Broadway Baby (15 page)

“Oh,” the rabbi said. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. I thought you objected to all wars, not just this one.”

“Well, sir, I do but . . .”

“Mr. Gold,” he interrupted, “there are no buts. You either are or are not a pacifist. You can’t be a pacifist only when it’s convenient, or when it’s safe. Pacifism requires discipline and courage and I would even venture to say a certain recklessness. But you, Mr. Gold, let’s be honest now, you—you aren’t a pacifist; being afraid to fight doesn’t make you a pacifist.”

“But Rabbi,” Sam said, voice trembling, “can’t I object to fighting in a war if I don’t think it’s just?”

“If you don’t think it’s just,” the rabbi sneered. “You, in all your infinite wisdom, with all your ‘religious training.’ ” He laughed but with no amusement.

“Let me ask you one more thing,” the rabbi said. “Has your father read this statement of yours?”

“No,” Sam said, “not yet.”

“Were you planning to share it with him?”

“At some point.”

“What do you think he’ll say about how you’ve portrayed him.”

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “I don’t think he’d want me to die in Vietnam.”

“Mr. Gold, do you remember the fifth commandment?”

“Not offhand.”

“Why does this not surprise me.” He sighed. “It’s ‘Honor thy father and mother.’ Do you know what that means?”

Miriam held Curly’s arm to keep him from bursting in on them. But when Sam had no answer to the rabbi’s question, Curly had had enough and pulled free. Holding a copy of the statement, he walked out into the office.

Sam turned white when he saw him.

“Is this how you see me? Is this what you think of me?”

“Dad, no, I can explain . . .”

“What?” Curly interrupted. “
Th
at you see me as a bully? A hothead?”

“No,” Sam mumbled, head down, “that’s not what I mean.”

“Is that how you remember what happened?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What does that mean?”

“I mean I do, sort of,” Sam said. “I mean, in some ways.”

Curly held the essay in one hand, while he slapped it with the other. “You say I charged that guy. You say I hit him for no reason. You don’t say that he ran us off the road, that he was drunk, that he was twice my size. You don’t say anything except that I swung first.”

“But you did swing first.”

“ ’Cause he was running at me, for God’s sake!”

“I’m sorry, Dad, I just . . .”

“Bad enough you write this crap about me,” he said, leaning over the boy, who seemed to shrink into himself. “But then to show it to the rabbi, of all people, and who knows who else.”

Sam couldn’t look up at his father. He was trembling. Miriam believed he’d learned his lesson and wanted the argument to end. But Curly wasn’t finished.

“
Th
ese are lies, Sam. Dirty lies. Do you understand that? Do you have any idea how this hurts me? How embarrassed I am? What did you think you were doing?”

“I don’t want to be drafted,” he whimpered. “I don’t want to go to Vietnam.”

“You’ll go if you’re called,” he said. “Like I did. You’ll be a man and go.”

“
Th
at’s not my idea of being a man.”

“And what do you think a man is, huh?” he asked. “Someone who tells lies about his father? Who humiliates his father publicly to save his own skin? Is that what you’re learning in your creative writing classes?”

Curly stood there looking down at Sam. Miriam could see Curly’s outrage giving way to sorrow. “I just can’t tell you what this does to me, the pain I feel. How could you do such a thing?” He let go of the pages of the essay and they fluttered down around the boy.

Curly walked out. Without turning her head as she followed close behind him, Miriam said, “Be home by dinner.”

Sam landed a high number in the lottery; he didn’t have to worry about the draft. Like a violent weather front, the sorry business came and went. And none of them ever mentioned it again.

Scene XVIII

Ethan had no business getting married. He was too young, he had to get himself established, make a name for himself, get a few credits under his belt—why tie himself down like that? And to Esther, of all people; Esther, a nice girl, and Jewish, too, but no one cut out for the hustle and bustle of New York, much less for the stage. Esther was all suburbs and bake sales, mah-jongg and bridge clubs, and once she got her claws into that boy he could kiss show business good-bye, Miriam just knew. He’d end up an accountant like Esther’s brother, who Sam referred to as “an accountant, yes, but without the personality!” Imagine Joel Grey an accountant, Sammy Davis Jr. an accountant. Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly. What kind of life would that be for Ethan? Was that why she dragged him to Stuart’s studio twice a week, year after year, so he could do somebody’s taxes? “Let the boy settle down,” Curly said. “New York’s a tough place; besides, that show business world is full of faygelas, and a wife would keep him out of trouble.” Trouble, she thought, Ethan didn’t know from trouble. Let him get married, and he’d have all the trouble he could handle.

