The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  Mickey opened the door to Spears' office. As the blast of air conditioning blew at him, he realized how hot it was outside the casita. Spears' secretary was an old, very tiny woman. She got up immediately and walked to the door to greet Mickey.

  "Why, you're Mr. Ashman," she smiled, putting her hand out to take his. Mickey was clutching his rolled-up script in both hands. "I'm Vera, Mr. Spears' secretary. How 'bout some coffee?"

  "No, thanks," Mickey said. Mickey looked at the door to the inner office. It was closed and he could make out the murmur of various voices inside.

  "He's finishing a production meeting," Vera said, seeing Mickey's face. "It won't be long."

  Vera returned to her desk. Mickey paced and looked around. On the wall was a Perma-Plaqued picture of President Eisenhower standing with a man who must be Lowell Spears. Actually Spears sort of resembled Eisenhower. Mickey looked out the window and saw his driver still sitting in the limousine reading the paper. He looked through the now curly pages of his script.

  BOBBY

  Can I carry your briefcase, Mr. Holloway?

  No. No more of that. He'd go crazy.

  Vera took some phone calls. Mickey looked through a copy of Variety. HOLLYWOOD IATSE LOCALS SEETHE OVER CURBS IN PACT TALK WITH PRODUCERS. Whatever that meant. NAME NETWORK ADVICE FOR SEASON'S PROBLEMS. Jesus, this waiting was the worst.

  The voices got a little louder. Maybe they were finishing up. The buzzer on Vera's phone sounded twice.

  "You can go in now, Mr. Ashman," she said. Mickey tried to keep the nervous smile from his face as he entered Lowell Spears' office.

  Three men were standing facing the door as he entered. Two wore suits. Lowell Spears wore a pale-blue bouclé golf sweater. For the first time it occurred to Mickey that he'd never even thought about how he himself was supposed to dress for this occasion. Maybe the T-shirt and jeans weren't right. It was too late. Shake hands. Arthur someone from the network, Tom something else from casting or something, and Spears himself. His mentor. Smiling. Does look like Eisenhower.

  "Well, we've all seen your work, son," Spears said. "And we know you're good."

  "Thank you." Mickey was okay. He was monitoring himself. Still trying to record every beat. And he was doing okay.

  "How'd you like the script?" Spears asked.

  "A whole lot," Mickey said, smiling. His voice sounded a little hollow. Maybe he should work to get rid of the Chicago accent. Maybe the studio would get a coach for him.

  "Good. Tom will read with you on page four."

  Read. Thank God. He didn't have to know it by heart.

  "The thing we saw in you that made us bring you here was the aggressiveness of that Mr. Nutty character you played. That's what we liked."

  "Chunky," Mickey said.

  "What?" Spears asked.

  "Mr. Chunky!"

  "Right. Page four!"

  Mickey froze. He'd left his curled-up script on the chair in the outer office. The guy from casting handed him a new one. Shit. His own had some words underlined—some inflections marked. But he couldn't ask to go get it now. He turned to page four. Before he could even take a breath, the guy named Tom started to read from the script in a flat voice.

  HOLLOWAY (hurriedly)

  Good morning, Emerson. Nice day today.

  BOBBY (sweetly)

  Can I carry your briefcase, Mr. Holloway? Looks awfully heavy to me.

  Perfect.

  HOLLOWAY

  No, thank you, dear boy. I must say it's nice to see at least one of my employees gets to the office early.

  BOBBY

  That's because I remembered what you always say, Mr. Holloway.

  Mickey paused here. He remembered marking a pause in his own script. Then he said the next part very slowly.

  BOBBY (continuing)

  The early bird always catches the worm.

  Out of the corner of his eye Mickey saw Spears look at Arthur from the network. The man from casting went on.

  HOLLOWAY

  So . . . you memorized that, did you, Emerson?

  BOBBY

  Oh, of course, sir. I even put it on tape. Here comes the joke, God.

  BOBBY (continuing)

  In fact you might even say now it's kind of a . . . taped worm.

  Two-three-four.

  They laughed. All three of them. Mickey flushed. Fighting off the nervous smile. The man from casting stood.

  "Okay?" he asked Spears.

  "Thanks, Tom." Spears shook Tom's hand.

  "Thanks, Lowell," Arthur from the network said. "Nice job," he said to Mickey and left.

  Mickey couldn't believe it was over so fast. He kept waiting for Spears to ask him to read more, but Spears called out a list of names of people for Vera to get him on the phone, thanked Mickey a lot, shook his hand, ushered him to the door of the casita and went back into his office and closed the door.

