The Autograph Hound

by John Lahr

  Women are spoiled. Just because they are beautiful and have a hole, they think they can get anything they want. Hedy Lamarr wants Samson’s hair. A piece of his coat, his arrow quiver—that I could understand. But hair? She complains. She pushes. She wants to know the secret to my strength, too. “Not telling, lady. You’re not putting your clammy paws on my hair.” She keeps after me. She thinks my secret’s in my head. It’s in my collection, and it’s staying right here in this room. “It took a lot of hard work.” Delilah doesn’t understand this. She’s never worked a day in her life.

  They poke out Victor Mature’s eyes with a flaming stake. He should’ve kept to himself. They’re not getting me. My eyes are shut. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. I can hear Victor screaming. I can hear the others laugh. After a while I sneak a look. Samson’s in the stadium. Dwarfs are running around him, tripping him, pinching him, confusing him. He’s bleeding. Samson asks God for revenge. God comes through. Samson puts his arms between two pillars and pushes. The stones start to rumble. Rocks fall fast. First, the dust and pebbles, then the big stones tumble down. There’s no time to move. I put my hands over my head—it’s too late.

  I feel a thud.

  Everything goes dark.

  Feet—on the ground. Hands—holding the chair. Bladder—full up and aching. Eyes—straight ahead.

  Samson got the little bastards. I survived. So did the collection.

  The room’s cold. The TV’s running. That’s lucky.

  I slide the chair close to the screen. I lie my head on top of the set. It’s warm. I hug it close. The tube shines white light on my belly. People run across my skin. The shadows itch. I feel warmer.

  Hugh Downs talks like he owns the news. I press the control switch. I make Downs silent.

  Soldiers on search and destroy. They must have guns, but I can’t hear them. Bodies are moving, so they can’t be dying. The jungle’s full of traps, but not a twig breaks. No one screams. Marines are foxy.

  Press.

  The splashdown. My chest’s flashing like a neon sign. It’s the astronauts’ way of saying, “Thanks, Benny.” They’re too tired to talk. Frogmen haul them into rafts. Nobody pushes.

  Press.

  The President talks to the nation from the Waldorf.

  Press.

  I feel honored and safe. The President’s not shining on anybody else’s body. His words are passing in through my pores. A whole letter. Maybe an electronic tattoo.

  The Cubs are challenging the Mets for the pennant. Leo Durocher and Gil Hodges are talking together. Hodges keeps quiet, Leo’s mouthing off. He says the Cubs are rested and they’ve got strategy. He says the Mets in first place is a joke. He says the Cubs are going to overrun New York and demolish them.

  That’s enough lip, Leo. I make him silent.

  Press.

  Hugh Downs says it’s going to be a pleasant, cool Friday. He says it’s a day to do all those things you’ve been putting off. He says to keep your fingers crossed for the Mets’ crucial doubleheader with the Cubs. What does he know? I don’t need him. When the news stops, I’ve got my autographs. They stick to your bones. They don’t talk back. I’m sick of Mr. Downs anyway. I click him off. He starts to shrink. First to half the screen. Then a third. Finally he’s only a white spot swallowed by blackness. “Good-bye, Hugh!”

  I slide the armchair to the autograph table. They’re all safe and sound. I lay the boxes on my lap. I run my fingers along the dividers. It feels good. I drop in on some of my collection at random.

  JOE AMALFITANO, utility infielder. 1954-67.

  REMARKS: “What the hell do you want me for?”

  “ ’Cause you’re the best pinch-runner in the business, Joe.” I should’ve told him that when we first met. I was younger and shy. After Dusty Rhodes would single to tie the game, Joe would run bases. He knew how to steal. He knew how to get the jump, even when the opponents were looking out for him. He slid under every mitt. He had a gift. He was always safe. He looked sharp, too, standing with both feet on the bag, dusting himself off after a slide. His liners were straight. The peak of his cap was pointed, the tongues of his spikes were turned down. He was professional.