She said, “
Th
is won’t end well.”

And Curly asked, “Does anything?”

S
HE DIDN’T UNDERSTAND
Ethan’s bitterness and anger. He was struggling, yes, but someday when he was famous he’d look back fondly on these years—he’d laugh about how poor he had been, and about the bit roles and walk-ons he had endured; all of the heartache and disappointment would seem like necessary and invaluable steps on the path leading to his great success. Maybe he was, for now, what he called a “Well-a” actor—the kind of actor who, when he comes onstage, a guy runs up to him and yells, “Hey, where did the cops go?” and he says, “Well, a . . .” and the guy says, “Never mind.” End of scene. So what? His time would come.

So what if he made a living off-Broadway, way off-Broadway? Most summers, he did summer stock all over the East Coast, and now and then he landed a commercial. And now he’d just gotten the lead in a new industrial for the jet company Cessna. Miriam needed to remind him that the more he worked, the more people would see him, and the likelier it was that he’d be discovered. She had to take on the task of bucking him up, since Esther wouldn’t do it (you didn’t need to be a swami to see that coming); Esther was already on his case to grow up and get a real job.

And that was why, even though he begged her not to come, it wasn’t worth it, it’s grunt work, Ma, believe me, she showed up in Albany, New York, on “opening night” of the industrial, with celebratory roses. Surrounded by an audience of Cessna salesmen, many of whom were drunk and rowdy, whooping and hollering all through the show, she, too, applauded as Ethan came onstage covered in rags.
Th
e MC said to the audience of Cessna dealers, “Is this what the market’s gonna look like in ’73?” And the dealers roared, “No!!!” And the MC roared back, “You’re damn right!” He stripped the rags off Ethan, revealing a dapper white tuxedo. Someone threw him a top hat and cane.
In the middle of the stage was a
trampoline, onto which Ethan leaped and sang, “
Th
e market will be jumpin’ in ’73.”

Miriam handed him the roses after the show, in the dressing room, in front of the entire cast.

“Ma, what are you doing here?” he said. “I told you not to come.”

“I wouldn’t have missed this for the world,” she said. “You were wonderful, Ethan. Your voice has never sounded better.”

“Good-bye, Cessna,” someone in the cast said. “Hello, Ed Sullivan!”

Th
e actors all around them laughed. Ethan laughed, too, but not so heartily.

“Ma,” he said, “I got to get changed. Okay?”

”Okay, darling. But you mark my words. Someone’s going to hear about this performance. Your break will come. You wait.”

As the door closed behind her, she heard the sound of flowers being stuffed into the trash, and someone (was it Ethan?) saying, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

Scene XIX

Sam “explained” it to her like this: his poetry professor said his writing had not improved much over his freshman year and what he wanted was for Sam to take a break from writing and just read and not bring him any new poems for at least six months.
Th
e professor said for someone wanting to be a poet, Sam was woefully ignorant about the art he wanted to practice. How did he expect to become a poet if he didn’t know the history of poetry? So what did Sam propose to do, the schmo, but drop out of school to read! Like they had no books in college! Like college was the last place you’d go to get an education!

So, like a bum, a hobo, he planned to hitchhike to Ohio where he’d move in with his sister and read. What was it Bubbie used to say? “When they’re little, they don’t let you sleep; when they’re big, they don’t let you live.”

J
ULIE WAS IN
graduate school at Ohio State, on a full scholarship, and had a good job in the library. She was still single, as far as Miriam knew, though she could imagine who she might be dating. Now that Sam was living with his sister, it was like they’d formed a separate family. So she had two children she never heard from, though Sam did cash the checks she sent him.

Th
en a few months later, in the dead of winter, he showed up at the house—hair down to his shoulders, in a long coat that looked at least a hundred years out of fashion. He said he’d moved in with some college friends. He’d be returning to college in the fall. In the meantime, he’d work.

