“At least let us drop you,” I said. “I need a cab myself.”
“Very well,” she said.
I wanted to go into the hotel with her but she assured me it wasn’t necessary. “Goodbye, Miss Tabisco, Professor.”
“So long honey,” Miss Tabisco said.
DICK: I hadn’t heard any of this.
JACK PATTERSON: It took longer than I thought to get my car, and Miss Tabisco had an exam that afternoon and had to leave. Incidentally, they do charge for storage. Well, anyway, it was almost five o’clock before I got the car business straightened out, and after the kind of day I’d had I was really tired. The idea of going home and eating and having to come back downtown for the program … Well, suddenly I thought of Laverne Luftig registered in her room in her hotel and I was envious. I mean, it had all gone so smoothly for her and so badly for me. I was the one who’d been inconvenienced; it was as if I was the stranger in town.
I can’t explain this part very well, but the fact that I knew someone who was registered in a hotel downtown made me very nervous, very edgy. Do you understand?
PEPPER STEEP: Sure I understand. This is disgusting.
JACK PATTERSON: No, you don’t. I’m talking about hotels. You sign the register, but you’re anonymous. This isn’t very clear, but nothing is ever yours so much as the room you rent. God, the assumptions a hotel makes about you! All the towels they give you. I mean, you’d have to take eight baths a day to use them up. The clean sheets and the Gideon Bible and the whisky mode. The Western Union blanks! As if all one had to do all day was fire off telegrams to people. Oh, the civilization! Everyone there—do you realize this?—everyone there will be dining out that night! And the bed like a lesson in function—
BERNIE PERK: (softly) Jack—
JACK PATTERSON: No, Bernie, it isn’t what you think. I registered in the hotel. I asked the desk clerk where Laverne Luftig was, and I took a room on the floor beneath hers. Later I called her up. “Hello, honey,” I said. “It’s Uncle Jack, sweetheart. How are you?”
“You got me out of the shower,” she said. “I thought you were Ben Meadows.”
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Ben Meadows?
MEL SON: He’s a d.j. here in Hartford. The kid was probably after him to play her record.
JACK PATTERSON: “I just called to find out if you’re all settled, Laverne. I’m sorry about the car.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Did you have much trouble?”
“No.”
“How’s Miss Tabisco?”
“She had an exam. She had to leave.” I had just come from the shower myself and was lying in my shorts on top of the bedspread. The air blowing through the air conditioning had a lemony scent. Laverne’s voice on the telephone was lower than Annette’s. “We never did get a chance to speak about the show tonight,” I told her. “I thought we ought to do that.”
“Where are you now?”
“Well, I’m still downtown.”
“Can you come to my room for a drink? Are you near the hotel?”
“Close by.”
MEL SON: Hard on.
JACK PATTERSON: “Use their underground garage,” she said.
“I will, Laverne.”
“Give me thirty minutes,” she said, and hung up.
I hate waiting. I have the impatience of a better man. The hour before an appointment is a torment for me. I have no skill for slowing down the shave or drawing out the combing of my hair. At the Modern Language Association conventions the same. I go down to the lobby for newspapers I don’t have the patience to read, or into bars and finish my drink as soon as it’s brought. I never learned to nurse a drink or brood over the salted peanuts. I gulp my food and burn my cigarettes as in a high wind. I get no value from these ceremonies.
After I dressed I still had twenty minutes. I sat for two and went up early. Laverne came to the door in towels.
“There’s scotch on the desk,” she said, and disappeared back into the bathroom. “Pour yourself a drink. I’m sorry, but there isn’t any ice.”
When she came out, in exactly the thirty minutes she had asked for, she was wearing a sort of shift, very stylish. Her hands were in her hair, fixing it, and there were hairpins in her mouth. “Meadows called just after you did,” she said. “He said he didn’t have the record, so I sent one over by messenger in a cab. What time is it?”
“Just past seven.”
“He’ll play it in the segment after the 7:30 news. We’ll listen to it here.”
DICK: This story, Jack, is it—?
JACK PATTERSON: Oh, yes. Don’t worry. It’s okay.
I told Laverne pretty much what she might expect on the show that night, and we ordered dinner from room service. She just wanted to go down to the coffee shop and grab a bite; it was for me. I wanted to eat off the cart with the big wheels and the white-on-white linen thick as blanket and spoon my fruit from the glass dish in the packed ice. I wanted napkin under my chin and the high luxury of sitting in socks and drinking scotch out of a water tumbler.
Laverne put the radio on, turned down low so we could talk while waiting for Meadows to play her song.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: What did you talk about, Jackiebunch?
JACK PATTERSON: Well, nothing. Doctor. We just talked.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Just talked.
