It was nothing like the life she had envisioned when she graduated Yale Drama School and made her way to New York City, ready to take this town by storm. She was going to make the big time, she declared, if it was the last thing she tried to do. And she tried and tried and tried. For a decade she’d been out here hustling and trying. Now she was in the final hour of her tries because it wasn’t happening for her anymore. She knew decisions had to be made. She knew she was going to have to face a harsh truth she often taught her students to always be willing to face: that this career she invested so much of her life into might actually be a fail for her. And she was going to have to face it sooner rather than later.
“How much time do we have?” They hurried into the overcrowded dressing room.
“Three minutes tops,” Betsy said. “First Call’s already come.”
“Damn,” Roz said as she slung off her satchel and she and Betsy hurriedly pulled out her leotards. “We won’t have time to rehearse our number.”
“No time at all,” Betsy said. “But we’ve got it down. We’ve rehearsed enough.”
“Rehearsed enough?” Roz was alarmed. “Bite your tongue. You can never rehearse enough.”
Betsy smiled. “Yes, Mother.”
“I’m serious.”
“Whatever you say Mother. Now hurry up.”
Roz smiled and shook her head as she struggled into those tight-ass tights. Betsy was only four years younger than Roz, but she acted as if she were decades younger. She was a beautiful blonde, with her hair framed the way Marilyn Monroe wore her hair: short with big curls.
But it had been a struggle for Betsy too. She turned to porn to help pay her bills and tried to recruit Roz, but Roz would never go there. She had many offers from slick photographers who insisted she had the perfect body for it, but she turned them down cold. Nobody was exploiting her body that way. These were do or die days for Roz too, but she was determined to get out of this, win or lose, with her self-respect intact.
The door to the dressing room opened swiftly, the Last Call was issued, and all of the girls, at least fifty strong, began hurrying like cattle toward the waiting area of the theater: they waited in the wings.
Roz and Betsy pulled up the rear, holding hands, saying a private prayer, but at least they were there. They had placed themselves in position to at least get a shot at it. Now they nervously, anxiously, prayerfully waited until they were called.
Inside the theater, in the aisle near the second row, Broadway Director Barry Acker was upset about unauthorized script changes by his playwright. He was doing all he could to contain his fury. “I don’t want clouds,” he said. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“They are enhancements, Barry.”
“No, they are not, Neal. They cheapen the production.” Then Barry frowned. “You aren’t the set director anyway. What’s with you and clouds? Why are you adding clouds?”
“It won’t cheapen anything,” Neal, the playwright, insisted. “And I added them because I’m convinced they will give more atmosphere to the showstopper. It doesn’t have enough punch. It doesn’t have enough ambience.”
“And clouds will take it over the top? Get real, Nealton! We’re going to keep this simple. The story, the songs, speak for themselves. No gimmicks.”
“Gimmicks? So you’re saying my suggestion is gimmicky?”
“Clouds? What do you think? Next thing I know you’ll want puppies and rainbows and stars on the side posts. Come on!”
Neal was about to fire back. He was a respectable playwright after all with just as much success under his belt as Barry had. But then he looked away from Barry when he saw a figure approaching. A very attractive figure. He smiled. “Well now. This is more like it. Look at the fine specimen that just walked into this establishment.”
Barry looked too. When he saw that it was Mick Sinatra coming their way, he smiled grandly. “Micky,” he yelled. “Come on down!”
Neal was surprised. He looked at Barry. “You know him?”
“Yeah, I know him. We go way back.”
“Introduce me.” Neal had excitement in his voice. “I’ll do anything you say if you introduce me.”
Barry looked at his playwright as if he had lost his mind. “Are you nuts?”
“I might be.” Neal was still looking at the approaching figure. Still licking his lips.
“That man only swings one way,” Barry made clear, “and it’s not in your direction.”
Neal was offended. “Well you don’t have to be nasty about it,” he said. But he knew Barry too. He not only had clout on Broadway, he could be vindictive. He left Barry’s side and moved over to the front row, where nearly a dozen men, all producers and crew members, sat reviewing various technical aspects of their upcoming production. They were also waiting for the auditions to begin.
Mick Sinatra, in a pale brown double-breasted suit, walked down the aisle that led to the front of the theater with the swag of a man who could have owned the joint. Barry shook his head. He’d kill to have a look that strong.
“My friend,” Mick said as he arrived, with a grand smile on his own face, and he and Barry gave each other a combination shake/one-arm hug.
“How the hell have you been?” Barry asked him. “I didn’t think you’d show up.”
“How could I not? Your office called to remind me three times.”
Barry laughed. “It’s just that you come to town, you handle your business, you leave town. But you never drop by to see your old friend. When I’m in Philly, I always come see you. Always. But when you’re in New York? Never. I have to track you down.”
He didn’t have to do shit, Mick thought, but he let it slide. Barry was actually a man he liked and respected.
“So how the hell have you been?” Barry asked again. He was genuinely concerned. Their relationship was one-sided, Barry would be the first to admit that. But it was a fact: he loved Mick like a son. “Are you doing good, or not so good?”