  When the chauffeur saw Mickey, he got out of the car and opened the door for him. Tom, from casting, stood at the car with Mickey.

  "You're good," Tom said to Mickey. Tom Rich. That was it. Tom Rich. He was probably thirty, but he had thinning blond hair and was paunchy and craggy-faced so he could have been older.

  "If I were you I'd start looking for a place to live. Someplace in the Valley. And leave your number with my office so I'll know exactly where you'll be. Okay?"

  Mickey was buoyant. He gave the driver a playful punch and rolled into the back seat.

  The minute he got to the hotel, he opened the paper and started looking. Apts. Furn. S.F. Valley. He'd forgotten to make arrangements with the driver for the rest of the day, but fuck the driver. He'd rent a car. A new Chevy Bel-Aire.

  By three o'clock that afternoon he'd rented a one-bedroom house! Not just an apartment. It was on the corner of Moorpark and Beck, and it even had a yard. It was two twenty-five a month. And he paid first and last month's rent with his traveler's checks. But so what! By next week he'd be rehearsing. By next month he'd be written up in Variety. And by next year—my God!—maybe he'd even be buying a house.

  He'd call Harvey. As soon as he had the phone installed tomorrow he'd call Harvey. And Howie Krakow—and that girl Janet who he'd met on the Pillsbury interview last month, and Jesus. Tom Rich! The casting guy. Tomorrow he'd call him. With the new number. No more hotels. He lived here now. In Hollywood. Well, North Hollywood. But still. The furniture in the house was only fair, but the landlady said she'd put in some new carpeting and eventually it would look great. And maybe his parents would come out, and Harvey, too. There would be a party for the night the show was on. Or maybe he'd go to Chicago just for that night and there would be a party for him there. He drove the Chevy Bel-Aire back to the Sportsmen's Lodge, ordered a huge room service dinner, and fell happily asleep almost immediately after finishing the last bite.

  The next morning Mickey opened a checking account in a bank in Studio City. He deposited the five hundred dollars he had left and took his temporary checks with him.

  When he got to the house the landlady was there and a carpet man was there, and the telephone man was there, and the old man who lived next door was there to help the landlady move some furniture out of the garage. The minute the phone was hooked up, Mickey dialed the number at Hemisphere.

  "Hemisphere Studios."

  "Tom Rich's office, please," Mickey said. His first call on his new phone.

  "Tom Rich's office."

  "Hi. Is Tom there?"

  "Who's calling?"

  "Mickey Ashman."

  "Mr. Rich is on another line right now."

  "It's okay," Mickey said, "tell him it's me." Mickey saw the carpet man going out to his truck. There were brightly colored rolls of shag rug. Mickey wanted to have white.

  "Uh, will he know what this is regarding?"

  "Yeah. My new phone number. I'm the guy from Chicago who read for—"

  "Why don't you just give the number to me, Mr. Ashman. I'll see that he gets it."

  As Mickey continu
ed watching the carpet man through the window, he didn't know why, but the phone felt heavy in his hand and there was a vague discomfort creeping over him. It started in his back and moved up to his shoulders.

  "Look," he said into the phone, "I'll wait till Tom gets off the other line. Okay? I mean, I don't mind."

  "He's talking to New York," the secretary said emphatically, with the implication that those particular words meant the phone call could be extended indefinitely. "Why don't I have him call you?" she offered.

  Mickey gave her his new number.

  When three days had passed and he hadn't heard, he called again.

  "He's in a meeting."

  He called Spears.

  "Oh, yes, Mr. Ashman," Vera said brightly. "He's out of town. I'll have him get back to you."

  Seven days. Ten.

  "He's been so busy," Rich's secretary said. "Anything I can help you with?"

  "Had to rush off to New York, honey," Spears' secretary said. "Back on Thursday."

  Mickey had nothing to do. He bought the trades. There was no point in going to MALES—CASTING CHORUS BYE-BYE BIRDIE. MUST SING. SANTA BARBARA PLAYHOUSE. He was going to start shooting the pilot any minute. Any day. The Chevy Bel-Aire was getting expensive. He'd have to get rid of it and buy himself an inexpensive car. Back home his mother was driving the Ford. Maybe he could hire someone to drive it to Los Angeles for him. Oh, well. As soon as the series started he'd probably buy a sports car.

