The Fame Game (22 page)

She always sat in the last seat of the last row, trying to be invisible. This was impossible, as there were only two other black faces in the room, and both were men. What a creepy place! What was she supposed to learn there, anyway? She listened to everything Simon Budapest managed to stammer out, but she couldn’t understand half of it. Evidently you were supposed to really feel things and not “intellectualize.” She’d been feeling things all her life. It was the way she sang. She understood that part of it, anyway.

Some of the kids took notes. All of them dressed as if they were off to a hippie protest parade as soon as class was over. They looked poor and dirty. Evidently that was the way you looked serious when you went to school. The only one who ever dressed well was one girl who was some kind of movie star, and she always arrived draped in furs, with a ton of make-up. She always did scenes where she had to take her clothes off, or where she started out in just bra and pants. Once she spent the whole twenty minutes—the time that was allotted to each scene—shaving her legs. Simon Budapest made her repeat the scene, and she shaved her legs for twenty minutes again. Silky waited for the blood.

The worst thing that ever happened was the day one of the girls flipped out. She was a mousy-looking girl who liked to do scenes where she had to do nineteen minutes of pantomime before she got to her one line. When she spoke you could hardly hear her. She looked about eighteen, but someone whispered to someone next to Silky that she was forty. Anyway, she did this scene, and when it was over Simon Budapest picked up her arm and it just stayed there, stiff, like she was a movable doll. He sat down and asked her what she had been trying to do in the scene. The girl just looked at him.

Everybody waited. He asked her again. Nothing. The girl opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. She finally put her arm down. There was an audible sigh of relief in the room.

“Well, darling?” Budapest said. “Come on, darling. What were you working for?”

Silence. The boy who had done the scene with her sat on the floor, looking annoyed because the girl was getting all the attention.

“Speak, darling,” Budapest said.

Usually just calling a girl “darling” was enough to set her off into hysterical tears, but he’d called this zombie “darling” three times and she just looked at him. People started shifting in their seats. Ten minutes went by. The people who always rushed out into the hall for a cigarette after a scene were mesmerized there, waiting to see what would happen next. Silky looked at her watch. Ten more minutes went by. Simon Budapest had uncovered a mental case.

The time for the class was up. It was time to go home. No one left. Simon Budapest started looking nervous, and his stutter became worse than ever. He was like some party hypnotist who had put somebody into a trance and now couldn’t get her out. He had to keep the class there until he got that zombie to say something, or even move, and it looked like they were going to be there all night—either that or someone would have to call Bellevue. Some of the kids were looking bugged because they had shows to get to. But it was too interesting to leave, and besides, Simon Budapest looked so nervous that it seemed disloyal to go until the class was dismissed. They’d been sitting there half an hour now. Wow!

Then Silky began to look more carefully at the girl and she realized what had happened. She’d seen people like that before, and it was so obvious she wondered why no one else noticed. The zombie was all doped up. She’d obviously been so nervous before the scene that whatever she was on she’d taken too much of it. One thing Silky was prepared to stay for was a nut case, but junkies bored her. She’d seen them all her life on the stoops and street corners of her neighborhood. Evidently these protected, carefully grubby would-be livers-of-life had never seen a head before.

Silky raised her hand. She’d never spoken in class before, and when Simon Budapest noticed her hand up his mouth fell open.

“Yes?” he said, looking rather annoyed. He was probably thinking her royal highness had picked a fine time to decide to join the group.

“Ask her what she took in the ladies’ room before the scene,” Silky said. She was surprised at how ringing and sure her own voice sounded in this room where she had never before had the temerity to even whisper.

“Darling,” Simon Budapest said to the zombie, “did you take anything?”

The girl’s throat worked feebly. She opened her mouth.

“Did you take anything? A pill?”

“An … an aspirin,” the girl whispered.

“An aspirin? That’s all?”

“A … sleeping pill.”

What a lie! Some of the class laughed. Simon Budapest gave an angry gesture for quiet. But he looked relieved. He wasn’t the amateur hypnotist any more, he hadn’t driven her crazy by his personal appeal. He was acquitted. “Somebody take her home,” he said.

