by Laurie Graff
With Fred’s hair gelled into hip, his angular features softened into handsome. He sure was looking handsome in his tux, and even more handsome in his assertiveness. It made me wonder, for the first time ever, what Fred might have been like if he were straight.
We made our way into the spectacular Art Deco foyer that never disappointed, and always created the same thrill I felt the first time, thirty-five years ago, with Grandma Rose. My expectations were wildly surpassed when the stage show convinced me my calling was to be none other than a Radio City Rockette. The short and sweet fantasy came to an end, when, among other things, I stopped growing and was just too short.
Fred led me across the red-and-gold carpeted floor and up the winding grand staircase to the next level. “You know I have three brothers, and on Tony night I was the one wearing the boa and acting out all the musical numbers, while everyone else was in the yard playing ball.”
Killed by a feather boa, images of a straight Fred quickly died.
We had to arrive early so the audience could be briefed as to what to expect since the show would be televised live.
“I always wanted to work in television,” said Fred, when we entered the huge, glitzy theater and took our seats. We were sitting up in heaven, close to the gold-leaf ceiling and closer to the TV monitors that offered the closest view of what would be happening on the stage.
Still, it was a thrill. Once settled into the cushiony red velvet seat, I pulled out a pen and the scrap paper that had both my bets and Fred’s on who we thought was going to win. I was most interested in the category of Best Performance by a Featured Actress in a Musical because I had had two callbacks for the role of the fledgling actress who came to Manhattan to take the big city by storm in the height of the Great Depression. I didn’t get it, turning it into the stormy story of an actress in Manhattan who just wasn’t making it big and fell into a great depression.
“By the way, Fred, whose seat am I in? Or whose seats are we in? How did you get these tickets?”
“You know that show I did in February at the Square Peg Theater Lab? Remember Trey? The designer who did my caveman costume? Well, he and I have been in and out of whatever, and he’s been working in Broadway costume shops and got these tickets and asked me. Of course I said yes, but this morning something came up. I can just imagine what it was, too! So he just offered me the tickets,” he said, leaning back, carefully placing the Playbill, tomorrow’s newest collector’s item, on his lap. “I’ve had worse that didn’t work out this good,” he said, lightly running his fingertips over the words Tony Awards and the picture of the coveted trophy.
“Did you ever dream of winning a Tony?” I asked him.
“Did I? I still do.”
I think that had to be every aspiring actor’s dream, and made me think back to the first time I set foot on a real Broadway stage. I had gone to an open call for a national tour of that long-standing hit about a bunch of teenagers doo-wopping their way through high school in the fifties. Unfortunately, the part I was right for was already cast. Then out of the blue, I received a call that the actress who was supposed to play the beauty-school dropout had dropped out. Could I come in and sing?
Two days later, I was backstage waiting to audition. I sat on a small bench with Malcolm, my voice coach, who I paid to play the audition so the accompaniment would be just the way I rehearsed it. We sat among all the girls auditioning who not only looked like my type, but could belt their hearts out. From that bench you could hear the competition sing. I was going crazy waiting.
“Karrie Kline. You’re up.”
Malcolm squeezed my hand and whispered that the job was mine. He walked down to the orchestra pit to take his place at the piano, while I followed the stage manager. I stole a peak at the cafeteria trays, cigarettes, and 1950’s movie magazines on the prop tables as I was led to my spot on stage. I was on the set on the stage. In front of the cafeteria table, downstage of the gym lockers, gazing out at the elegant Broadway house from the stage. The magical dark stage only lit by the lone work light beside me.
A nod from me, a wave from Malcolm, an arpeggio, and the audition would begin. I jiggled my body singing the “wa-oooh oooh ooooh-oohs” that got me a reading, a callback and a final dance callback. Three days later I was in the home stretch, but my feet and my mind were at complete odds. I was sure all had been lost, until the dance captain told me to push for the character’s personality instead of trying to get the steps right. I did.
“Thank you.”
But it was over.
My heart froze as I went back to the small bench, bending down to change out of my character shoes and into the snow boots I had worn for the blizzard. I felt a tap on my back. The stage manager was standing over me, asking myself and another girl to follow him again.
I walked back on stage in one dance shoe and one stocking foot, two sweaty hands tightly gripping one snow boot.
“Are you both available to go out on a national tour in three weeks for a year?” asked the producer. “We rehearse in New York for ten days before opening in Baltimore.”
And everything was different. Now I would become a member of Actors’ Equity. I got the job. My first union job. How fitting that the offer was made while I was in one stocking foot.
It turned out there’d be a production number where I would sit at the edge of the stage as my feet, unseen by the audience, dangled into the orchestra pit. After the tour had ended, I went on to do the role in the Broadway company, receiving my initiation when, during my first performance, the bass player took off one of my shoes and tickled my stocking foot! I always hoped he wouldn’t, but it was a prank he would continue to play every night he played the show.
The lights in Radio City suddenly went dark, bringing me back from that show to this one. The countdown from ten. Action. And the music soared.
“Live from Radio City Music Hall in New York, it’s the 58 Annual Tony Awards!”