“I’m doing better than you,” Mick said with a smile. “This is a fucking hole in the wall. What happened?”
Barry laughed. “Just for auditions, don’t blow a gasket,” he said. “I’m Jewish, I know how to get things done. On opening night we’re going to be in the Shubert for your information. This is just for auditions. So I’m fine. But you, on the other hand.” Then Barry’s look turned serious. And his voice lowered. “I hear the Feds have been asking around. I hear they don’t think you’re as legit as you claim to be and they’re trying to put the squeeze on your people. Is there cause for concern, Michello?”
“No cause whatsoever,” Mick said confidently. “I’m used to the scrutiny. I’ll hold up. Don’t worry about it.”
“But I worry about you. We go back a long way, my friend. Agnes worries about you.”
Mick smiled. Barry and his wife were among his closest friends, but that didn’t mean they were close. That didn’t mean he discussed his business with him. “Tell Aggie I’m fine, alright?”
“I’ll tell her, but she will still worry. But I’ll tell her.” Then he placed his hand on Mick’s shoulder. “Now come, sit down. Let’s talk.”
They headed for the second row, in the center aisle of the theater. “How long will you be in town?” Barry asked as they sat down.
“Not long. A few days. Checking on a few things.”
“Your businesses?”
“My businesses.”
“The Feds are asking around.”
“That you already told me.”
Barry looked at him with genuine concern. He stared at him. “You look tired.”
Mick smiled weakly. He did feel under pressure. Only a good friend could recognize it.
“You don’t fool me, my good friend,” Barry added.
Mick didn’t discuss the matter, because even Barry could be an enemy in friend’s clothing, but he nodded his appreciation anyway.
“Come to dinner tomorrow night,” Barry suggested. “That’ll give you a mu
ch deserved break. Agnes will love to see you again, and I’ll love to break bread with you like the old days. And you know how my wife can be. She’ll set you up with a good girl. She knows this very nice girl.”
Mick shook his head. “Stop it.”
“But you need the love of a good woman, Micky, that’s your problem. You’re always alone. I see you with a girl today, then she’s gone tomorrow.”
“My choice.”
“But that does not make it a good choice. Think about it, Michello. The women you date are not keepers. They are, and excuse my French, whores.”
Mick laughed.
“They are!” Barry insisted. “High class whores, yes, but whores. But a good woman is more precious than all the gold you could ever acquire. Like Aggie. She’s a golden lady. All we do is laugh.”
“Laugh, hun?”
“I kid you not,” Barry said. “That’s all we do. You find a woman who keeps you laughing, and you’ve found a precious thing. More precious than life itself.”
“Yeah,” Mick asked, “but can she fuck?”
At first Barry laughed, assuming it was a joke. But Mick wasn’t joining in. He used women for sex, not for any emotional attachment, and they used him the same way. There were times when he slipped up, and got himself involved in a longer term situation, but not one of those slipups worked out. He was beyond cautious now.
Barry knew it too. And his smile left. “There’s more to life,” he said, “than bed action. Bed action women are a dime a dozen, my friend. And I should know. I have my share. What am I stone? I fuck around, same as any man. But a good woman, a wife, isn’t for bed action. She’s for representation. She represents you.”
“Oh yeah?” Mick was obviously uninterested.
“I’m serious here, Mick.” Then Barry frowned. “I don’t get you. Don’t you want that love that only a good, God fearing woman can give to you? Aren’t you tired of being alone? Every man wants to be loved.”
Mick wanted it too. Perhaps more desperately than most. But he’d resigned himself to a harsh truth: it wasn’t going to happen for him.
“You can have that perfect lady, Mick. It can happen.”
“But it won’t. Not for me.”
Barry looked at him. “Why the hell not?”
“To be loved you have to be lovable,” Mick said bluntly. “I am not lovable. I do not wish to be lovable. I am not a man put on this earth to be loved.”
“You’re a warrior, not a lover?”
Mick smiled. “That’s right.”
“That’s bullshit,” Barry said bluntly.
Very few men alive would speak to Mick Sinatra that way. Even Mick was, at first, taken aback. He sat there with that broodiness, that sense of inward rage that sometimes scared Barry. And he had a right to be scared. Mick was at that very moment contemplating if he should take Barry’s face and rearrange it. Who the fuck was he to talk to him that way? But it was Barry. He was older than Mick, wiser than Mick, his insult came from a good place. Mick let it slide. “Okay.”
“You can get yourself a bed action woman any day of the week,” Barry went on. “Right now, behind those very curtains on that stage, are nothing but bed action females who’ll give their right arms to be with you. You know them. That’s all you date. But a real lady that can make you laugh?”
“Priceless?”
“Priceless, Micky! Priceless!” Then Barry exhaled. “Come to dinner tomorrow night. We worry about you.”
Mick shook his head. “I can’t tomorrow night.”
“Then when? If not now, when?”
Mick thought about this. He knew he needed a break. He sometimes felt as if his body, his very soul, was breaking down. All he did was work and worry. “I’ll be back in town by the end of the month. We’ll get together then,” he said.
