From Time to Time (30 page)

Sneak by him? No. I didn't know where to go or what I was doing: I'd be caught, and thrown out. I / looked at this sleeping man, then got out my wallet, moving quietly, slipped out a twenty-dollar bill, and folded it twice. Holding it in my closed fist, I worked up my best timidly eager, I'm-harmless smile, and tapped the man on the knee.

He didn't move, just opened his eves slightly, used to being caught asleep and pretending he wasn't. He looked up at me steadily, and I said, "Excuse me, hut I wonder if I could possibly see Who? I spoke the only name I knew here: "The Dove Lady. He was going to shake his head, ask who I was, and all that, but, not looking at my hand, as though it were acting independently, I passed him my folded-up bill. He glanced at it, then up at me, eyes going hard, and I understood. I'd made a mistake; he'd seen the yellow back and the big 20, and it was too much, ten times too much possibly, and it made him wary. But still . . . he glanced down at what lay in his palm, hesitated, then got to his feet. "Wait here.

The little wooden-floored area he left me in was maybe ten by ten. To my right I saw the dark stage and the edges of the many backdrops, mysterious ropes rising up into blackness. From down the corridor my doorman friend had walked into, I heard a woman casually singing. Heard a man's easy, skilled, good-natured laugh. Heard a man swear, not meaning it. The wall at my left was bare brick, a bulletin board fastened to it, and I walked over to see what the thumbtacked notices said.

One was a typed list of acts, with call times for afternoon and evening performances. A notice printed on cardboard-I had time to copy it-read, Don't say "slob or "son-of-a-bitch or "golly gee on this stage unless you want to be canceled peremptorily. Do not address anyone in the audience in any manner. If you have not the ability to entertain Mr. Keith's audiences without risk of offending them, do the best you can. Lack of talent will be less open to censure than would be an insult to a patron. If you are in doubt as to the character of your act consult the local manager before you go on the stage, for if you are guilty of uttering anything sacrilegious or even suggestive you will be immediately closed and will never again be allowed in a theater where Mr. Keith is an authority. Wow.

Along the top of the bulletin board's wood frame someone had lettered pretty neatly in crayon, Don't send your laundry out until after the first performance. On the white-painted wooden surface of the board itself were more inscriptions, hand-printed in ink or pencil. Don't blame the orchestra, they are too busy at the foundry to rehearse . . . Gee, what a small stage . . . Where's the mail? .

We know the theater's rotten, but how's your show? . . . The dressing rooms are swept out every summer. . . Tacked up in a corner, a printed calling card: Zeno Brothers, acrobats, can be addressed care of Billboard. A rubber-stamped inscription, Luke Mason of "The Josh Wilkins Company is America's Greatest Comedian. In pencil on a little rectangle of paper carefully torn from an envelope: Flo De Vere, of "The Belle of Boston Company sending regards to the Wrangler Sisters of "The Merry Marauders Company. A typed list of Boarding Houses: some twenty-odd addresses, mostly in the west Thirties and Forties. And added in pencil, half a dozen more. Penciled comments beside some of them: Good

Good food but not enuf. . . A bum place-for acrobats only. I heard my man walking toward me, and when I looked up he poked a thumb over one shoulder, saying, "Go on back, and walked past me toward his chair; I felt like asking for my twenty back.

Down the same corridor, a right turn into another, wider corridor of dressing rooms, running parallel to the stage-I think; this was a little disorienting.

Corridors and dressing rooms were alive with people-tonight's performers, I supposed. I walked along, glancing into the dressing rooms, edging past and around the people in the corridor, fascinated. Mostly they ignored me, but nodded if our eyes met. Was it okay to glance into their dressing rooms? I didn't know how else to find the Dove Lady. Then-sitting at her dressing table, her back to the corridor but watching for me in her mirror-here she was, dressed for the street. Against a wall stood three large cube- shaped birdcages covered with a cloth. I stopped at her door, she said, "Come on in, and I thanked her for seeing me. "And what can I do for you?

"There's a vaudeville act supposed to be in New York this month sometime. I have to see it, but I don't know where they'll be. Or when. Or how to find out.

She waited a moment to see if there was any more; then: "You know what the act's called, I trust.

"Tessie and Ted.

She thought about it, shook her head. "Don't know them. What's their act?

"Well, she sings, I think. And he plays the piano, and dances.

"And how come you picked me?

"Well, I had to choose from the cyclists, Joe Cook, Kraus and Raus, and the rest. Your photo looked the kindest.