He got a job driving a cab (Miriam thought it must have been the caps still nailed to his bedroom wall that gave him that idea).
Th
en he became a night watchman. He became so enamored of the uniform that he wore it all the time; even after he returned to school, he never took it off. His friends nicknamed him the Watchman. When he’d enter a room, they’d say, “the Watchman cometh.” When he’d call, he’d say, “the Watchman speaketh.” Was he taking LSD? Miriam wanted to know. He said, “Allen Ginsberg says you should drop acid only if you are at peace in your soul. Clearly acid’s not the drug for me.”

Scene XX

Her mother died in her sleep in the nursing home on the eve of Sam’s graduation from college. Although Tula had once been a very well-off woman, it took every last penny in her estate to cover the funeral expenses.

Th
e last time Sam had visited her, she had said, “So, you want to be a writer? You should hang around here; I’m tellin’ you, this is a regular Peyton Place.” After graduation Sam moved to Ireland, spending the whole year writing about the family he couldn’t wait to get away from.

A
T THE END
of that year, Miriam and Curly received a telegram from Sam: “Will be home by September; with Irish bride.”

Irish bride?

Miriam called him, transatlantic. Sam wasn’t really married. He was just helping the friend of a friend who had no other way of getting to America. She’d already been issued one fiancée visa and couldn’t get another; so, it was either marriage or no luck. “Once I get her into the States, I’ll probably never see her again, so it’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Miriam said. “What happens if she changes her mind and wants you to support her? What happens when you want to get married?”

“Ah, Jaisus, Mum,” he said with an Irish brogue that just infuriated her, “she’s a good egg, she wouldn’t do a thing like that. And as far as me getting married, you know, you and Da”—Da?—“you two blazed a trail too hot for me to follow.”

“And what do you plan to do when you return?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I got into a writing program out west.”

“A PhD program?”

“Not exactly.”

“
Th
en what is it? Do you get any degree?”

“No. It’s not what they call ‘degree conferring.’ I just live there and write. It’s a writing fellowship.”

“I should have figured. How long does it last?”

“
Th
e whole time.”

“
Th
en what, smart aleck? What’ll you have to fall back on?”

“My charm, my good looks, my self-esteem. I’ll figure something out. Anyway, you guys don’t need to worry about it. After all, I’m a married man.”

“Wise guy.”

“From your lips to God’s ear.”

Scene XXI

Miriam thought it was a great idea for Ethan and Esther to move to Los Angeles so Ethan could maybe break into television or film. But as the years passed, LA turned out to be more of the same—auditions, callbacks, double callbacks, promises, bit parts, near misses, the odd commercial, but not much else. Esther was seriously on him now to get out of the business and find what she called a real job. Just as Miriam predicted, she’d been after him for years to grow up and become “a responsible member of society.” He had two young girls to feed. He had their future to think of. Lately, when Miriam had called, he’d been depressed and hot-tempered. She couldn’t so much as ask about show business without him blowing up at her. Miriam kept repeating, be patient, you’ll get yours. I know it.

Th
en a break came. He landed a big part in the LA production of the musical
Merrily We Roll Along.
He got written up in the
LA Times
as one of LA’s up-and-coming stars. He was invited onto the TV show
Fantasy.

Fantasy
wasn’t Miriam’s cup of tea. She didn’t like the “Queen for a Day” segment of it, in which some hard-luck case—some man or woman who’d lost a job, or become disabled, or experienced a death in the family—told their story and then, to great applause, entered the “fantasy booth,” a Plexiglas booth full of fake dollar bills into which air was blown. Each guest got one minute to stuff as much phony money as possible into a small plastic bag; whoever stuffed the most money into the bag was that week’s winner. Miriam didn’t like the way the audience roared while the guest lurched and grabbed at the whirling money.
Th
e whole exercise—from the poor me, sad-sack tale to the unseemly money grab—struck her as undignified. Besides, the gifts each winner won (a cruise, a set of golf clubs, a trip to Vegas) weren’t going to change anyone’s life or bring a loved one back. Unlike her favorite show—
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,
where you were guided through a world superior to the world you knew (yes, you envied them, but how else except through envy did you better yourself?)—the point of
Fantasy
was to humiliate the contestants by parading their sorrows on the screen so that the audience could feel luckier than them, more deserving.

But the other segment of the show, the
Th
is Is Your Life
throwback, she adored. An emerging star would be invited on to sing a song or tell a joke, and after the performance he or she would be surprised by the appearance of someone from their past. To Miriam, this was TV at its best—new talent, out of nowhere, got discovered, and family or friends got reconnected.
Th
ese were wholesome fantasies, fantasies that made everybody happy. And best of all, her son would be able to showcase his talent to a national audience.