  GEORGE JESSEL, MICKEY ROONEY, OLEG CASSINI, JENNIFER JONES, BURT BACHARACH, RAQUEL, JOHNNIE RAY

  Everyone I ask has the same story. As kids, they knew what they wanted to be. No Delilah could stand in their way. They didn’t come out smelling like a rose. But once they’d grabbed the brass ring, nobody remembered anything but the sweet smell of their success. All those years practicing alone in their rooms, then the big break. When they came in the open everybody knew them. There was no more silence.

  Everything will be new and white. Everything will smell fresh.

  Nobody’ll see me.

  Everybody’ll see me.

  First, white socks with rubber bands snapped around the ankles. Tops turned down, the socks fit smooth as cellophane. My feet feel special—light, streamlined, quick. Then the trousers. The pleats are stiff and straight. Bones. They hold up my legs. Ben Casey wears white pants, so does Bogie in Casablanca. It looks professional. These pants are brand new. The white jacket’s as flat and hard as a shield. It’s got a starched shape all its own. It fits over me snug as a turtle’s shell.

  I pin my union button underneath the Flying H. I’m leaving my Mets cap at home. I open the drawer and take out the white hat. This one’s not stained. I place it on my head at a Jimmy Cagney angle. It’s no cunt cap, it’s a uniform.

  The day is full of people. They stare at me.

  I’m looking good.

  My card’s gone. I can’t punch in.

  There’s an envelope in my slot. No letter, just money.

  Leo said he’d punish the Mets, but messing with the fans is below the belt. The Mets need me. One word to Zambrozzi, and Durocher or anybody from his crowd will never set foot in this place again.

  I’m in my Homestead whites. I’m loyal.

  The kitchen’s empty. The vegetables are out. The meat—tattooed purple—is on the block. The tiles are wet from mopping. I’m not scared, I’ve had this dream before. The hissing isn’t snakes, it’s steam. Keep busy. Act natural. Stay alert. Leo likes to hit and run.

  The candles are still burning on Chef’s birthday cake. Over his desk is a streamer—FIGHT FIERCELY DESI. On his chair is Durocher’s picture, folded face up on the back page of the Daily News—Leo’s calling card.

  Leo has a great eye, but he didn’t find my autographs. I stuff the paper bag in the front of my pants. My white jacket hides the bulge. I go about my business. I take two dozen bricks from the freezer and put the wire ladder on top and push—butter patties. I arrange them neatly six to a dish. Leo’s a tough coach. He respects only one thing—results.

  If the crew’s in trouble, maybe I should help them. Leo’s probably herded them into the cellar for a pep talk, which means a brainwashing. He’s telling them “nice guys finish last.”

  The cellar’s dark and damp. The door cracks when I open it. There are voices at the bottom of the stairs. “Marrone!” “Oh, no!” “Christ!” Leo belonged to the Gashouse Gang, he knows how to play rough. I’ve got to flush him out.

  “What’s the story?” I yell.

  Everybody’s silent. I scared him. I’ve got my back to the wall so he can’t sneak behind me.

  “Get down here and shut the door.”

  The voice means business. I do what he says.

  Leo’s a shrewd manager. He’s making us look at films. He shows girlie movies. He wants us to beat off before the big game.

  A man on the screen holds up a piece of paper to the camera—

  FUCK FILMS PRESENTS

  A Doctor’s Dilemma

  I don’t get it. Three girls are wiggling in bed. A knock at the door. Three doctors arrive with black bags. The camera slowly moves up their bodies from their boots, to their belts, to their faces. “Victor! Anthony! Garcia!”

  “I can’t stand it,” says a voice. />
  “I’m fainting,” says another.

  “Blackmail!” I yell.

  “Shut up!”

  The three men are impostors. I can prove it. Victor, Anthony, and Garcia work at The Homestead. They’re family men. They’ve seen The Big Sleep. They’d never get suckered into a frame-up like this.

  The staff’s laughing. They’re losing respect for the chain of command. No waiter’s going to give an order to a pervert sauce chef. No chef will listen to a sexed-up maître d’.

  The three impostors take off their clothes and get into bed. The sheets move up and down. The girls aren’t satisfied with the cure. One girl reaches for the phone. She makes a call (probably the police). Next, a woman enters dressed in black leather. Except for her lipstick, the cape, the hat, the mask, and the whip are exactly like Zorro. She marches to the bed. The impostors are tangled up with the patients. They don’t know what to do. She cracks the whip over them in bed. They bump faster and faster. The girls seem to be screaming. Their mouths are open, their tongues are out. The man playing Garcia pushes himself up with one hand and waves his cowboy hat to the camera. She whips harder. And faster. Her mask slips to her neck.

