  Peggy was still thinking the same thing the following morning as she walked up Broadway toward the Elgin Theater. The day had started off badly with showers and sharp, gusty blasts of wind that sent a fine rain spattering over the deserted streets. New York’s theater district was like a ghost town in the early-morning hours. Except for a few familiar faces—the blind newspaper dealer at the corner of Forty-fourth and Broadway, the white-jacketed soda fountain clerk reading a magazine in the window, and the inevitable knot of musicians clustered at the corner of Forty-fifth street—no one was abroad. People in show business worked late and slept late. But by noon, Peggy knew, the streets would be crowded. She hurried past the newspaper stand, her high heels beating a brisk tattoo on the sidewalk. The dealer was sitting inside his tiny booth behind neat stacks of newspapers. When he heard Peggy’s footsteps his head came up and a smile crossed his face. “Good morning, miss,” he said cheerfully. “You’re out early today.” “Good morning,” Peggy called back. “Not a very nice day, is it?” “Not for some,” the blind man replied. “But it’s a grand day for you.” Peggy stopped in her tracks and stared at him. “What do you mean?” she asked. The newspaper dealer’s smile broadened. “Your audition this morning.” He chuckled at Peggy’s obvious astonishment, even though he couldn’t see her face. “Word gets around,” he assured her. “After all, you’ve passed my stand nearly every morning for months now. I like to know my customers. Good luck. We’re all pulling for you.” “Who—” Peggy started to say, but he waved her on. “You don’t have much time,” he told her. “But don’t be too surprised. You’ve got more friends in New York than you think.” Peggy said good-by and moved on, reflecting that New York wasn’t such a big place after all. People said it was cold and impersonal, but maybe it wasn’t as bad as they insisted. “Good luck. We’re all pulling for you,” the blind newsdealer said. The soft-drink counter that fronted on Broadway was halfway down the next block. A garish red-and-orange sign, bigger than the shop, proclaimed that it specialized in a drink called PinaCola. Against a violently colored scene of neon-lighted palm trees a second sign advertised PinaCola as a “Refreshing, Tropical Fruit Drink—a Sparkling Blend of Fresh Pineapple Juice and Cola.” The store also served hot dogs and hamburgers, a limited menu of sandwiches, and hot tea and coffee. It was built so that customers could get service directly from the street without going inside. Peggy often stopped there in the morning for a cup of tea, which was served by a friendly, gum-chewing attendant named Harry. Harry, as usual, sat near the front of the store, his starched white cap perched on the back of his head. As Peggy passed by, he looked up from his magazine and rapped on the sliding glass window that opened out on the street. Peggy heard the sound and smiled over at him. Harry broke into a huge grin and crossed his fingers in what was obviously a good-luck sign. Peggy waved and hurried ahead. Even Harry knew where she was going. Before she had time to puzzle out the almost magical way news seemed to get around on Broadway, she was stopped by a third well-wisher. “Good luck, baby,” came a voice from a nearby doorway. “Belt it out real cool, and knock ’em dead.” Three or four other men smiled and nodded. They were musicians who congregated daily in the same place. No one quite knew why they were there, but at practically any hour of the day or night you could find them. The area was generally known as the “musicians’ corner” and if anyone needed a trumpet player or a guitarist on short notice, he could call the cigar counter in the lobby of the building. The attendant was careful to hold all messages. It was one of those informal arrangements that puzzled outsiders but was accepted without question by those who lived and worked in that strange world in New York called show business. Peggy smiled back at the men and turned down the street that led to the Elgin Theater. At the corner her progress was momentarily halted by a line of sleepy-looking people boarding a chartered bus parked in front of a sign that read: “Sight-seeing Tours Meet Here.” A brisk, businesslike man in uniform was herding them aboard. “Step lively, folks,” he was saying. “New York’s a big city and we’ve got a lot to see.” He gave Peggy a good-natured wink as she went by, as if acknowledging the presence of another insider—a greeting from one New Yorker to another. It made Peggy feel that she belonged in the big city and that she was really a part of Manhattan. She swung down the street with renewed confidence. In front of the theater, a row of shiny glass doors blocked her entrance. A small printed sign over the center door informed the public that “Box Office Opens at 10 A.M.” Peggy tried the door and found it locked. Moving to the next door, she was met by a gray-haired man who opened it a crack. “Sorry,” he said. “Box office won’t be open for another half hour.” Off to her right, Peggy noticed that a line had already formed. The early birds watched her with interest. “I have an appointment,” Peggy said. “With Mr. Stalkey.” The doorkeeper immediately stepped back and motioned her inside. “Just a minute,” he said, reaching for a list on a clipboard. “Your name, please?” “Peggy Lane.” The man checked off her name with a flourish. “Right. Go inside, please.” Peggy nodded at him absent-mindedly and pushed her way into the dark interior of the theater. There was something about a deserted theater that was both lifeless and exciting. It was a strange, gloomy world of silent rows of seats that looked almost