S
AM NOW LIVED
in Chicago teaching creative writing at a small college. He was beginning to publish widely in reputable magazines; he had a chapbook due out next year.

One day his phone rang.

“Is this Sam Gold, the poet?”

“Umm, yes, I believe it is.”

“Brother of Ethan Gold?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Hi, Mr. Gold, this is Shirley Horowitz, producer of the television show
Fantasy.
Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“No,” he lied.

“Well,” she said, “anyway, I’m the producer, and your brother Ethan is going to be our guest.”

“
Th
at’s great,” he said.

“Yes, he’s going to sing a number from the musical he’s in right now.”

“Wonderful,” he said.

“Yes, it should be. But after he sings, we want to surprise him by fulfilling a fantasy of his.”

“Oh, he’ll love that.”

“We think so. Your brother says he hasn’t seen you in a while. Is that right, Mr. Gold?”

“Yeah, it’s been a good couple of years.”

“Well, how would you like to come on the show and surprise him? You know, be his fantasy?”

“Excuse me?” he said. “What did you say?”

“I said, Mr. Gold, that we want you to be your brother’s fantasy. We want you to come on the show and surprise him.”

Sam loved his brother and would do almost anything for him. But this, this was too much. He pictured a studio audience, his mother and her entire family in the front row, beaming, as the host intones, “And now Ethan, here’s your fantasy, here he is, fresh from Chicago, your baby brother, Sam, the poet!”
Th
e audience goes wild, they whoop and clap as the host continues, “And maybe, just maybe, folks, if we really let him know how we feel, he’ll share a poem with us, what do you say?”

“Sorry,” Sam said, “but no can do.”

“Come again,” Shirley Horowitz said.

“I can’t do it,” he said.

“What do you mean you can’t do it?” she asked.

“I mean I don’t want to do it.”

“But you’re his brother,” she said. “He’ll be so disappointed!”

“Did it ever occur to you,” he said, “that maybe there’s a reason we haven’t seen each other in a couple of years?”

“Mr. Gold,” she said, patiently, as if to a child, a slow child with a severe learning disability, “your brother’s on the edge of stardom here.
Th
is could be his big break. Don’t you want to be part of it?”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“My big break, my shot at stardom, my fantasy.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“I always wanted to do stand-up,” he said. “You know, like Shecky Greene.”

“Shecky who?”

“Or Totie Fields. She lost a leg recently, though, didn’t she? So the stand-up part won’t work for her.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You can’t do stand-up if you haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

“Mr. Gold,” she said, “please.”

“Okay, how’s this? I was so fat I crushed my inner child.”

“Mr. Gold,” she repeated.

“My wife asked, can I help you off with that? And I was naked.”

“Ha, ha,” she said. “Very funny.”

“I told her I need something looser to wear. She said, ‘How about Montana?’ ”

“Mr. Gold,” she said, “I don’t have time for this.”

“Oh, I’ve got a million of them.”

“Listen,” she said, “You’re Jewish. I’m Jewish. Let’s talk Jew to Jew. Let’s have a little J talk.”

“A little what?” he asked.

“J talk, Jew talk: J to J,” she said. “You mean to tell me that you won’t let us fly you out here, all expenses paid, put you up in a five-star hotel, wine you and dine you, and all you have to do is come on stage and hug your brother in front of millions of people?”

“What I mean to tell you is I’d rather have my face epoxied to a urinal.”

“Come on, Mr. Gold, get real.”

“Real? You want real? I’ll give you real, since we’re talking ‘J to J.’ Surely, Shirley (ha ha), you must realize that this is a
real
chintzy fantasy you’re giving my brother. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were J-ing him a little bit. I should be offended. My people should be offended. Moshe Dayan should be offended. I mean, ‘J to J,’ why not send him to the Bahamas or buy him a yacht, if we’re talking fantasy? Me, he can see anytime.”

“Okay, Mr. Gold,” she said. “Okay, but he’ll be disappointed.”

“He’ll survive.
Th
at’s what we do, we Jews, we survive. We’re good at that.”

H
E CALLED HIS
mother with the news that he had declined the invitation to appear on
Fantasy.
She was frustrated, disappointed, but not surprised. Her son, the foreign movie without subtitles.