Two boys jumped up and said they’d be glad to. They led the zombie away. Everyone rushed for the door, free. They couldn’t wait to get away so they could gossip about the whole thing. Silky rose wearily and followed them.

“Darling!” Simon Budapest was standing behind her.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. What’s your name?”

“Silky Morgan.”

“Why do you always sit in the back row?”

“I’m not really an actress,” she said.

“Everyone here is an actress. Why haven’t you ever worked in class?”

“I’m scared to,” she said.

“Scared? Scared? You’re supposed to be scared. That’s good. A conceited actor is no actor. From now on I want you to sit in the front row.”

Silky gulped.

“And I want you to get a partner and do a scene. Make an appointment with the girl at the door for the time.” He turned away without even saying good-bye and walked away.

Silky walked to the elevator. People were looking at her with envy because the great Simon Budapest had singled her out. She felt embarrassed. A tall white boy with long black hair and a tattoo on his forearm came up to her.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Silky Morgan.”

“I’m Don. Do you want to do a scene?”

“Okay.”

“I have an appointment for next week. I always keep appointments so I can work a lot. You have to make them so far in advance. I have a couple of scenes we can do. Do you want to come have some coffee with me now and talk about it?”

“Okay,” she said.

“I have all your records,” he said. “You’re great.”

“Thank you.”

“I have just the scene for you,” Don said. “It’s from
The One Hundred Dollar Misunderstanding
. Have you read it?”

“No.”

“We’ll stop at the bookstore and you can buy it,” he said.

They went to the nearest bookstore and he found the book for her. Then they went to a greasy spoon where they had coffee, exchanged phone numbers, made an appointment for the following day to rehearse, and he borrowed a dollar from her, telling her he owed her eighty cents—deducting fifteen for her coffee and five cents for her share of the tip. She was relieved that he seemed to have no interest whatsoever in dating her.

That night she read the book and was appalled. The girl was a teen-aged black hooker. What kind of a part was that? Was that what he thought of her? And the words! She’d just gotten over saying all those words; she was darned if she was going to get started again saying them in public. If Mr. Libra knew he would kill her. Don had already marked several parts he thought would make good scenes for class. She didn’t like any of them. But what the heck, a scene was a scene. She had to start somewhere. She’d just cut out all the dirty words.

The next afternoon Don appeared at her hotel room with his own copy of the book. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and tight, faded corduroy pants, and he had an old Army jacket slung over one shoulder. She really hated his tattoo.

“Okay,” Silky said, resigned. “Let’s read. Is that what we do first?”

“No,” he said. “First we get to know each other a little.”

“Oh? All right. What do you want to know?”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No. Are you?”

“Nope,” he said. “Is that Bourbon?”

“Yes.”

“Can I have some?”

“Oh, sure,” Silky said, bored with him and wishing he’d get on with the rehearsal. Maybe he was just nervous. She poured them both drinks. He sat on the bed.

“Hey, sit down,” he said. “Why are you so nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.”

“Then sit down, for Chrissakes.”

Silky sat in the chair.

“Why don’t we play some music to relax?” he said.

She turned on the radio. It was Hatcher Wilson’s song again—every time you turned on the radio, there it was. She was glad that Hatcher was making it.

“Do you want to dance?” he said.

“No.”

He drained his glass of Bourbon. “Hey, drink up.”

She took a few sips and looked at her watch. “I don’t have much time,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. Then he jumped up, pulled her to him, and kissed her very hard on the mouth. She tried to pull away but he was very strong. She turned her head from side to side but he clamped his mouth on hers again so she bit him, at the same time stamping hard on his instep. He was wearing sneakers and it hurt. He yelped and let her go. “What’s the matter with you?” he said, furious.

“What’s the matter with
you?
I thought we were going to rehearse.”

“We are. But we have to know each other first. How do you expect to do a scene with me where we have a relationship if we don’t relax together first?”

“What is this, a rehearsal or a date?” Silky asked, mad now.

“What’s the difference? Don’t you like men?”

“I like
men
, not little boys. If you don’t want to work, get out, please.” She opened the door.

“Oh, come on.”

“Come on
what?
”

“Did you ever have a good orgasm?” he asked.

