, the tang of giant cities
everywhere. Oh, my
goodness me!
“Marcia
Callahan,’’ I say, and pause to lick ambrosia from my upper lip. “I guess you
could call it love-hate at first sight. We never had any illusions about each
other, Marcia and me, but maybe that was why we were so drawn together. We were
naked for each other. I was certainly
naked for her”
I
smile, thinking back, reliving again our most famous scene from the play:
Marcia, in various shawls and laces, sits on a park bench. I, in T-shirt and
jeans and heavy workboots, roam the stage, circling her, ranting and raging.
She replies in soft but compelling counterpoint, fighting back with tattered
dignity. And night after night, alone in the forwardmost box to stage left, his
marine uniform replaced by a gleaming new tux I'd bought him, Buddy Pal sat and
watched. In my pacing of the stage, flinging my arms about, roaring, letting it
all out, I would sometimes look up and see him there, a faint smile on his face
as he watched Marcia. And from time to time, in her self-defense, Marcia would
look bravely up past me at that box high on the theater's side wall, where
Buddy sat concealed from the rest of the audience by plush drapes. I sigh and
smile, and the shimmery glass trembles in my trembling hand.
"After
Buddy got out of the marines," I say, "the three of us were
inseparable. It was like old times, but even better. We were going to be
together forever.'"
"But
you weren’t," the interviewer says.
"The
show closed. They made a movie out of it, and they hired Marcia to what they
call re-create the role. But they didn't want me."
"I'm
surprised," the interviewer says.
"Are
you? Well, you don't know shit about showbiz, do you? No," I say quickly,
"forget that, sorry, that was just this drink talking, nice fuzzy
drink."
"I
imagine," he says, gently, forgiving me, "I imagine the memory of
that can still hurt."
"Most
memories still hurt," I say, and laugh, and catch myself before I spill
this wonderful fuzzy drink. "The
thing is," I say, "they had some guy under contract, some guy they
were grooming. Marcia was already a
star, and I was just some guy that was in her last play. So they put in this
fucking twerp they were grooming. Eventually, the critics told them they were crazy, but by then it was too
late."
The
interviewer nods. I have his sympathy back, all right; there's nothing they
hate more than success, and nothing they love more than failure. Feed them
great fat shovelfuls of humility and abasement and defeat, and they'll feed you more and more success. Love it!
He
says, with his new sympathetic voice, "What did you do then?"
"Nothing,"
I say. "Marcia moved out to the Coast, of course, to make the movie.
George and I broke up as soon as the play closed—funny thing, it was as much
his doing as mine—and Buddy and I went on living together in a little place I
had on East 18th Street."
Wide-eyed,
about to call back his sympathy vote, my interviewer said, "You were
having an affair with Buddy Pair
I
stare at him, truly shocked and outraged. "Are you crazy? I’m not that way! Buddy isn't—for God's sake, man, we're
both straight!”
Confused,
abashed, the interviewer leans back in his chair, nodding agreement with me,
saying, "Sorry, sorry, I just got a little confused there, you know, after
George Castleberry and all that kind of—”
"That,
fella,” I say, "is what we in the biz call a career move. It has nothing
to do with the inner man, you see what I mean?”
"It's
cynical, you mean,” he says.
I
beam at
everywhere. Oh, my
goodness me!
“Marcia
Callahan,’’ I say, and pause to lick ambrosia from my upper lip. “I guess you
could call it love-hate at first sight. We never had any illusions about each
other, Marcia and me, but maybe that was why we were so drawn together. We were
naked for each other. I was certainly
naked for her”
I
smile, thinking back, reliving again our most famous scene from the play:
Marcia, in various shawls and laces, sits on a park bench. I, in T-shirt and
jeans and heavy workboots, roam the stage, circling her, ranting and raging.
She replies in soft but compelling counterpoint, fighting back with tattered
dignity. And night after night, alone in the forwardmost box to stage left, his
marine uniform replaced by a gleaming new tux I'd bought him, Buddy Pal sat and
watched. In my pacing of the stage, flinging my arms about, roaring, letting it
all out, I would sometimes look up and see him there, a faint smile on his face
as he watched Marcia. And from time to time, in her self-defense, Marcia would
look bravely up past me at that box high on the theater's side wall, where
Buddy sat concealed from the rest of the audience by plush drapes. I sigh and
smile, and the shimmery glass trembles in my trembling hand.
"After
Buddy got out of the marines," I say, "the three of us were
inseparable. It was like old times, but even better. We were going to be
together forever.'"
"But
you weren’t," the interviewer says.
"The
show closed. They made a movie out of it, and they hired Marcia to what they
call re-create the role. But they didn't want me."
"I'm
surprised," the interviewer says.
"Are
you? Well, you don't know shit about showbiz, do you? No," I say quickly,
"forget that, sorry, that was just this drink talking, nice fuzzy
drink."
"I
imagine," he says, gently, forgiving me, "I imagine the memory of
that can still hurt."
"Most
memories still hurt," I say, and laugh, and catch myself before I spill
this wonderful fuzzy drink. "The
thing is," I say, "they had some guy under contract, some guy they
were grooming. Marcia was already a
star, and I was just some guy that was in her last play. So they put in this
fucking twerp they were grooming. Eventually, the critics told them they were crazy, but by then it was too
late."
The
interviewer nods. I have his sympathy back, all right; there's nothing they
hate more than success, and nothing they love more than failure. Feed them
great fat shovelfuls of humility and abasement and defeat, and they'll feed you more and more success. Love it!
He
says, with his new sympathetic voice, "What did you do then?"
"Nothing,"
I say. "Marcia moved out to the Coast, of course, to make the movie.
George and I broke up as soon as the play closed—funny thing, it was as much
his doing as mine—and Buddy and I went on living together in a little place I
had on East 18th Street."
Wide-eyed,
about to call back his sympathy vote, my interviewer said, "You were
having an affair with Buddy Pair
I
stare at him, truly shocked and outraged. "Are you crazy? I’m not that way! Buddy isn't—for God's sake, man, we're
both straight!”
Confused,
abashed, the interviewer leans back in his chair, nodding agreement with me,
saying, "Sorry, sorry, I just got a little confused there, you know, after
George Castleberry and all that kind of—”
"That,
fella,” I say, "is what we in the biz call a career move. It has nothing
to do with the inner man, you see what I mean?”
"It's
cynical, you mean,” he says.
I
beam at
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