The Autograph Hound (8 page)

I feel a body.

“Well, what have we here?”

“Ssssh, mister. I'm being chased.”

“Oh … a hush puppy.” The man puts his hand down my backside. “I suck cock,” he whispers.

Garcia's passing by. The machine's breathing loud. “Oooh. Oooh. That's good. Deeper.” He stops to listen. I freeze. The man's hand's on my shoulder now. “Pretend I'm your fairy godmother,” he says.

Garcia and the boys walk away.

“Look, my friend,” he says. He's unzipped his fly. He's pulling his corporal out to show me. “The magic wand.”

I push the curtains aside and run towards the staircase. My Mets cap falls off. I stop to pick it up. The man's waving me back into the dark. “Come back, darling. I'm good. I'm good.”

Garcia's cigar still stinks up the stairway. The sign reads—

SCREEN FEMMES

Direct Your Own Scene

$25 an Hour

Funny Fingers won't follow me upstairs. There's no talking on the set.

Small production companies are springing up everywhere. It's all you read in
Variety
. Not many of them are as well-equipped as Screen Femmes. The heart-shaped bed. The African jungle scene. The painted backdrop of the Vatican. There's even a prop box—full of helmets, guns, ropes, coats. It's the only way—begin on a shoestring and build it into an empire.

“It'll cost ya, buddy,” the receptionist says.

“Benny. Benny Walsh.”

“The price's on the sign.”

“I never pay for autographs. Stars don't take money from strangers.”

“Morrie, there's a guy out here who wants to know if we've got any famous actresses on the set.”

A Jew voice answers, the kind my mother dragged me away from on the beach. “O-sheeny-beach,” she'd say. “You wanna grow up like that? A belly so big you can't see your wee-wee?”

“Tell him the guided tour starts at nine, Faye. I'm going out for a
nosh
.”

“You know why Jews are smart, miss? They read a lot as kids because nobody'll play with them.”

“Listen, mister, we only have starlets at this hour of the day. The stars leave early, if you know what I mean.”

“I bet you didn't talk to Mr. Enrique Garcia that way.”

“You know that guy?”

“We work together at The Homestead.”

“He's a long hitter.”

“Puerto Ricans are better at baseball than acting.”

“Look, you heard the boss—I just work here.”

“I'll tell you one thing, Miss Receptionist. When Screen Femmes hits it big, there'll be changes. They'll put somebody else behind the desk. Somebody who doesn't chew, who knows language and the rudiments.”

“Okay,” she says, swinging the wooden door open so I can pass through. “Look but don't touch.”

“I know better. Camera equipment's very expensive.”

“You heard of Mitzi Gaynor? Joan Crawford?”

“Of course.”

“The girl in the corner's been on location with them.”

“Really?”

“The blond in the long dress. With the ruffles. I'll ask her over.”

“I won't take much of her time.”

“Laurette, dear. Somebody wants to talk with you.”

The actress doesn't answer.

“Don't bother, lady. Actresses are moody. They're concentrating on their career and their lines. Professional collectors don't push. They understand.”

“Come here, Laurette.”

Laurette gets up and walks slowly towards us. She's got carriage. “Hello, Benny,” she says.

“You know her?” the receptionist says.

“
The Late, Late Show?
”

She shakes her head no.

“Dick Cavett—that's it. You and Bill Russell talking politics.”

“Where's your memory?” Laurette says.

“I never forget a face. It's my business.”

Laurette puts her hand on her hair and pulls off her wig.

“Gloria! Don't you say thank you?”

“I was going to ask around Shubert Alley.”

“Oh, sure.”

“Laurette's my stage name. For Laurette Taylor—my father's favorite actress.”

“What's your last name?”

“Just Laurette. No last name.”

“Like Twiggy or Verushka or Kleenex. Easy to remember.”

“I owe you a present.”

“Forget it.”

Gloria shows me the camera and the zoom lens. She lets me look through it. The bed looks very small.

“Do you act every day?”

“When they ask for me.”

“What happens when the other actresses are performing?”

“I rehearse my special material. Sometimes I hold the camera.”

“You direct?”