Fred looked like he had died and gone to heaven, and to be honest we were already pretty close. The opening number began. I turned my head to the monitor to watch.
“I thought you said we weren’t going to watch these on TV,” I whispered to Fred, who gave me a jab with his elbow as he leaned forward, an invisible feather boa twirling around him.
The host was dazzling. It was exciting seeing the actors and actresses present the awards, and more exciting to watch as each winner accepted. Riding the emotional wave of the moment, trying hard not to ride out too far as the music would suddenly play, cutting them off and ending their speech.
As the Featured Actress in a Musical category approached, I couldn’t help but fantasize what might have happened if I had been cast and it was me sitting downstairs now, waiting to see if my career would elevate with the prestige of winning a Tony. Everything about it swung on the side of desire, except having to accept the award and remember everyone with style, grace, and humor in under thirty seconds.
A TV star and movie star who had both gotten their start on Broadway came out to present the award. I rooted for my actress, deciding that if she won it’d be an omen I would get a great acting job soon. But if she lost...well, she was going to win. I saw the show, she was great and she was going to win.
I nudged Fred to look up at the monitor as they announced each nominee and came in for a close-up on each expectant actress’s face. I thought it a good opportunity to practice being a nominee. I was going to sit, fully composed, and practice a generous smile that said I would be happy with any outcome because just to be included in this elite group was an honor in and of itself. There were five women nominated in the category, and as they announced each name I knew they were saving the best for last.
“And the last nominee for the Best Performance by a Featured Actress in a Musical is...” said the female TV star in her canary-yellow halter-cut gown.
The camera zoomed in on the nominee who was beautiful, fully composed and wearing a generous smile that said she would be happy with any
outcome because just to be included in this elite group was an honor in and of itself. And why wouldn’t it be? Because sitting next to her, leaning into her with love and admiration, not to mention looking totally gorgeous in a trendy tux, was Broadway musician Jeff Broder, who had unceremoniously dumped me in a letter this past New Year’s Eve stating he had “unresolved issues” with his “ex-girlfriend,” who I knew to be an actress. And clearly this was her!
I dug my elbow into Fred in the split second they were both on the screen, and in a loud stage whisper cried into his ear, “Broder!”
He spun to face me, understanding the full impact of the moment, and when the movie star announced the winner and it wasn’t her, I stood up and yelped for joy. Fred grabbed my dress from behind and pulled me back down. No one in heaven had been that responsive to any winner so far.
“You never told me he was that cute,” Fred said over the applause that followed the winner up to the stage to make her speech. “I sure wouldn’t throw him out of bed.”
“Well, he’s obviously taken,” I said. I had just been hit between the eyes that were already filling up with tears. “Does she have to get everything?” I asked as the winner thanked her co-stars, her crew, her agent, her parents, her teachers, her pets and her mailman. “I mean she got the part, she got the nomination, she got the guy. My guy. My almost.”
“Well, she didn’t get the Tony,” said Fred, pointing out the obvious that did not make me feel any better.
Once it was over and we were out on the street I let it rip. I walked through the crowd over to a side street, Fred trailing behind, leaned up against a gray Volvo with Jersey plates and cried.
“If I had a handkerchief I’d give it you,” said Fred.
“Fred Astaire at least would have a hankie,” I said, reaching into my purse, pulling out a tissue and blowing my nose. I pulled out my compact to check on my eyes. The eyeliner had smudged, and I had to use another tissue to smooth it out so Fred wouldn’t get pulled over for assault and battery on the way home.
“She didn’t win,” said Fred, for probably the fiftieth time that night. But, in my eyes, he was wrong. She most certainly had. “Kar, I mean, it’s not like he was really your boyfriend or anything.”
“It’s the ‘or anything’ that really drives me insane. Why does everyone turn out to be either nuts or not anything? When is someone that I like going to turn out to be everything? Or at least something.”
“They do turn out to be something. Something to talk about,” said Fred, taking my hand and swinging it an attempt to cheer me up while we went on our unmerry way. Fred’s damsel in distress.
“What do you mean?” I took back my hand. I wasn’t ready to move on but I couldn’t cry anymore because I was out of tears. The truth is I was over Jeff Broder. I had been since it happened. But it was the picture I saw that pointed up what I didn’t have. My empty frame.
“You have so many funny, interesting stories, Karrie. More interesting than if you were happily married.”
“If I was unhappily married I’d probably have interesting stories, too. But then I’d have to suffer in silence and keep them private.”
“That’s the point, Little Lulu.”
“What are you talking about now, Fred?”
“Oops, you missed a spot,” he said, pointing to my left cheek where the black eyeliner had dribbled down. Taking out my used tissue I took pleasure in one last giant sniffle, and as I wiped it clean I heard a familiar, famous voice.
“Hey, why are you crying? They kick you out of show business?”
I looked up, in much less than all my glory, to find myself face-to-face with The Famous Television Star. Dressed in a tux, he was walking east down the street with a small entourage. The last time I had seen him was in L.A., at least seven years ago. He was much older than me then, but now he really looked it.