"Oh, it does! And I am! She smiled now. "Well, shouldn't be hard to find out. She picked up a copy of Variety from her table, opened it, turned pages, then folded it back to a page packed with small type, and handed it to me. "Take a look; you can see for yourself if they're on.

Bills Next Week in Vaudeville Theaters Playing 3 or Less Shows Daily. All houses open for the week with Monday niatinees when not otherwise listed. Below this the page was dense with small type, and compact with symbols. Theaters listed as Orpheum without any further distinguishing descriptions are on the Orpheum Circuit. Theaters listed with S-C following name and in brackets, usually Empress, are on the Sullivan-Considine Circuit . . . (P) Pantage Circuit . . . (Loew) Marcus Loew Circuit . . . An entire world I knew nothing about.

New York was the first heading, naturally. And the first theater listed was this one, the Fifth Avenue. Beginning this last Monday:

The Doyle Family. . . Kraus and Raus. . . Smith, Smith, Smith and the Smithies. . . Vernon and Vera. . . The Back Fence Banshees . . . Madam Zelda . . . The Dove Lady . . . Joe Cook .

Merlin the Great.

At the American (Loew), another long list of acts . . . another at the Colonial (U.B.O.) . . . and on and on, dozens and dozens of vaudeville acts on this week in New York, Brooklyn, the Bronx. But no Tessie and Ted. Following New York, the listing became alphabetical, acts opening this last Monday in Atlanta, Georgia

Atlantic City (Young's Pier), and in Oakland, Plattsburg, Portland, Pueblo.

The listing continued onto the next page . . . and onto still a third: hundreds and hundreds-thousands, for all I could tell-of vaudeville acts playing this week all over the United States, more than anyone could read.

"Find them?

"Not in New York. I offered her paper back.

"Keep it if you want, I've read it.

"I never imagined there were so many vaudeville acts. And I'd like to see every one of them.

"Oh no you wouldn't. Those are the big-time listings, the two-a- day or three-a-day. There are even more small-time acts-six, seven shows a day. Which is murder, believe you me. And there's medium small-time -she was leaning toward her mirror, turning her face, lifting her jaw, inspecting- that's four, five shows a day. And big small-time, little big-time, medium big-time, big big- time. She laughed, glancing at me in her mirror. "I'm kidding, but there's something like two thousand vaudeville houses in the U.S. of A. and that means all kinds of vaudeville, and a lot you don't ever want to see. New York gets the best, naturally. If you like vaudeville, you're in the right place. You sure your act got to New York?

I nodded.

"Well. A final glance at her mirror; then she turned off its lights and stood up, leaning forward to brush off the front of her dress. "I'm going home now. Meaning my New York boarding house. If you want to come along, somebody there may know about Tessie and Ted.

"I'd like to, I said. She lifted a corner of the cloth covering the cages, I heard a kind of rustling, and she said, "Good night, chickees, and we left. Outside, she walked straight across the sidewalk to a waiting hansom cab. "Evenin', Miz Boothe.

"Good evening, Charley. It's home sweet home tonight. And she climbed in while I trotted around to the other side. The driver clucked his horse awake, flicked the reins, and we pulled out into Twenty-eighth Street, heading west. "I don't like the automobiles, the Dove Lady said. "They stink.

"Yes. But so do the horses.

"They stink nice, though.

"Yeah. I thought so too. "I like the hansoms. Nice and slow so you can really see things.

"And they give you time to think. What's your name?

"Simon Morley. Si.

"Okay, Si. And I'm Maude. Maude Boothe.

We clattered over the bricklike stone paving blocks under the Sixth Avenue El and its overhead station, then over to Seventh Avenue, and as we turned into it, I think my face must have shown something, because there up ahead stood Penn Station in all its majesty. I sat forward to take it in, great tall windows shining on the night. "Lovely, isn't it, Maude Boothe said, and I nodded yes, oh yes. "I came in there last time, she said, "and it's beautiful inside. It makes you feel good, proud to live in New York. I nodded again: we were passing it now, my head turning to watch its white newness slide by.

Somewhere in the Thirties we turned west into a long block of four-story brownstones all more or less identical. We stopped in front of one, beside a streetlamp, and I sat forward making motions of paying. She waved me away, and I got out under the light, waiting to help her down. Two men in button sweaters and caps sat on the stoop watching us: one elderly or old, the other maybe forty. The cab clopping awax, Maude Boothe turned to them. "Either of you ever hear of an act, Tessie and Ted?