like headstones in a cemetery. And then there was the smell. All empty theaters had the same unmistakable odor. It was a combination of stale air and fish glue. The glue, Peggy knew from many long hours in summer stock, was called “sizing,” and was used over canvas flats to keep them stretched tight on their frames. Its odor was barely noticeable at the back of the house, but farther on down, close to the stage, it was quite strong. Backstage, of course, it was strongest, but there it was mixed with countless other odors of theatrical life—the sweet, oily smell of grease paint, the acrid cloud that was generated by the electrician’s lighting board—all so familiar to Peggy. They were an integral part of her life, just as the smell of printer’s ink was of her father’s. Blinking her eyes until they were adjusted to the shadowy darkness, Peggy was aware that the curtain was up. In the middle of the stage stood a plain worklight—an ugly, bare iron pole topped with a single, powerful electric light bulb. It shed a harsh, uncompromising light that threw grotesque shadows over the back of the set and down into the orchestra. Near the rail that separated the orchestra pit from the audience, Peggy could see three or four men, deep in earnest, low-voiced conversation. In various parts of the auditorium, girls were sitting in groups or singly. Nobody noticed her and nobody came up to tell her what to do, so Peggy slipped unobtrusively into one of the seats off a side aisle. In a few moments, one of the men down front stood up and consulted his watch. From his tall, loose-limbed movements, Peggy recognized him as Craig Claiborne, the director of Innocent Laughter. Claiborne moved up the center aisle, scanned the house, and apparently was satisfied with what he saw. He turned and cupped his hands over his mouth. “Frank!” he yelled. “Let’s have some lights.” From somewhere backstage a muffled voice shouted, “Okay!” The next instant the stage was flooded with a soft yellow light. A moment later an electrician shuffled over to the worklight, unplugged it, and dragged it off to the wings. As he made his ungraceful exit, a tall, wiry man in his shirt sleeves stepped on stage. In his hand, he carried two scripts. He sat down behind a small, wooden table near the footlights and proceeded to light a cigarette despite the No Smoking signs that covered the theater walls. No one objected. Claiborne turned and mounted some steps that led to the stage. Shading his eyes against the glare, he advanced toward the audience and cleared his throat for attention. “Good morning,” he began. “I’ll skip the preliminaries because we all know why we’re here. The scene I want you to read this morning is in the second act of Innocent Laughter. It takes place between the young daughter and her grandfather. You understand that you’re not reading for the part of the daughter, but for the general understudy. Let me quickly describe the action for you, and we’ll start.” In a long-legged stride, Claiborne moved to a doorway at stage left. “The daughter comes through this door into the living room. She thinks it is deserted, but actually her grandfather is sitting in that wing chair by the fire. The audience can see him, but she can’t. At this point in the play, the daughter has just decided to marry the young man. She’s excited at the prospect and also a little unsure of herself. She goes over to the window here”—Claiborne walked to a set of double French doors—“and looks out. She sighs once, then the grandfather speaks. She turns around in surprise, and they begin their conversation.” Claiborne returned to the footlights. “I want each of you to go through the entrance. Mr. Fox”—he indicated the man puffing on a cigarette—“will read the scene with you. Mr. Fox, incidentally, is our assistant stage manager.” The man at the table acknowledged the introduction by lifting one hand and then letting it drop. “Now then,” Claiborne said, “we’ll have Miss Celia Forrester.” As a blond girl in a very tight dress got up to take her place on the stage, Claiborne continued, “Keep on reading until I tell you to stop. When you’re excused, please return the script to Mr. Fox and leave the theater by the stage door. You’ll find it out beyond stage right.” Miss Forrester, meanwhile, had collected her copy of the playscript from Mr. Fox and was already disappearing behind the door. “All right, Miss Forrester,” Claiborne called out. “We’re ready whenever you are. Remember to take your time.” There was an expectant hush as everyone in the theater settled back to wait for the girl’s entrance. It came in a rush. The door flew open and Miss Forrester leaped out on stage, clutching the manuscript in one hand. Looking a little like some hunted animal, she darted over to the window and groaned ecstatically. That was the cue for Mr. Fox to read his line, but he was so fascinated by the girl’s entrance, he merely stared at her. The young actress flashed him a peremptory glance and heaved her sigh a second time. The assistant stage manager started guiltily and quickly found the place. “‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” Mr. Fox read. “‘You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’” He had a high-pitched nasal voice without a trace of expression. Miss Forrester whirled around with a gasp. “‘Oh!’” she cried in a simpering tone. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’” “‘I’ll go if you like,’” Mr. Fox continued. Miss Forrester tripped over to him girlishly. “‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’” she said breathlessly. