiend? Do I smell? I hate loud noises. What’s gotten into her? She’s a maniac. “I’ll have to call Mrs. Berado.”

  “Nobody can help me when I’m like this.”

  “You’ve got to stop it, Gloria. Big John’s calling. We’ve got to be ready to act fast. Think of Joan.”

  “Three months. Four months. I almost think I’m free. Then it comes back. Why me?”

  “This is a happy home. Groucho, Marilyn, Mr. Fields, Bogie.” It’s an insult. She won’t listen to anyone, even them. They say cool it. “Stop crying, Gloria—please. Look, I’m doing my Uncle Miltie imitation. Stop crying or I’w kiw you a miwion times. I’ll show you my Montgomery Clift, Gloria.” She won’t stop. She’s a weirdo. “I’ll sell some of my autographs.”

  Gloria turns around. Her cheeks are wet with tears. “I’m the happiest girl in the world.”

  “No Academy Award winners. No retired firststringers. No top grossers.”

  “Nothing you don’t want, Benny.”

  On Third Avenue, businessmen hurry by—eyes straight ahead, clean shirts, big briefcases, shoes kicking back the sunlight. They step like Gil Hodges to the mound. They know where they’re going.

  I ask Gloria to slow down. But she takes my arm and pulls me faster—past shoppers, in between the taxis that honk at us. People might bump me. My autographs might spill out of the paper bag and get run over.

  My sneakers flap on the cement. I’m walking, but it doesn’t feel that way. Nothing stands still.

  “You okay?” says Gloria.

  “I get lost easy.”

  “We’re almost there.”

  It’s the big time. I can tell by the leather. Leather chairs that wheeze when you sit in them. Leather desk tops. Leather signs branded with gold words.

  TOP CASH PAID FOR LETTERS AND DOCUMENTS OF FAMOUS MEN AND WOMEN & Interesting Old Letters & Pioneer Journals & Whaling Logs & Old Broadsides & Posters & Books Signed By Famous Persons

  Pictures of famous people are framed with their signatures. They hang around the room. Most of the signatures are from another time. I can tell because they are scratchy. But, without TV, how could a person really be famous?

  The shop sounds like a library. The floor creaks. You hear footsteps. Even Springer, who owns the place and looks as old as some of the faces on the wall, whispers on the phone.

  “Speak up,” Gloria says. She thinks I’m nervous because I’m breathing heavy.

  Springer wears a green shade on his forehead. He also
has glasses. It’s hard to see his eyes. He’s from Vienna, he says. I explain I’m from The Homestead. He’s anxious to see what’s in the paper bag.

  First I show him some of my collector’s believeit-or-nots, the really hard ones—Wernher Von Braun, Edward R. Murrow, Mark Van Doren, Christine Jorgensen, Alger Hiss, Satchel Paige, Ernie Kovacs.

  “Very interesting,” says Mr. Springer. “You have letters from these people?”

  “Autographs are letters.”

  “Well …”

  “Look at the one you have in your hand. ‘To Benny, Who found me on the twelfth floor of the Plaza. You win. Best regards, Howard Hughes.’ There’s a whole story there. What else’s a letter? With autographs, they write you before your eyes. No waiting. No postage due.”

  Mr. Springer tilts his head right, then left. “Maybe.”

  Mr. Springer’s a buyer, not a doer. He doesn’t understand how hard it was to get these people. Mr. Springer holds each autograph close to his eyes. He flips them over gently. Each name’s a picture in my head. Hands. Smiles. Doors shutting. Elevators opening. There aren’t twenty people in New York who have these kind of signatures.

  Mr. Springer talks slowly. It’s hard to listen, but I open my eyes wide and nod back like at school. “Historians, biographers, libraries find them of great value. There’s a market.” Gloria squeezes my arm. “For letters,” Mr. Springer says.

  “Some of these people are dead. The live ones are on the move—working, training, going from place to place. It’s hard to keep up with them except on TV or the magazines. They don’t have time to write.”

  “Ah,” says Mr. Springer, and picks up my second category, The Great Achievements—Wilt “The Stilt” Chamberlain (most points scored in one game), Joe Namath (most yards gained passing), Alfred Drake (most consecutive performances in a Broadway musical comedy), Raquel Welch (biggest bust).

  “These have a great value to you, Mr. Walsh?”

  “They certainly do. I’d say the collection comes to between fifty and a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “But to me, you see, individually, they are not worth much. They have no enduring literary value.”

  “Joe Namath and Johnny Carson wrote books.”

  “Yes, but nothing has been written about these people.”

  “Thousands of articles.”

  “In my business, Mr. Walsh, you have to be careful. You can’t invest everywhere.”

  “How about Buster Keaton? The Alka-Seltzer commercial, remember?”

  “They’re very interesting, Mr. Walsh. But Mischa Springer only buys historical. A president, a writer, an inventor or explorer. Now if you had Bonaparte, Luther, Disraeli, Einstein.

  I could give maybe five hundred dollars for one autograph. I pay the best prices. I’m well known for it.”

  “You want Jews? I have Jews in here—famous Jews. Of course, they’ve changed their names. They’re Americans now.”

  “I buy people who have made their mark.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. Look at the back of each card, Mr. Springer. Living history. Their exact words. Two centuries from now, people will be able to know what they said while they signed their names. It’s preserved.”

  “Bismarck, Lenin, Picasso, Marx, Tolstoy—those are big names. I pay a lot for them. To be frank, I can mount them with a nice engraving, like my Andrew Jackson over there. A wonderful Christmas gift idea.”

  “Do they come to New York?”

  “They’re dead. Anyway, they were Europeans.”

  “My people are great Americans. There’s a new President every four years. There’s only one Frank or Joe or Wilt. They put America on the map.”