“I hold the camera.”

“They must give you a rest. People get tired under the lights. Elizabeth Taylor in
Cleopatra
. She was exhausted.”

“I have lunch. I sit by the window. I read my magazines. I practice my song.”

“Sing it.”

“It's for tryouts.”

“Go ahead.”

“I hardly know you …”

Gloria shouldn't be shy. In this business, you need guts. “Do you have a script?”

“Sometimes they bring a script. Sometimes, we make it up as we go along.”

“You could use your special material.”

“That's for open calls. I'm on the list.”

“Don't you get nervous? I couldn't relax. I couldn't be myself.”

“After a while, you hardly notice the camera.”

Gloria takes my arm. She walks me around the set like it was Fifth Avenue. “Why don't you direct me, Benny?”

“I haven't gone to camera school. I don't have twenty-five dollars.”

Gloria pulls out a big feathery hat to match her dress from the prop box. She also takes a cane. “Let's pretend I'm about to take a long journey to meet my lover, Lord Churchill. He's a great man. He has acres of land, and a coat of arms. He loves me very much. But my father won't let me go. He wants me to take a job as a shop girl. He says to wait until I'm sure.”

“It sounds like a good story. But I'm scared, Gloria.”

“You know a lot about movies.”

“Not enough to make one.”

“I'll take pictures of you, then.”

“I don't have the money. Please?”

“There's no film in the camera. It's for free. I do it all the time when the boss goes out. I get experience this way.”

Gloria stands behind the camera. I get a chair and sit in front of the black eye. I put on my Mets cap. She's bending close to the camera. I can only see the top of her head.

“You look good,” she says.

“Don't I look small?”

“No. Very clear.”

It's my movie debut. I feel very … responsible. I don't want the camera to see me being boring. I want it to see me being just right.

“That's enough.”

“Don't be silly. Stay right there, Benny. Do something. Sing ‘Blue Suede Shoes.'”

She wants me to wiggle like Elvis. What can I do? My Lone Ranger galloping sounds? No. The camera would see my tongue—the spots, the cavities. I could show my scar? Not dramatic enough. She wants me to run and jump. I can't look like Joe Namath in slow motion.

“Is it on?”

“Do something.”

The camera makes me feel stupid. I can see Gloria aiming at me. “I'm turning it on!”

I hear the whirr. I hold my hands in my lap. Belly in. Chest out. Back straight. Chin up. It's what I want—very President Nixon. I hold my breath, I don't want to spoil the effect.

“A little more toward me.”

Some stars have their own special cameraman. They won't be photographed by anyone else. They know what's their best side, and what the public likes to see. I don't have a best side yet.

“Benny, smile at me. Pretend I'm Joan Crawford.”

I can't smile. I can't explain to Gloria while the camera's running. Just thinking Joan's on the set gives me the creeps. I should be looking at her. She should be sitting down. I won't smile. My teeth aren't so good, they've got spaces in them. I should've had braces. Mom said we needed the money to move to Rumson. At MGM they took care of these things for you. It was like a family—teeth, nose, hair, anything you needed—fixed for free.

I try to get Gloria's real eye. “Let's do the TV shows this afternoon.”

I'm good at talking between my teeth. I practice with the waiters right under Garcia's nose. He can't tell what I'm saying, either.

Finally, Gloria hears me and stops the camera. My feet are prickly. She looks at me smiling. “Am I forgiven?”

“It says here on my fortune—‘You have a very sympathetic nature.'”

“Give me a minute to change,” she says. “One day could we go to the Passport Office and look at the pictures of some of the famous people on their first trips to Europe?”

“Who have they got?”

“Sid Caesar, Faye Emerson, Louis Nye …”

“Sure.”

Gloria goes into a side room. It gives me time to dry off and get the feeling back in my feet.

On the way out, Faye stops Gloria. “Ten tomorrow, sweetie. Tell Louis B. Mayer there that Kim Novak might be with us in the afternoon.”

We hurry down the stairs, past the breathing, and into the fresh air.

“Do I really look like Louis B. Mayer?”