JACK PATTERSON: Well, I guess I told her about my job, Professor Behr-Bleibtreau.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: You were boasting?
JACK PATTERSON: Well, no, I wouldn’t say I was boasting.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Was it the way you talk to Annette, to Miss Tabisco?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, I guess. In a way. Yes.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: You were boasting to a ten-year-old girl?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, sir.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Bragging about Harvard?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, sir.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Go on.
JACK PATTERSON: Suddenly she hushed me. “Shh,” she said, “the news is finished. He’ll play it after this commercial.” She was very excited, on the edge of her chair, leaning forward, one hand above the table and making rapid motions as if bouncing a ball—you know, the way policemen hold back one line of traffic while signaling the other line to go through—and talking softly to the radio. “Come on, Meadows. Say something nice. Put it on the charts here in Hartford. Get in how I’m only ten years old.”
But Meadows only gave the title and her name.
“The fool’s never heard it,” she said. “He’s listening to it for the first time.”
Her voice was good, stronger even than her speaking voice.
“You sing very beautifully, Laverne.”
“Be quiet. I want to hear this passage. The trumpet cuts into the words. I knew I should have made him use the mute.”
We listened to see if Meadows would make any comment after the song was finished, but all he did was give the title again.
Laverne turned off the radio. “The d.j.’s aren’t playing it in the East,” she said. “I think we’re in trouble.”
“It’s a fine tune, Laverne. Did you do the words and the music?”
“What? Oh. Yeah.”
“Which do you write first, dear, the lyric or the melody?”
“The lyric, the melody. It doesn’t make any difference.”
“You certainly are an ambitious little girl. I don’t think I ever met anyone like you.”
“What’s wrong with ambition?”
“Nothing, dear.”
“Do they give concerts at your school, Professor? Do they ever bring in singers from the outside?”
“Well, they do, Laverne, but I’m afraid I have no influence with the Concert Committee.”
“What did you think of the song?”
“I enjoyed it very much.”
“Do you think it will be a hit?”
“A scholar doesn’t really have much knowledge about these things. Is that very important, Laverne?”
“Well, they don’t gi
ve out gold records for duds, kiddo.”
“Is that what you want out of life, Laverne? A gold record?”
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: You talked about life with a ten-year-old? Life?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, sir.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Go on.
JACK PATTERSON: “Of course I want a gold record,” Laverne said. “That’s one of the things I want. Most of the others will have to wait. They don’t write leading roles for ten-year-old girls. What can a person like myself expect on Broadway? One of the brats in Sound of Music? ‘Do a deer, a female deer, re a drop of golden sun.’”
“Why are you in such a hurry, Laverne?”
“‘Cause I’m dying of cancer, kiddo. I’ve got twenty-seven minutes to live.”
“Laverne!”
“Pour yourself another scotch, Professor.”
“Well, thank you very much, Laverne. I think I will. I just wish there were some ice.”
“Take it out of my root beer.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you, Laverne, but if I do your root beer will be warm.”
“Yeah, well, there’s a broken heart for every light on Broadway.”
“I think I’m getting a little tipsy, Laverne dear.”
“The schmuck didn’t even tell them I’m ten years old.”
“Do you have any brothers and sisters?”
“He didn’t even announce the label I’m with.”
“What grade are you in?”
“The Hartford market is one of the biggest in New England. I think I’m a dead duck. What are you giggling about?”
“This is the way I talk to the baby-sitter.”
“You’re married, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s Miss Tabisco, your chauffeur?”
“Miss Tabisco is one of my pupils. She’s one of the scholars here at HCC.”
Laverne shrugged. “Listen, I’ve got to make some phone calls,” she said. “Just hand me that little address book, would you, the one on the desk.” I gave her her book. It was opened to her page on Hartford. In it she had written down the names and phone numbers of about two dozen people here—the editors of the high-school and junior-high-school newspapers, chairmen of dance committees, even the entertainment editors on the Courant and the Intelligencer. I lay back on her bed and listened to her on the phone. “Hi,” she’d say, “this is Laverne Luftig, the ten-year-old singer. I sent you a letter about two weeks ago, and I’m calling to remind you about my press conference tomorrow morning. Don’t forget now, I’m looking forward to meeting you personally and presenting you with an autographed copy of my new recording.” Then when she finished with the list, she called the manager of the hotel to double-check the arrangements for the hospitality suite for the press conference. She was wonderful.
“What do your parents think about your career?” I asked her. Then it suddenly occurred to me that her song might be autobiographical. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “are your parents living, Laverne?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but my manager died. Listen, it was sweet of you to pick me up and fill me in about tonight, but don’t you think you ought to be getting back? I mean, won’t Miss Tabisco and your wife be wondering what’s happened to you?”