“That’s you, right?” he said, walking a few steps over to the car on which I was leaning. I quickly pushed the tissue back into the purse and smoothed out my hair, like it mattered. Even though Fred knew the, ahem, funny, interesting stories starring The Famous Television Star, I could see he was slightly star struck. I watched Fred smile, stepping off to the side, smoothing out his hair, too.
“I never forget a face, but I never remember a name,” said The Famous Television Star as he walked closer to me. “Who are you again?”
“Karrie Kline,” I said, finding it amazing how quickly things could go from bad to worse. The Famous Television Star was someone I planned on never seeing again. If I had to see him I wanted to be doing a show and doing great. I did not want to be standing in front of a parked car crying because I wasn’t.
“Karrie Kline, Karrie Kline. I remember you,” he said. “I do remember you.”
I wondered what he remembered. Did he remember that he cut my part down to shreds on his TV show because I didn’t respond to his confusing pass, when he barked in order to get me to bite? His idea of foreplay was to literally get down on all fours to paw me! Lucky for me I got away without ever giving him a treat.
When I got Charlie I did a lot of research on the bond between man and his dog. It seemed man had established a special relationship with dogs because he desperately needed their help in solving man’s sexual problem. After I read that I felt incredibly lucky that The Famous Television Star had not made a traditional pass by kissing me in front of the fire that night. I might have actually responded, only to have found myself in his bed as part of some particularly peculiar pack of two.
“Well, I remember you, too,” I said, feeling that perhaps this was good. We both could remember what we chose. Water under the bridge and all that. “This is my friend, Fred Grennon,” I said, making a formal introduction to The Famous Television Star as the two men looked at each other and shook hands.
I looked at his entourage for an intro but they had backed off into a small cluster, as if waiting for The Famous Television Star was another of their daily activities.
“You know, I should have been nominated,” The Famous Television Star declared, looking at Fred and me with undisputed certainty about this statement. “Did you see my show?”
I wanted to say, “No, I was out of town that week.” His show practically closed before it opened, but I simply shook my head.
“Well the critics destroyed us,” he said. “We really deserved a good run. I mean that show wins tonight about a cross-dresser during the war, and my show, a contemporary look at pressing political problems closes? The critics ruined us,” he said, looking at Fred.
We were all standing on the sidewalk, but I had to look up to see The Famous Television Star because he was now several feet higher, giving this speech from atop his portable soapbox. I knew the only reason he had stopped in the first place was because he had spotted an audience that had not yet seen this show.
“I read interesting reviews,” said Fred, shooting a quick look at me while he spoke. “I think you’re right,” he said. “I think you were robbed,” he continued, egging him on.
“Who is this guy?” The Famous Television Star asked without waiting for an answer. “I like this guy,” he said. “So we agree. No one knows a good play anymore today on Broadway. I want to know what’s going on nowadays. You’re either owned by Disney or you have to be Shakespeare to get nominated?”
It’s never enough, is it? He had won more than one Tony, in addition to Golden Globes, Emmys, Obies, Clios and Outer Critic Circle Awards. And he had just worked.
“I really wouldn’t know what you have to do get nominated,” I said, speaking the truth. “I’m just trying to get a job.”
“Well, yeah. A job is a good start,” he said, perhaps taking a moment to see that he’d been lucky, but more likely just catching his breath. “So, back East for good? Back from L.A.?”
“Back six years,” I said.
“What have you been up to these days?”
“Not anything spe—”
“That she wants to talk about just y
et,” said Fred, jumping in and saving me from my own honesty.
“Yes,” I said, quickly recovering. “I’m not ready to talk about it just yet,” I said, seeing that maybe honesty wasn’t always the best policy. Omission was a pretty good one, too.
“Let’s just say,” continued Fred, when I thought the subject was wrapped, “that Karrie’s in the middle of creating a one-woman show of all her dating stories inspired by Wedekind’s The Lulu Plays.”
“How impressive,” said The Famous Television Star. It was impressive. It was one, big, terrifically impressive lie. “Karrie, I never knew you had it in you,” he continued. “I didn’t take you for that kind of a girl. You were so demure when I knew you. Lulu was quite the heroine,” The Famous Television Star expounded, eager to show off. I certainly didn’t mind, because I had no clue about Lulu or her plays. “Yes, Lulu was the original femme fatale.” The Famous Television Star got a nostalgic chuckle at this. “Tragic, but with a voracious sexual appetite under her waiflike facade,” he said, sounding like a voice in a movie trailer. I turned to look at Fred. What in the world...? But he seemed pleased as punch, as did The Famous Television Star as he went on. “Hmm... I’m seeing you through new eyes, Ms. Kline,” he said, smiling for the first time.
“Yes, it’s all quite interesting, isn’t it?” I said, enunciating each word as I spoke them directly to Fred. “But it’s in the very early stages,” I told The Famous Television Star. “The early very early, early stages.”
The Famous Television Star shook Fred’s hand, then leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek. “Let me know when you do your show. I’ll be there,” he said, before he blew away like the wind.
Fred and I waited before we moved. The crowd had thinned out a lot by now, and we could see clear to the corner.
“’Splain it to me, Lucy!” I finally said to him. “That was some fancy dancing! What are you talking about, Fred?”