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you about.’” For some reason, Miss Forrester decided that a laugh would be effective at this point. It rang clear and loud through the hollow stillness of the empty theater. Peggy saw Craig Claiborne slump deeper into his seat and bury his head in his hands. After a few more moments he unwound himself and stood up. “Thank you—thank you very much, Miss Forrester. We’ll call you.” Miss Forrester, who had been stopped in mid-sentence, closed her mouth and returned the playscript to Mr. Fox. Flashing Claiborne a smile, she left the stage. “Miss Palmers, please,” Claiborne announced. “Miss Ruth Palmers.” Ruth Palmers turned out to be an extremely self-assured young woman who took the script from Mr. Fox as though she were doing him a favor. She glided haughtily to the door and closed it behind her. “All right,” Claiborne called. “Any time.” The door opened slowly, and Miss Palmers was revealed leaning languorously against the frame. Keeping her eyes fixed on some distant point in space, she stepped on stage and floated over to the window. Collecting herself, she arched her back and breathed a tiny bored sigh. “‘Why did you come in so quietly?’” read the faithful Mr. Fox. “‘You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’” Miss Palmers gave a little pout of surprise and turned to regard him coldly. “‘Ahh,’” she drawled. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’” “‘I’ll go if you like,’” came the answering line, as the scene got under way for the second time. Miss Palmers lasted a little longer than Miss Forrester before she too was dismissed. The third girl was allowed to read the entire scene. Peggy saw she was a good, competent actress. Claiborne even worked with her on some of the lines. The fourth candidate was banished before she could read two lines. She departed from the stage looking thoroughly defeated—as if this sort of thing happened to her all the time. Both of the next two girls read well. Peggy noticed they had bright, attractive personalities which shone especially when they came to the laugh lines. It would be her turn soon. She only hoped that Randy was right in his diagnosis of the scene. She was determined to play it with tenderness. Peggy was jolted back to reality by Craig Claiborne’s voice calling, “Miss Lane. Miss Peggy Lane, please.” Peggy lifted herself out of her seat and walked down the aisle on rubbery legs. Suddenly her throat became as dry as a lump of cotton wool. But somehow she managed to get on stage, take the script from Mr. Fox, and move through the door. At last she was backstage at the Elgin Theater. All around her, coils of wire and rope snaked across the floor. Above her, high over the stage, she could see rows of heavy sandbags used as counterweights whenever scenery was “flown.” Behind her, by the electrician’s board, a heavy-set stagehand was tipped back in a chair, reading the morning paper. He didn’t even bother to give her a glance. “All right,” came Claiborne’s voice. “Any time.” Peggy forced herself to relax. She drew a deep breath and expelled every drop of air from her lungs. Then she took a second breath and pushed open the door. It’s night, Peggy thought to herself. The room is probably dark except for the glow of the fire. She moved quietly, tentatively, and closed the door softly. She stood for a moment, as if she were listening for something, then walked quickly over to the big double window. Very gently, she pulled back a curtain. New York was supposed to be stretched out there in front of her, and Peggy tried to remember what it was like to see the lights of New York in real life. She conjured them up and sighed. The lights of New York.... “‘Why did you come in so quietly? You’re as furtive as a lady burglar tonight. What’s wrong?’” The line was totally unexpected. Of course, Peggy knew the words would be spoken, but they still came as a surprise. She turned in genuine astonishment. “‘Oh!’” she exclaimed. “‘I didn’t know anybody was here.’” “‘I’ll go if you like.’” Peggy moved down to the wing chair, trying to envision an old man sitting there. A kind old man with a strong, salty sense of humor, whom she didn’t know too well. “‘Oh, no! Please don’t,’” Peggy read. There was real conviction in her voice. “‘There’s—there’s something I want to talk to you about.’” Suddenly Peggy knew how the girl in the play would feel. She would be a little afraid of her grandfather, even though she recognized all his good qualities. The girl would be unsure of how to start the conversation. Mr. Fox, playing the grandfather, read the encouraging lines. Peggy answered him. The pieces were beginning to fall into place now. She read with mounting conviction and assurance until, abruptly, a voice shattered the illusion. “Thank you, Miss Lane. We’ll be in touch with you.” It couldn’t be over yet! Peggy stopped in stunned amazement. Just when it was going so well! She felt the script being taken out of her hand and realized that she had been dismissed. Fighting back the tears, Peggy moved over to the right of the stage and ran off into the wings. She was grateful there was no one backstage to see her. She turned the corner that led to the stage entrance and thudded against somebody coming into the theater. Peggy blinked the tears away and looked up to see Katherine Nelson standing in front of her. Katherine Nelson opened her mouth to speak, but Peggy didn’t stop to listen. Murmuring apologies under her breath, she brushed past the star and threw open the heavy door. All she wanted was to get out of the theater and as far away from Innocent Laughter as she could. She barely heard the steel door clang shut behind her as she walked quickly down the street—away from Broadway. |
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