“Shall I tell you a little secret, Laverne?”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve checked into the hotel. My room is just below yours.”
It was time for station identification and a commercial. During the break Bernie Perk told Jack Patterson that he thought he’d better not go on with his story, but Jack didn’t seem even to hear him. He had stopped obediently for the commercial break and now seemed as remote as when he had slumped in his chair earlier. Then, two seconds before being given their cue, Behr-Bleibtreau said again that someone in the studio was carrying a gun.
DICK: What was that? What did you just say?
JACK PATTERSON: “Look, Professor—” Laverne said.
“Don’t send me away, Laverne. I just want to look at you. Make some more calls. I like to watch your face when you’re on the phone.”
DICK: Professor Behr-Bleibtreau, what was that you said?
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: A ten-year-old girl? A ten-year-old girl’s face? Is that what you’re telling us?
JACK PATTERSON: Yes, sir.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: Go on.
JACK PATTERSON: “Yeah, well, it’s time for my nap.”
“Don’t give me that, Laverne.”
“I’m ten years old, for God’s sake.”
“Juliet was thirteen.”
“I may be hip but I’m just a kid.”
“Dante fell in love with Beatrice when she was only eleven.”
“Just because I’m in show business, don’t think I’m loose.”
“Lord Byron loved Haidée when she was barely twelve.”
“I’m ten.”
“You’re ten and a half.” “You’re mussing my hair.”
“Helen of Troy was nine. So was Héloïse when Abelard fell for her. Psyche was six, Laverne. And what about Little Red Riding Hood? When you come right down to it, how old could Eve have been—a day, two days?”
“My dress, you’re mussing me. My dress is all the way up.”
PEPPER STEEP: This is incredible. You—you—
JACK PATTERSON: All I did was kiss her, I tell you. It was her face. This wasn’t adultery. I swear, Annette. I swear, Miss Tabisco. It was her face. I mean, she wasn’t even well developed. Where was the sex? She had no bust, no hips. I never even looked at her legs. All I did was kiss her. The bones and intelligence and beauty. My tongue like a red ribbon in her mouth.
PEPPER STEEP: Disgusting!
MEL SON: Where were your hands?
JACK PATTERSON: In her hair, in her ears. Vaulting her teeth. In her syrups and salivas.
BERNIE PERK: Oh, Jack.
PEPPER STEEP: What did she say after all this?
JACK PATTERSON: That I couldn’t come to her press conference.
PEPPER STEEP: Now I’ve heard everything.
MEL SON: I think so.
BERNIE PERK: Jack, you shouldn’t have told that story on yourself. Why did you tell such a story?
DICK: I would have stopped him, but he said it would be all right.
PEPPER STEEP: The man’s a slime.
BERNIE PERK: What’s the matter with you, Pepper? It was a joke. Ladies and gentlemen, I knew Professor Patterson since he first moved into the Hartford area, and believe me he is not the type of person he describes in this story.
PEPPER STEEP: I wish he’d told Professor Behr-Bleibtreau about the memory expert.
BERNIE PERK: Is he all right? Why’s he smiling like that?
MEL SON: What’s she doing?
BERNIE PERK: That’s right, Annette. There, that should make him feel better. His color’s coming back. Good. I think he’ll be okay.
DICK: You can sit there beside him, Annette.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: The memory expert?
PEPPER STEEP: Maybe Jack wasn’t on that panel. Were you, Jack? Was he, Dick?
DICK: I don’t know, I don’t recall … Jack—do you want Annette to take you home?
BERNIE PERK: Mrs. Patterson, it was all a joke. Your husband is a very good man. I have been with him when he has fought the anti-fluoridation people to a standstill with the force of his powerful logic. I don’t know why he would tell such a joke on himself. There is absolutely nothing to worry about. He’s resting quietly.
PEPPER STEEP: Were you on the panel with the memory expert, Mel?
MEL SON: I don’t—ha ha—I don’t remember.
BEHR-BLEIBTREAU: It’s loaded.
PEPPER STEEP: He was on the show because of me. I mean, Dick was just doing him a favor. He needed the exposure at the time.
You have to understand something about my school, Professor. We’re not a modeling agency—that is, not exactly. In your large cities where a real advertising industry exists—New York, of course, Chicago, L.A., a few others—ther
e are schools which specialize in training girls to be models. A lot of these places are just phony, you understand, but some of them are quite good. I myself am a graduate of one of the better agency schools in San Francisco and had a pretty good career as a model in New York during the war.
Anyway, when age, ahem, withered and custom staled my infinite variety, when I entered my thirties, that is—I’m thirty- eight now—
The Dick Gibson Show Page 19
