bed
and cautiously searched the apartment. I went room by room until I found an old drunken
sailor pissing in the back bathroom. He was irritated. He didn’t even wait for me
to ask what he was doing in my house.
“Where’s Polly?” he asked.
“Huh?” I said.
“Polly Adler.”
“She’s gone.”
“Well, goddamnit, she had the best whorehouse in Manhattan.”
“I can’t help you. Sorry.”
The apartment couldn’t have been more convenient when I was cast in the play
Comes a Day,
a new drama by Speed Lamkin. It took one minute and twenty seconds to walk from my
front door to the theater in which I made my Broadway debut. The production also starred
Judith Anderson, George C. Scott—in his first Broadway play too—and Brandon De Wilde,
the child actor from the movie
Shane.
My proximity to the theater didn’t matter much, as I learned that working with George
created many unexpected detours. He was brilliant in the play. He was nominated for,
and should’ve won, the Tony Award. But his life offstage was far more dramatic than
anything he did on it. I’d worked with George before, on
The Alcoa Hour,
a television show. One day George came to rehearsal limping. He was clearly in pain.
I asked if he had a problem. George lifted up his shirt and I saw the side of his
body, from shoulder to waist, was black-and-blue.
George explained that he’d beaten up a cop. Actually, he’d started with one and then
taken on three or four—he couldn’t remember the exact count—who then beat the crap
out of him with sand-filled socks, bruising his kidneys. As a result, he came to the
studio pissing blood. But the point is, he came to the studio and he turned in a great
performance.
He was no more together when we previewed the play in Philadelphia. He asked me to
do him a little favor by picking up his pregnant wife at the airport between shows.
Then he wanted me to take her to a room on the fourteenth floor of his hotel. Not
his room, mind you, but a room I was to say was his.
No problem.
I didn’t have a problem because he’d already cornered the market on problems. George
couldn’t pick up his wife because he had to meet an old mistress in the coffee shop
… and the child he had with her … and her new husband.
Later, after I’d settled his wife into her/his room, he tracked me down. He had another
problem.
“Larry, can you go downstairs and ward off Colleen Dewhurst? She just showed up. They
called me. She’s in the lobby.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“She’s pregnant too. So please go down there and spend some time with her until I
can get out of the coffee shop. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
That was just a warm-up for New York. On opening night, George roared into our dressing
room ready to explode. He’d spent the day with Colleen, who was due to give birth
at any moment. Moments earlier, at the stage door, he had been served with divorce
papers by his wife. As he finished delivering a brilliant soliloquy about his day,
he whipped around and punched his fist through the window. The glass was reinforced
with chicken wire. It opened up every vein in his arm. He bled like a stuck pig.
We had less than an hour before the curtain went up.
For some reason, everyone looked at me to do something. I sprinted downstairs to the
Turf, a famous restaurant on the corner, and asked for a bucket of ice. The guy behind
the counter wanted to know why before he handed me a bucket. I told him an actor in
the theater down the block had cut himself pretty severely and the show was about
to start. We had to stanch the bleeding.
“Who’s going to pay for it?” he asked.
“I am,” I said.
Then I realized I was in my costume. My money was upstairs.
“Just give me the bucket,” I said. “I’ll bring it back.”
After arguing for a few minutes, the manager got me the bucket and I ran back to the
theater. Someone had wrapped
and cautiously searched the apartment. I went room by room until I found an old drunken
sailor pissing in the back bathroom. He was irritated. He didn’t even wait for me
to ask what he was doing in my house.
“Where’s Polly?” he asked.
“Huh?” I said.
“Polly Adler.”
“She’s gone.”
“Well, goddamnit, she had the best whorehouse in Manhattan.”
“I can’t help you. Sorry.”
The apartment couldn’t have been more convenient when I was cast in the play
Comes a Day,
a new drama by Speed Lamkin. It took one minute and twenty seconds to walk from my
front door to the theater in which I made my Broadway debut. The production also starred
Judith Anderson, George C. Scott—in his first Broadway play too—and Brandon De Wilde,
the child actor from the movie
Shane.
My proximity to the theater didn’t matter much, as I learned that working with George
created many unexpected detours. He was brilliant in the play. He was nominated for,
and should’ve won, the Tony Award. But his life offstage was far more dramatic than
anything he did on it. I’d worked with George before, on
The Alcoa Hour,
a television show. One day George came to rehearsal limping. He was clearly in pain.
I asked if he had a problem. George lifted up his shirt and I saw the side of his
body, from shoulder to waist, was black-and-blue.
George explained that he’d beaten up a cop. Actually, he’d started with one and then
taken on three or four—he couldn’t remember the exact count—who then beat the crap
out of him with sand-filled socks, bruising his kidneys. As a result, he came to the
studio pissing blood. But the point is, he came to the studio and he turned in a great
performance.
He was no more together when we previewed the play in Philadelphia. He asked me to
do him a little favor by picking up his pregnant wife at the airport between shows.
Then he wanted me to take her to a room on the fourteenth floor of his hotel. Not
his room, mind you, but a room I was to say was his.
No problem.
I didn’t have a problem because he’d already cornered the market on problems. George
couldn’t pick up his wife because he had to meet an old mistress in the coffee shop
… and the child he had with her … and her new husband.
Later, after I’d settled his wife into her/his room, he tracked me down. He had another
problem.
“Larry, can you go downstairs and ward off Colleen Dewhurst? She just showed up. They
called me. She’s in the lobby.”
“Anything else I should know?”
“She’s pregnant too. So please go down there and spend some time with her until I
can get out of the coffee shop. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
That was just a warm-up for New York. On opening night, George roared into our dressing
room ready to explode. He’d spent the day with Colleen, who was due to give birth
at any moment. Moments earlier, at the stage door, he had been served with divorce
papers by his wife. As he finished delivering a brilliant soliloquy about his day,
he whipped around and punched his fist through the window. The glass was reinforced
with chicken wire. It opened up every vein in his arm. He bled like a stuck pig.
We had less than an hour before the curtain went up.
For some reason, everyone looked at me to do something. I sprinted downstairs to the
Turf, a famous restaurant on the corner, and asked for a bucket of ice. The guy behind
the counter wanted to know why before he handed me a bucket. I told him an actor in
the theater down the block had cut himself pretty severely and the show was about
to start. We had to stanch the bleeding.
“Who’s going to pay for it?” he asked.
“I am,” I said.
Then I realized I was in my costume. My money was upstairs.
“Just give me the bucket,” I said. “I’ll bring it back.”
After arguing for a few minutes, the manager got me the bucket and I ran back to the
theater. Someone had wrapped
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