  It’s Gloria. “Turn it off!”

  “More. More.”

  I can’t trust anybody with this information. I’ve got to beat Leo at his own game. You’ve got to respect him. He knows how to undermine morale. The man’s dangerous. But, if you get caught by him, you’re getting it from the best.

  I ask myself—why would he stoop to this? There’s only one answer. After years of managing the Brooklyn Dodgers, Leo wants to move back to New York. He plans to beat the Mets, then take them over. He needs a hangout. He’ll put Laraine Day behind the cashier’s desk. He’ll serve Michelob and hamburgs. He’ll put pictures of the Old Gang around the room. He’ll throw sawdust on the floor so his boys can practice their hook slides off season. This won’t do. It’s terrible. I’ll fight to keep The Homestead great.

  The door squeaks open. McDougal’s voice. “Hurry fuckin’ up, you guys! The customers are comin’ in.”

  “Lights. Give me some lights.”

  “Shit.”

  “Lights, lights, lights.”

  “I’m looking, Chef.”

  I count to five. I sneak up the stairs and out the door. Downstairs they’re still shouting. I’ve got to work fast.

  McDougal sings loud, he’s not hard to tail. At ninety-three bottles of beer on the wall he turns into the pantry. By eighty-five bottles he’s down the hall and in the John. I catch up with him at seventy-nine. Smoke puffs out from the vents. He’s flipping the pages of a magazine. With all that noise, he can’t hear me. I turn the key in the John. I take it out. I hide in the broom closet and wait.

  The air smells of soap and dust. It makes my nose twitch. The mop’s slimy fingers fall on my face. I’ve got to stand still. Soon the bell’s banging. Zambrozzi’s voice is saying, “Fai presto!” Victor and Anthony are yelling. Everything seems normal.

  You can only fool some of the people some of the time.

  Buttons on. Check. Shoelaces tight. Check. Autographs in place. A-okay. Time to bail out.

  On the way to the dining room, I knock on the John.

  “Busy.”

  I knock again.

  “Go shit in a hat.”

  “The jig’s up, McDougal.”

  “You gotta earn the crapper.”

  “I’m wise to you.”

  “Back off, jack-off. All you guys in the cellar. I like a good time, too, ya know. Just ’cause I’m new here, don’t mean you can stick me with all the punk jobs. I ain’t missin’ the next show.”

  “Stay right where you are.”

  “You bet your sweet ass!”

  The dining room looks great. The tall green trees giving shade to the tables, the paintings of Western history on our stucco walls, the waiters’ cowboy hats moving among the customers who talk and take their time. It’s real atmosphere. It takes you back. It makes you dream.

  Station 4’s filling up. A man at table 25 waves at me. “Could we have some bread and butter?”

  He looks familiar. He has cuff links made of gold nuggets. He’s talking to a beautiful blond, whose earrings are also made of gold nuggets. They must be a team.

  I fill the glasses.

  “Bread and butter.”

  “That’s inside. I can’t go inside.”

  “Bread and butter. I don’t care who gets it.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Good.”

  “Aren’t you famous? Haven’t I seen you on TV?”

  “Should we go somewhere else, darling?”

  “The movies. That’s where I know your faces.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Stay right here. It’s station four—the longest history of service at The Homestead.”

  “I don’t believe this!”

  “Pictures are worth a thousand words.” I take out my wallet and put three snapshots on the table.

  “We’re hungry.”

  Only the very famous pretend not to be famous. I go to table 36 and borrow the bread. “Hey, that’s ours,” says a lady who belongs in Schrafft’s.

  “Station four needs rolls, ma’am. There’s a V.I.P. over there.”

  “Who?” she says.

  I hurry back to my table. The rolls are still warm. I wrap a napkin around them to hold in the heat. I put the basket on the table. “Fast, huh?”

  They open the napkin. They take rolls and break them. The smell of fresh dough is sweet and strong. The first whiff’s the best. They start nibbling.

