the deep pleasure I got every single time I signed in at the stage door, even for a turkey like
That Girl From Scranton!
I put a cup of coffee down in front of her. She took a sip and said, “Not bad. Beats drugstore coffee. Listen, as soon as I get a paycheck, I’ll spring for lunch at Child’s. I’ve got a friend who’s a waitress there — another actress, of course. She puts whipped cream on my coffee. Nice big dollop. We’ll go — it’s divine.”
Whipped cream plopped on a cup of coffee. I remembered the memory then, the first time I’d met Florence. The first time I’d seen Billy. And Delia fighting tears, and Da not knowing where to look. So many things had happened that night, but all I’d been thinking about was the roar of applause I’d gotten, and how right I’d felt standing on a stage.
“You’re right — being a Lido Doll isn’t my dream,” I told Daisy. “I just got lucky, and there I was, so I took it. But I miss Broadway. I want… I want to be an actress.” There was a guilty sound to my voice, as if I’d just confessed that I wanted to rob a bank.
Daisy nodded thoughtfully while she blew out a plume of smoke. “You were pretty good last summer when we ran lines. Look, if that’s what you want, you’ve got to study. Go downtown to the Actors Studio and audition. Or find a teacher who will take you on. Just do something. I can get you in to see Stella; she’ll take a look at you. Listen, are you still making the rounds?”
“The rehearsals were taking up all my time, and I do three shows a night, and —”
“And you’re beat. Sure.” Daisy squinted at me, then tilted her head. “Listen, they’re casting a new musical. That’s the audition I just came from. There’s a part for you — a speaking part, just a couple of lines. It’s not Shaw, for crissakes, you can absolutely do it. I just read for it, but I’m all wrong, I might as well face it. I can’t act sixteen — those days are long gone.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re looking for a gamine type — young, a little mischievous looking, tomboyish, you know? She’s the little sister of the lead. You want the address?”
“I don’t have any head shots.”
“So? That’s not a reason not to go. Get some made — you can drop them off later.” Daisy quickly scribbled down an address. “It’s a rehearsal hall on the West Side. If you leave right now you can make it.”
“But I’m not dressed, or made up.”
“What are you wearing, dungarees? Perfect. Too bad your hair is so long, but you still look the part. Maybe put it in a ponytail. Don’t even put on makeup. Anyway, go. And remember me when you’re famous!”
Twelve
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
August 1950
It was the last night of our summer. The cast and crew sat under the trees outside the rooming house, flopped on chairs and blankets in the grass. Those who smoked had lit up cigarettes to drive away the mosquitoes. It was midnight, and still eighty degrees.
I was wearing white shorts and a sleeveless top, a madras shirt that had started the summer with long sleeves that after a week I had cut off to make it easier to work. The cast was expected to pitch in, and I hammered and sawed for the set designer, sewed hems on costumes, and acted as an usher when I didn’t have to be onstage.
It was an outfit I wouldn’t have dared to wear back home, but I’d learned, this summer, that there was another world out there, where people wore as little as possible, said whatever they thought, and cursed cheerfully at the prospect of sixteen-hour days. Things made sense here because nobody cared — if you were hot, you chopped off your shirtsleeves; if you were tired, you drank a pot of coffee; if your heart was broken, you went out that night and sang the pieces of your heart out onstage. Easy.
I was the baby of the group. Nobody made a pass that summer; nobody offered me drinks or cigarettes. I was herebecause of Florence Foster. She was the one
That Girl From Scranton!
I put a cup of coffee down in front of her. She took a sip and said, “Not bad. Beats drugstore coffee. Listen, as soon as I get a paycheck, I’ll spring for lunch at Child’s. I’ve got a friend who’s a waitress there — another actress, of course. She puts whipped cream on my coffee. Nice big dollop. We’ll go — it’s divine.”
Whipped cream plopped on a cup of coffee. I remembered the memory then, the first time I’d met Florence. The first time I’d seen Billy. And Delia fighting tears, and Da not knowing where to look. So many things had happened that night, but all I’d been thinking about was the roar of applause I’d gotten, and how right I’d felt standing on a stage.
“You’re right — being a Lido Doll isn’t my dream,” I told Daisy. “I just got lucky, and there I was, so I took it. But I miss Broadway. I want… I want to be an actress.” There was a guilty sound to my voice, as if I’d just confessed that I wanted to rob a bank.
Daisy nodded thoughtfully while she blew out a plume of smoke. “You were pretty good last summer when we ran lines. Look, if that’s what you want, you’ve got to study. Go downtown to the Actors Studio and audition. Or find a teacher who will take you on. Just do something. I can get you in to see Stella; she’ll take a look at you. Listen, are you still making the rounds?”
“The rehearsals were taking up all my time, and I do three shows a night, and —”
“And you’re beat. Sure.” Daisy squinted at me, then tilted her head. “Listen, they’re casting a new musical. That’s the audition I just came from. There’s a part for you — a speaking part, just a couple of lines. It’s not Shaw, for crissakes, you can absolutely do it. I just read for it, but I’m all wrong, I might as well face it. I can’t act sixteen — those days are long gone.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re looking for a gamine type — young, a little mischievous looking, tomboyish, you know? She’s the little sister of the lead. You want the address?”
“I don’t have any head shots.”
“So? That’s not a reason not to go. Get some made — you can drop them off later.” Daisy quickly scribbled down an address. “It’s a rehearsal hall on the West Side. If you leave right now you can make it.”
“But I’m not dressed, or made up.”
“What are you wearing, dungarees? Perfect. Too bad your hair is so long, but you still look the part. Maybe put it in a ponytail. Don’t even put on makeup. Anyway, go. And remember me when you’re famous!”
Twelve
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
August 1950
It was the last night of our summer. The cast and crew sat under the trees outside the rooming house, flopped on chairs and blankets in the grass. Those who smoked had lit up cigarettes to drive away the mosquitoes. It was midnight, and still eighty degrees.
I was wearing white shorts and a sleeveless top, a madras shirt that had started the summer with long sleeves that after a week I had cut off to make it easier to work. The cast was expected to pitch in, and I hammered and sawed for the set designer, sewed hems on costumes, and acted as an usher when I didn’t have to be onstage.
It was an outfit I wouldn’t have dared to wear back home, but I’d learned, this summer, that there was another world out there, where people wore as little as possible, said whatever they thought, and cursed cheerfully at the prospect of sixteen-hour days. Things made sense here because nobody cared — if you were hot, you chopped off your shirtsleeves; if you were tired, you drank a pot of coffee; if your heart was broken, you went out that night and sang the pieces of your heart out onstage. Easy.
I was the baby of the group. Nobody made a pass that summer; nobody offered me drinks or cigarettes. I was herebecause of Florence Foster. She was the one
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