  “I give you fifty dollars for the Keaton, one hundred if you throw me in Murrow, Garland, and Wernher Von Braun.”

  “Now wait a minute! I thought this was a highclass place. You’re not taking Buster for any fifty dollars.”

  “The offer stands. You want to think it over, I’m here six days a week, nine to five.”

  “This isn’t Andrew Jackson. It’s Buster Keaton—the funniest man in the world.”

  Mr. Springer asks me not to yell. I’m not yelling. I wasn’t even talking to him, I was talking to Gloria and looking at him. On his desk is an old Who’s Who in America. I open it to Keaton.

  “Mr. Walsh, I know the man.”

  “Look, Mr. Springer, Keaton has at least four inches of history.”

  “What are you doing?” says Mr. Springer. “Put that ruler down!”

  “Now let’s measure Andrew Jackson.”

  “Andrew Jackson’s not in Who’s Who.”

  “He’s not in the top four thousand.”

  “He’s in the almanac.” Mr. Springer takes another book from his desk. We all lean close to it. I read.

  “‘Andrew Jackson, seventh President of the United States (1829-1837), was born on March 15,1767, in Waxhaw, South Carolina, the son of a linen weaver who, upon migrating to the U.S. from Ireland, became a farmer.’”

  “What does that prove, Mr. Walsh?”

  “Keaton has four inches of history, Jackson has one inch. Keaton’s got a bigger history and you want to steal him away from me for fifty dollars while Andrew Jackson’s on your wall for six hundred.”

  “It depends on what you call history.”

  “History is what happens to you when you’re alive. And more has happened to my Americans than any mick.”

  “Benny!” Gloria says. “Hush!”

  “Andrew Jackson was a great man,” Mr. Springer says.

  “How do you know? You weren’t around to see him.”

  “I’m a professional.”

  “So am I.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion.”

  “You’re trying to jew me down.”

  “Benny!”

  “Shut up, Gloria. No kike’s getting my collection for a song.”

  “Benny, control yourself.”

  “He knows what they’re worth. Jews are shrewd. He knows.”

  “Mr. Springer’s an expert. He gives the best prices.”

  “What does he know? Andrew Jackson’s family was foreign like him. He’s trying to boost the price of his own kind. I’ve been here all my life. I know what’s valuable.”

  “Benny? Take the money. Apologize to Mr. Springer.”

  “My blood’s pure. My body has been sold to a major American hospital. I came from pioneer stock. He should kiss my ass!”

  “Benny!”

  “Jews are cowards. History proves it. So do the movies.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Springer picks up my autographs and stuffs them back in the paper bag. It isn’t the A & P. He can’t treat my signatures like soup. I grab them and put them back on his desk. So what if Springer turns away from us. Springer’s got ears—big ones. He can hear.

  “He wants me to sell. He wants me to get out. He wants me to give up. Just like a Jew. I’m no quitter, Springer. Ask Big John. I’m an American.”

  “Out! Out!”

  Gloria picks up the autographs and pulls me outside. Springer locks the door behind us, and stares out from behind the glass. He can’t scare me. I’m looking at him. I’ve caught him doing the dirty.

  “Wahoo! Wahoo! Jew!”

  “Benny? Put your hat on.”

  “I’m scaring him.”

  “He’s not moving.”

  “He’s terrified.”

  “Benny, he’s seen the autographs. He’s in business. Those are the facts.”

  “He wants to split my collection.”

  “I feel a wave, Benny.”

  Springer’s taking cover. He pulls the shade down over the window. I can see my reflection, and his cheap shoes at the bottom of the glass. Only the laundress’ll know how scared he is.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, Springer. You scum-suckin’ pig. You autograph rustler. Slap leather!”

  “Benny, there’s electricity all over me.”

  “I’m fighting mad,
Gloria. I gave him a chance to make a good offer. He can’t push me around. Hear that, Springer!”

  “It doesn’t matter any more, Benny. We lost.”

  “He wouldn’t have tried the swindle unless the collection was a gold mine. If you could see what I see. It’s so simple.”

  “But Springer said …”

  “What does he know? He doesn’t even pray to the same God. When he lies in bed at night, I bet he dreams European.”

  A pencil tips open the mail slot. A voice says, “Go away! Or I call the police!”

  “I had a dream, Springer! You’re not going to shaft us out of this one, Mister Big-Time-Loser.”

  This close-range yelling’s better than a ball game. My voice sounds deeper, my body tingles. I cross the street with Gloria. I slap the taillights of the taxis.

  “What did you see in the dream?”

  “How things would be. Comfortable and warm. Very blossomy. The best money can buy. People happy together forever. Peace and quiet.”

  “Did you hear music?”

  “A hum. There were words, too.”

  “A message?”

  “‘Take what you can get. It’s a free country.’”

  “That was some message,” says Gloria. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Meet me at The Homestead after work. I’ll have some results. I swear it.”

  “Sing ‘Cottage for Two’ with me. For luck.”

  “I can’t sing.”

  “A barbershop duet. I’ll sing, you repeat the words you like. In our cottage for two …”

  “Cottage for two.”

  “Our forever rendezvous.”

  “Our rendezvous.”

  “We’ll share rooms with a view of the sky …”

  “Of the sky.”

  “You and I.”

  “This is silly, Gloria. The songs come later.”

  Why can’t people keep their bodies and their breath to themselves? All, the way to The Homestead on the subway, they rub me with their knees, their shoulders, their backs. They try and spin me off course. But I’m on the scent. Nothing can stop me. Not Springer with his denture breath. Not Rumsey, who smells like his horses and won’t let go of my arm. I tell him the barricades are down, everything’s back to normal. He pulls me inside the stagecoach and rolls up the window. Boxes are on the floor.

  “I held down the fort, right? You saw me, Walsh?”