  “Did you like the pictures?”

  “Butter.”

  “Of course, in the famous crowd you two move in, you probably don’t recognize Eddie Arcaro, the jockey. He’s not the special supplement type. A little man with a big heart. A big money winner, too.”

  “If I say I’m famous, will you leave us alone?”

  “I’ve been at this station eight years, three months. I know famous.”

  “The butter.”

  “That’s Levy. He was the best. Drove a Buick. Notice how jazzy our outfits were in the old days?”

  “This is incredible,” says the blond.

  “I swear it’s true. I wouldn’t lie to stars.”

  Business is really picking up. Waiters bang through the doors with Zambrozzi’s food on large steel trays. “Watch it! Watch it!” It’s great to be outside on the floor. People excited about their meals, peeking toward the kitchen, looking at all the important people who are looking back at them. I sidestep two waiters. I grab the butter on table 36. “Hey, pick on somebody else.”

  “If you don’t have bread, lady, you don’t need butter.”

  I’m back with the butter in no time.

  “What’s your name?” the man asks. He takes out his pen.

  “Call me twelve-sixty.”

  I’m looking good.

  There’s screaming at the reservation table. The customers are upset. They look up from their food. Screams are what you hear in the street, not in a restaurant with atmosphere. The waiters pretend nothing has happened. The screams continue. Short squeals. Outside, anybody’d guess this was a purse snatching and go about their business. I sneak close. This could be another of Leo the Lip’s tricks. He likes a lot of noise when he plays.

  “Puta!” Garcia shouts. A woman’s shoving by him. He blocks her way. Finally he grabs her and lifts her to the door.

  “He’s in here! I know he is!”

  “He no here. Get lost.”

  Garcia may be mean to me, but he’s loyal to The Homestead. It’s the real Garcia. He may need help. I step closer.

  “There he is!” The girl’s pointing over Garcia’s shoulder. She’s putting the finger on me. It’s Gloria up to Leo’s stunts.

  “I got it, Benny!”

  “Throw her out, Mr. Garcia. Good riddance to you, Miss Lady Lash LaRue.”

  “I brought you luck.”

  “D
on’t fall for the sweet talk, Mr. Garcia. Those are ‘Fuck Me’ shoes.”

  Garcia spins around. “Jesus Christ!” The news shocks him, too.

  “She’s trying to frame us. I’m onto her game. You’re no sex maniac.”

  Gloria puts her hands over her ears.

  “What’s the matter, you Cub kamikaze? Can’t take the truth?”

  Garcia stares at me. He doesn’t say a word.

  “She’ll show you her credits. She’ll try and snow you with her medical background. It’s the flimflam, Garcia.”

  “Walsh, you never worked here. Understand?”

  “It’s me. Willie. Remember? Below the waiters. Station four.”

  “I count ten. You disappear.”

  “You’ve got The Homestead hat. The maître d’ spurs. The greaseball accent. But you’re not Garcia. I’ve worked here.”

  “I count five. Then I chase you out of here. One, two …”

  “This clinches it, mister. Now I know you’re a wooden nickel. There’s no running in the dining room.”

  I’m running Joe’s pattern—down and out. It works like a charm. I’ve got my balance. I feel strong. I see an opening and bull ahead. People are screaming from the sidelines. Opponents crash and curse behind me. I’ve seen this before. This is how it’s supposed to happen. It feels as smooth as slow motion, but it’s not. Swivel-hip fake. Change pace. I’m in the clear. Run to daylight, big fella. I’m golden.

  The staff’s yelling. “Block him! Block him!” I shove a table in front of the kitchen door. The impostor blitzes the front wall. He crashes through.

  They try to stop me. My rip-away jacket fools them. I stay on my feet. My number’s still on my chest. They can tell who’s running the ball.

  I pick up two white footballs from the bowl. I heave them at Garcia. My bullet passes explode on his chest. I knew he was chicken. He’s bleeding yellow. “Get him! Get him!” My team’s too slow. They want to be nice. They don’t know how to win.

  “Sonofabitch!”

  He corners me by the freezer. I feel something heavy in my hand. “Stand back, Mr. Big. I’m turning you over to the proper authorities. The blackmail’s stopping right here.”