Pity Him Afterwards

From there, they went around to the front of the theater, Haldemann saying, “The rest are over at the house. You might as well pick up your bag on the way.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t mind Ralph, when you see him,” Haldemann cautioned gently. “He isn’t the most tactful person in the world. But he’s a really first-rate director. You can learn a lot from him.”

The station wagon was still out front, with the other three cars. Haldemann frowned at the dusty Dodge and said, to himself, “Mary Ann still here?” To Mel he said, “I’ll be with you in just a second.”

Mel got his suitcase and walked over to the entrance, where Haldemann was standing with one of the glass doors held open, his head tilted inside. Looking past him, Mel saw Mary Ann McKendrick behind the ticket window now, instead of the pneumatic Cissie. Mary Ann was apparently saying something, though Mel was too far away to hear it. He heard Haldemann answer, “All right. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then he turned, saw Mel, and said, “All right. You’ve got your bag? Yes, I see. Good.”

They walked together across the gravel toward the house. Mel said, “Mary Ann’s a local girl?”

“Yes. I thought she’d be gone by now, but she’s taken over for Cissie for a few minutes.”

They went up the sagging stoop and into the house. A dim hall stretched ahead of them, and voices came through the closed doors to their right. Haldemann opened these doors — double doors, that slid back into the wall — and stuck his head in, saying, “Excuse me, Ralph. Daniels is here.” He sounded apologetic again, as though this Ralph were the employer and Haldemann only a very minor flunky.

“How nice.” It was a coarse gravelly voice, heavy with sarcasm. “Shall we give him a drum roll?”

Mel set his suitcase down in the hall, and followed Haldemann through the doorway.

It was a long room, made by the removal of the partition between living and dining rooms, used now as a rehearsal hall. Folding chairs were scattered around in no particular order on the bare floor, and at the far end of the room there was a cleared space containing only a beat-up sofa and an old kitchen table.

Four men were sitting here and there on the folding chairs. A man and a woman stood up by the sofa, holding playbooks open in their hands. Another man stood in a corner at the back of the room, a cigar in his mouth.

Haldemann said, “Ralph Schoen, Mel Daniels.”

Ralph Schoen was the man with the cigar. He was of medium height, and very fat. The second fat man Mel had met so far today. But Arnie Kapow was fat in a solid, hard sort of way; he was barrel-shaped. And Ralph Schoen was shaped like a bag of lard, soft and sagging, with a petulant jowly face, and pudgy hands. He was wearing a gray suit and white shirt and bright red tie, the tie pulled loose from his throat and the shirt bunched at his waist where the coat hung open.

He came forward, removing the cigar from his mouth. “You’re Daniels, huh?”

The man was offensive just by his very nature. The look of him was offensive, and the sound of his voice was offensive. Added to it, he was at the moment trying to be offensive.

More than anything else in the world, Mel wanted to hit him in the mouth. But he just said, “That’s right. I’m Daniels.”

“Isn’t that wonderful. What’s your experience, Daniels?”

“What?”

“Experience, experience. You have some experience, haven’t you?”

“Four off-Broadway shows, if that’s what you mean.”

“How many lines?”

“Lines?”

Schoen grimaced. “That’s what I like,” he said. “Quick on the uptake. I’ll go a little slower for you, Daniels.” He held up one pudgy hand, extended one finger, waved it. “The first show you were in, Daniels. How many lines did you have?”

“Two.”

Another finger. “Second show.”

“None. I was in three crowd scenes.”

“Crowd scenes! Off-Broadway is getting expensive!” Another finger. “Third show.”

“Five lines.”

“And fourth show.”

“Three lines.”

“And that’s it? No more experience? Professional experience, I mean, Daniels. I’m not interested in your high-school play.”

“That’s it. Just the four shows.”

“Do you even have an Equity card, Daniels?”

“No.”

“Then tell me, Daniels.” Schoen smirked at him, and stuck the cigar back in his mouth, and talked around the cigar. “Just tell me, Daniels, do you really think you’re ready for the grand entrance yet?”

“I’m not trying to make any grand en—”

“Or am I misjudging you? Do you just happen to come from a part of the world where the calendar is different? Do you live the other side of the International Date Line, Daniels?”

Mel opened his mouth to call Schoen a fat slob, just to relieve his feelings, but Haldemann cut in first, saying, “He’s here now, Ralph. I think we can let bygones be bygones.”

“Of course.” Schoen smiled around his cigar and shook his head. “I can hardly wait for your first entrance, Daniels,” he said. “The cue is delivered, there’s a pregnant pause, everyone on stage looks toward the door where you should be coming in, and where are you?”

“Still here listening to you, I guess.”