Gloria turns my head to the side. “Yes,” she says. “That's the first time I ever asked somebody how I looked. It's hard to see yourself as others see you.”

“Where are we going, Benny?”

“Let's start at the top—the Carson show. Joe Namath's on tonight.”

Walking to Radio City, Gloria holds her purse on the outside. I'd like to run my fingers through hers. But I don't. I'm no Speedy Gonzalez.

The usher hands us the free tickets, and points to the line stretching halfway down the corridor.

“I don't understand it,” Gloria says. “If it's free, it can't be good.”

“Let's face it, Gloria, movies are make-believe—TV is real.”

“Don't tease me.”

“They call us the
live
audience, don't they?”

“At the movies, you've got privacy,” says Gloria. “It's the big screen, the popcorn, and you.”

“TV's more personal. You feel like you're sitting in the living room with some pretty important people. You get to know them quicker. It's good for collecting.”

“On TV, the stars look so small.”

“I saw Shelley Winters accuse David Susskind of breaking up her marriage. She screamed and cursed, the same as on screen, only louder and with nothing cut.”

“I like it when you sit through twice. People kissing, having fun—nothing changes. It's the same forever. It gives you confidence.”

“I was in the first row when Nick Adams told his wife he was leaving her.”

“You heard that?”

“He was in New York on the show, and she was watching in California. There's a three-hour delay on the West Coast. So I actually was the first to know.”

“His autograph must be a gold mine.”

“You better believe it.”

The ushers want you to stay in line. Most people settle for their soft soap. The trick's to get your ticket and sneak upstairs to the Green Room for autographs before the show. That way you don't worry. You can take your seat and enjoy being live.

Gloria follows me through the door marked PRIVATE. “Don't be a daredevil, Benny.”

“When we get to the top of these stairs, you'll see a guard. Ask him the time. He'll turn around to look at the clock. I'll sneak past him and meet you back in the theater. Save me a seat.”

“We might get in trouble.”

“Show him your ‘Chase Me' shoes. Sing your song …”

“I wasn't raised to slink around.”

“Think of Crawford.”

“She wouldn't be caught dead going up the back way.”

“In
Grand Hotel
she worked her way up from a stenographer. She was a shop girl in
Our Blushing Brides
and with guts she landed Robert Montgomery.”

“Yes,” says Gloria. “But in
Mildred Pierce
she goes to jail.”

I open the door. Gloria walks ahead. She goes up to the guard just like I told her. With her hand behind her back, she signals me to get going. We're a regular Dale Evans-Roy Rogers combination.

The Green Room's empty, but Makeup's crowded. If you stand behind the door, like I do, people are too busy talking to the stars to notice. I can't see who's in the chairs because Manuel and Frieda are bending over them, painting them up. On the wall there's a white cardboard poster with the signatures of the people they've done. All the actors write their thanks to Manuel and Frieda. From here, I can see that Phyllis Diller called them “artists in their own right.”

When Manuel and Frieda step back to look at how they're doing, I can see the mirror. It's Johnny and Joe. They sit very quietly with their eyes shut. In my mind, Johnny's always making some funny remark, saying “Oh, really?” and raising his eyebrows the way he does. And Joe—he's too much. I remember him at the Super Bowl after he'd single-handedly massacred the Baltimore Colts. He had his fist up in the air as if to tell the crowd “I told you so.” He did, too. They should have listened. He's dressed very colorful. He's not wearing his white shoes, but he looks real good, anyway. The championship ring's on his finger. The ring's in the shape of a football—thirty-five diamonds and a ruby. I know what it says on the inside, the team leaked it to the
Post
—NEW YORK JETS—WORLD CHAMPIONS—1969. Richard Burton couldn't buy it for Liz. It has to be earned.

Johnny looks the same as ever—thin and handsome. He's the richest man on TV, and the most famous. Johnny's whispering, saving himself for the show. A man in a blue suit with a stopwatch around his neck bends over to listen. I think he's the producer. Other men stand behind the producer, but no one else moves close to hear Johnny. You can tell when Johnny means something, even if you can't hear him. His hands move up and down very quick. Just seeing him makes you want to laugh. I have to bite my lip to keep quiet.