“Did you ever have a good punch in the mouth?”

“Oh, wow,” he said, laughing. “Wow.”

“Get out of here!”

“Oh, come on. I’m not going to force myself on you. If you don’t want to be friends, we can just work. I thought you’d be warm.”

Her eyes filled with tears. She wished she had a knife so she could kill him. She imagined stabbing him in the heart, seeing his arrogant, ugly-handsome face contort in surprise just before he fell down dead. He thought all black women were whores and nymphomaniacs, that was obvious. Oh, she would love to kill him.

“All the other actresses I work with like to ball,” he said, all hurt innocence. “That’s half the fun of rehearsing.”

She wiped her eyes. Maybe she was wrong, maybe he just thought all actresses were whores and nymphomaniacs. “I’m not an actress,” she said.

“I really wanted to get to know you,” he said. “Boy, you really know how to bring a guy down.”

Silky picked up the book. “Shall we start to read now?” she said.

He shrugged and picked up his copy of the book. “You have the first line,” he said. “We start here.”

So this was acting class. Crazy junkies flipping out, creepy studs with no bread using “rehearsals” as an excuse for sex, kids playing hippie, talking about things they knew nothing about, a poor old man with a stutter trying to make every girl in the room fall in love with him so he could make it up to himself for never becoming the star he’d always wanted to be. Some of the kids were working in shows, so they couldn’t all be fakes and failures. But what about all the others? What was all that crying, all that open discussing of their life problems, that self-indulgence? Were they all so lonely that this was the only place they could come to feel loved? Mr. Libra thought a nuthouse like that acting class was going to teach her how to stand up on a Broadway stage and carry a show, but when had he ever been to the Simon Budapest School of Theater Work? The school of confusion and monkey business was more like it. She had never felt more insecure and depressed in her life. She wished she could talk to Dick, ask his advice, ask him what was really going on in that class, could she ever understand it, could she ever learn to act? She needed Dick so badly, and he was gone. But she’d have him in the fall if she got the show. That, at least, would save her life. Meanwhile she would just work and try as hard as she could to do what was expected of her, if she could ever figure out what that was.

She and Don did the scene in class and Simon Budapest told her she was not bad. He asked her what she had used for the emotions and she said she was remembering things from her old neighborhood. But the truth was more that she was using her contempt for Don, the way he made her feel, because that fit in very well with the mood of the scene and it seemed natural. But she couldn’t say that about Don in front of the class, even though he was a jerk.

After class Simon Budapest took her aside. “If you have contempt for that boy, you should use it in the scene,” he said.

“I do, and I did,” Silky said.

“I thought so. Use it more. Let it all come out. I want you to do the scene again.” And then he was gone, no good-bye.

So that was what it was all about! Real feelings, just like life! Wasn’t it? It was coming a little clearer now. She felt better. Simon Budapest seemed to understand her, even like her a little. He could have said all that in front of Don and the class, but he had spared her feelings and Don’s. He wasn’t such a crazy old man after all. Don ran after her in the hall.

“What did he say? What did he say?”

“He said we should do the scene again.”

“Well, he could have said that in class. You’re lucky he spoke to you. He must think you’re good.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Yeah. He doesn’t say you’re good at first, but if he talks to you alone it’s a sign he’s really interested in your work.” Don looked at her with new respect.

My work
, she thought. Singing was her work. But now acting was her work, too. She remembered the first night she’d gone out with Dick, when he’d told her she should take acting lessons. Oh, Dick was always so right about everything! She missed him so much it was like a constant ache in her heart. People
could
have an ache in their hearts, because she had one. It wasn’t just stuff they wrote about in songs. She was just going to have to work as hard as she could and learn as much as she could so that when she and Dick finally met again he would be proud of her. She wanted him to be proud of her. It meant more than even being a hit in a show. The show seemed such a dream she couldn’t believe it was going to happen. But Mr. Libra said she was going to have to read for the part in a few weeks, so she’d have to get used to the idea that it was not a dream. Still, maybe it was better not to realize it was real, because if she ever realized fully that it was going to happen she would be so frightened that she wouldn’t be able to read for the part at all, acting lessons or no acting lessons.