They thought, then shook their heads. "Knew Tessie Burns once, the old man said. "Burns and Burns, the House-Afire Act. No Tessie and Ted. What's their act?

"Song and dance. This is Si; he wants to get in touch with them. Si, that's John, the talkative one. And this is Ben. He's an acrobat, they can't talk. They grinned, reaching out to shake my hand. "I'm going up to change, Maude said. "Stick around if you want. There'll be others out here: somebody must know Tessie and Ted. I'm beginning to feel I do. She went up the stairs, and John, the old one, said, "Take a load off your feet, Si, and I sat down halfway up the steps.

"That Variety?-he nodded at my coat pocket. "Mind if I borrow it?

I gave it to him, and to Ben he said, "You seen this yet? Ben shook his head. "Well, you know LaMont, LaMont's Cockatoos?

"Yeah, I played with LaMont. In Des Moines. Bird act. Noisy, squawking damn things. Not like Maude's.

"Well, he's got a squawk himself here in Variety. John took a pair of old-style specs with narrow oval lenses from his shirt pocket, flicked out the thin wire sidepieces, and put them on with one hand. A young good-looking woman in slippers and a long patterned kimono with wide Japanese sleeves came out of the house, sat down on an upper balustrade, pulling out a square of knitting from her kimono pocket, and began to knit. John said, "Dolores, this here's Si, and she smiled beautifullx~ at me, and I nodded back, trying to equal her smile. John raised paper and chin high, turning his back to the streetlamp to bring its light fully on the page. " New York, New York,' he read aloud. " In last week's Variety George M. Young wrote a review of Keith's bill, Philadelphia, wherein he made mention of an act playing the Victoria there that was either a copy of LaMont's Cockatoos, or there was difficulty in understanding how the routine of both bird acts could be so much alike. I think Mr. Young has made a big mistake in comparing any other act with LaMont's Cockatoos. LaMont's Cockatoos do back somersaults, giant swings, and so forth, which other bird acts are not on record as exhibiting. LaMont's birds, fifty in number, are all trained, where the other act has but three birds, and features one trick like LaMont's; i.e., the bell trick. But LaMont does not make the bell trick constitute the entire act as the other act does. In fact, the act spoken of is nothing like La- Mont's. It is like all other acts that are in the same line. They try the bluff of putting it over, but fail to accomplish the results of LaMont's Cockatoos. Signed, LaMonti "As he folded the paper to hand it back to me, I smiled and nodded to show I appreciated the humor of the letter he'd read. But none of the others smiled; they glanced at me quickly, then looked away, and I felt my face go hot. Dolores reached down to touch my shoulder reassuringly. "Don't blame you, Si. LaMont's letter does sound funny. All that fuss. But his act is all he's got, you see. It's everything, it's his livelihood, it's him, he's nothing without it. None of us are. And he has to protect that. Bookers read the goddamn reviews, you can bet on that, bookers. So LaMont can't let his fifty-b ird act get confused with anything less. She smiled at me. "Verstehen?

I nodded, and so did the old man, who said, "You got to fight for your act. Hell, thex~'ll even steal it from the thief who stole it from you. Listen to this one. He took the paper from my lap, opened it to the same page of letters, and read aloud. " Chicago. January 8. Editor Variety. Re: the letter accusing James Neary of stealing Mike Scott's act, that of wearing dress coat, green tights, with medals on. I wish to state that I and Tom Ward produced it originally at the Odeon Theatre, Baltimore, Maryland, February 13, ~876. I can refer you to Steve Finn and Jack Sheean. Signed, W. J. Malcolm.' "John grinned at me, letting me know he agreed this was kind of funny. "Knew a gux once, he said, "claimed he thought up the line Beautiful but dumb.' " Got mad every time he heard anyone else use it. He lifted Variety to his glasses again, and read, " London, December 19. Editor Variety. I desire to call your attention to an injustice which artists often have to suffer in the use by other artists of an expression or form of advertisement. For instance, with my daughter, Alice Pierce, who presents a series of "impressions of stars, I find that the word "impression is now being used for the first time by several artists. Signed, M. Pierce.'

I nodded, not smiling now, at this little glimpse of an old man fighting for his daughter. "Steal your act, Dolores said as a young man in shirtsleeves, no attached collar, appeared in the doorway behind her. "Worst thing they can do.