Everything Happened to Susan by Barry Malzberg Page A

not complete; the master copy is only in the possession of myself and a few other people. In order to get the best performances out of you, it has been decided that your knowledge of the script will be limited to your own parts, this means that you will be able to reduce your focus to the necessary. You are to study these scripts all the time; when you are not actually involved in scenes you will be preparing. Later on, a full summary of the plot will be given you but at this time that would only interfere with your conception of the individual roles.”
    “Where are we supposed to be when we’re not on the set?” the actor next to her asks. He gives Susan a wicked nudge, his eyes fixed on the director. “Off to the sides?”
    “Exactly. You will be constantly called upon to participate and must be near the set.”
    “I don’t think that that’s dignified,” the actor says. “I mean to say that doesn’t seem to be right. We’re entitled to separate dressing facilities and a place to relax; we can’t have people staring at us all the time.”
    “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” the director says. “That is wholly untenable. We are working with certain rigorous limits here.”
    “But it’s not fair,” the actor says. He nudges Susan again; possibly he is pleading for help. “We can’t just come in and act; we’re entitled to some privacy. Isn’t that right? Doesn’t anybody here agree with that?”
    “I agree with that,” Susan says. The actor gives a sigh, pokes her again, and the director looks at her with an even, steady glaze in his eyes, making Susan feel suddenly very foolish and dangerously exposed. “Well, I
could
agree with that,” she says. “Maybe we should just not worry about it too much; after all, the important thing is just to get the film going, isn’t it?”
    “The hell with it,” the actor mumbles. He moves apart from her slightly, taking a determined stance, his hands on his hips. “Look here,” he says positively. “We’re entitled to some dignity and respect. If we can’t get private dressing facilities, I’m going to refuse to participate.”
    “That’s perfectly all right,” the director says. One of the technicians comes over, mumbles something in his left ear, gives him an absent caress of the left shoulder and walks hurriedly away. “You can leave right now,” the director says with even more assurance. “There are plenty of replacements available. Your roles. are quite expendable.”
    “Just because we’re doing this kind of work doesn’t mean that we’re not entitled to a little dignity!” the actor says in a harsh, pleading voice. The edge of his assurance has been broken; now fear seems to be tumbling out. “All right,” he says, giving Susan a look of fury. “I won’t object any more. If that’s the way it has to be — ”
    “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” the director says. “You’ve made your point very well. You may leave — ”
    “Now listen — ”
    “I don’t have the time. You people are utterly replaceable. We are not getting involved in negotiations. You will please put on your clothes and leave the set at once.”
    “You don’t understand,” the actor says, his assurance now completely gone. “I’ve had dramatic training. I’m a professional. In Seattle in 1968 — ”
    “Please leave,” the director says. Technicians once again come from behind the equipment, now gather, three of them, in a wee mass around the actor, staring at him through piercing eyes, hands identically on their hips. The actor gives a shrug, stoops, and begins to assemble his clothing. “Is anyone going to come with me?” he asks. “Am I the only one who had the guts to stand up — ”
    “I’m sorry,” one of the technicians says in a lisp. “You are no longer permitted on the set. Please leave.”
    The actor turns toward Susan and says, “We at least know each other. There’s some contact here, isn’t there? Don’t you