Barry smiled. “You promise?”
“Get the fuck out of here,” Mick said with a smile of his own. “I’ll show you promise,” he added. “My word is my promise.”
“I’ll tell Agnes,” Barry said.
“And tell her I will not stay if she even thinks about setting me up.”
Barry smiled. “Deal.”
Enough of that, Mick thought. “So what’s shaking? What kind of play is this supposed to be?”
“A musical. A rip off of West Side Story. It’s called South Side Story.”
Mick laughed.
“I know,” Barry said. “We had ideas in the old days. Now we have revivals and rip offs.”
“Have I walked into the casting call?”
“You have.”
“For?”
“The chorus line. An all-female chorus line. But they have got to be top notch. They’re the backbone of this play. I’ve got the leads already cast, thank God. The male and female.”
“Anybody I would know?”
“They aren’t slouches in the business, that’s for sure. But I doubt if you would know’em.”
The stage manager came over and sat beside Barry and Mick.
“How many?” Barry asked him.
“Fifty-two.”
“Circuit crew?”
“Most of them, yeah.”
“Damn,” Barry said. “I wanted some fresh faces.”
“What’s a circuit crew?” Mick asked.
“Known bit players around town,” Barry answered. “They show up for most auditions. Some get a part here and there. Just enough to keep them hungry for more. The proverbial struggling actress.”
“Ah.”
“What most people don’t know, however,” Barry said, “is that the bit players are the life blood of our profession. It’s a hardship for them, but they keep the theater district humming. They’ll never be stars, but when you need a pro, somebody who knows her way around a stage, they’re the ones to call.” Barry looked at his manager. “They’re ready?” he asked.
“They’re ready.”
Barry rubbed his hands together. “Then let’s get this show on the road.”
The stage manager smiled, then nodded at his assistant.
“Curtains!” the assistant yelled, and the curtain rose on a stage overcrowded with pretty, shapely ladies.
Mick leaned back. He had planned to poke his head in, give his regards to Barry, and keep it moving. He wasn’t in New York for the hell of it. He had things to do. But a stage bursting at the seams with pretty ladies in leotards? He decided to stick around.
It began the way Mick suspected most auditions began. Girls dancing and prancing in the full group, then in smaller groups, then in twosomes. But it was during this part of the audition, the twosomes, where one of the twosomes stood out to Mick.
It wasn’t that the two ladies were great dancers. Neither one of them were great. The blonde was reasonably good, she had some strut in her stuff, but the black girl was just okay. But she was the one that caught his attention. She knew the routine better than her partner, she was excellent technically, but her execution sucked. She moved as if she was trying to remember the next dance step, as if she was trying to get it technically right, but she didn’t seem to have that natural feel for what she was doing the way her partner did. And there was no rhythm to her movements, just movements, which couldn’t be good for a dancer.
So it wasn’t the dancing that got his attention. It was her. It was her big brown eyes that looked soft and hard, cheerful and sad, all at the same time. Mick crossed his legs and stared at her. Because her eyes told stories that contradicted each other. It was as if she was brave and then scared, and then brave all over again. She danced as if she was teetering on the brink of something that could be akin to magic, or total disaster. He couldn’t figure out which. But it was a sight to see. He’d heard about the desperation of these show business wannabes every time he was in New York or L.A., but he’d never seen it so starkly.
But it wasn’t that the dancer was desperate for attention, or even success as the world would define it. Mick didn’t see it as that kind of desperation. It was the kind he sa
w when he was a kid at the carnival. The animals would be caged and on display. But you could see the anguish in their eyes. They didn’t want to be there. They wanted to roam free, to finally be who they were meant to be, but they couldn’t figure out how to break the chains. Because they were desperate too. Like the dancer he couldn’t stop watching, they were desperate to live. They wanted to know what uncluttered, unburdened living was all about. Mick knew that kind of desperation. He felt it, he became it, every day that he woke up.
He leaned against Barry. “Who is that?” he asked him in a lowered voice.
Barry leaned against Mick. “Which one? The blonde?”
“The other one.”
“The black girl? That’s Rosalind. Roz Graham. Been on the circuit for years.”
“No success?”
“She had some moderate success some years back. I even hired her a time or two when I was directing off-Broadway. But like most success around here, hers didn’t translate long term either.”
“No big hits on her resume?”
“No,” Barry said. “But it doesn’t take a big hit. Getting parts, no matter how small, is usually enough of a taste to keep them itching for more.”
“Think she’s good enough for your play?”
Barry shook his head. “Not from what I’m seeing now. She’s not a strong enough dancer for what I’m going to need them to do. And she’s got some years on her now. She’s not the fresh face twenty-something kid she used to be. Which is another strike against her. My chorus girls need to be girls, not some dame pushing thirty-three.”
Mick leaned away from Barry. And continued to watch Roz. Because he knew that was part of the desperation too. The years were closing in. Time was running out. That one big break she thought was going to set her career on fire was growing dimmer with each passing day. Mick recognized something in her. He recognized her quiet scream.
Mick Sinatra: For Once In My Life Page 3