  Mickey was getting very lonely. A friend of his mother's mailed him the telephone number of a niece of hers who went to U.C.L.A. The niece's name was Zyra, and Mickey called and asked her out to dinner. She told him that she was too busy. That she had a boy friend. That she hated her aunt for giving out her phone number, and that she thought actors were jerks.

  Mickey had been in town for four weeks and he hadn't met anyone besides his landlady and the old man who lived next door. He also hadn't heard one word from Lowell Spears or Tom Rich. In fact, that night when the phone in his house rang for the first time, he was so surprised he literally jumped.

  "Mick?" It was Harvey. And Mickey's parents. God damn, it was great to hear their voices. Harvey was in Chicago for a few days so they decided to call.

  "Hey, star," Harvey said, "too big to call us up, huh?" Sometimes for a genius Harvey sounded like an idiot.

  Mickey's mother wanted to know if Mickey had seen any movie stars. Mickey's father wanted to know if Mickey had signed his contracts yet. Harvey wanted to know what all those Hollywood starlets were like. Mickey's mother said all of her friends wanted to know what the name of the show was. Mickey's father asked if there were any big-time actors in the supporting cast to help Mickey along. Harvey said he was checking around to see if there were any special low-fare flights to Los Angeles from New Haven so he could come out to visit.

  Mickey didn't know what to say to them. He hemmed and hawed and shuffled around, but thankfully they didn't seem to notice. It was as if they'd already made up the answers to the questions they were asking and weren't listening anyway. The call went on for quite a while. The Ashmans only had two extensions on their number, and there were three people who wanted to talk to Mickey, so there was a lot of changing phones and repetition of questions, and it was all very shrill, and finally when everyone said goodbye and Mickey put the phone down, he realized that he was sweating and his heart was pounding.

  He was embarrassed. And upset. And he had a right to be. Jesus Christ! He had a fucking right to be. Why didn't he have any answers for his family? What was going on? These people out here brought him to Hollywood. He didn't ask to be brought here.

  These people. Spears, Hemisphere Studios, Tom Rich. And now, not only were they not telling him anything, but it felt like they were avoiding him. Couldn't someone just call and say, "Hey, Mick, listen. The network is slowing us down a little but stop by for lunch?" Or, "Sorry, kid, there's been a delay, how's your new place?" No one said shit.

  He tried to calm down. He would calm down. It would be okay. This was probably always the way it was in real show business. Not like the small-time bullshit world of commercials he'd been involved in in Chicago.

  Things in network television took time. Decisions were crucial and slow in the making. He had to learn how to accept that. He would be able to explain that to his family the next time they called. By then he would be in rehearsal.

  Carry your briefcase, Mr. Holloway?

  Mickey stayed awake that entire night, because even after he'd told himself all of those things, and tried so hard to calm himself, his heart wouldn't stop pounding. He did everything he could to try not to think the thoughts that kept creeping into his head. He read, he counted backwards from a thousand, he watched television. At 1 A.M., without knowing what he would say, he even called Zyra. When she answered, he hung up.

  At eight thirty the next morning he sat in his living room, nervous and unshaven and still wearing the same clothes from the day before. He had to do something. He didn't know what, but he had to do something about the way he was feeling.

  Slowly he got up, went into the bathroom and showered and shaved. Then he picked out his favorite Oxford cloth shirt from the closet, and some newly cleaned blue jeans, and filled with the heady tension of the sleepless night, he got into his car and headed for Hemisphere Studios.

  All the way to the studio Mickey tried to think of what he would say to get past the gate, but when he drove up there was a man in a suit inside the security booth having a heated discussion with the guard, so Mickey was able to drive right through and onto the lot.

  There was no question that he remembered the route perfectly. Past the Western town, make a left, and the casitas should be straight ahead. They were. He was sweating. All the parking spaces had cars in them or names on them. Reserved for Al Dietrich, reserved for Mike Nichols, reserved for John Gavin, reserved for . . . Who gives a shit? He'd pull into the next space and not even look at whose name was on it. Mickey got out of the car and walked toward Lowell Spears' casita.

  Spears would be surprised to see him. But glad. Maybe glad. It would be a break in his day and they'd go to lunch, and—Mickey opened the door. Vera wasn't there. No one was in the outer office and the door to Spears' office was closed. This was wrong. He should have called first and he'd better leave. But maybe not. God, he was tired. Why hadn't he slept? Because of the phone call is why. Because of no answer is why. He was getting a headache. He could feel it. That fucking tension headache that started in his back. He tapped on the door to Spears' office.

  "Yeah?"

  Mickey opened the door. Lowell Spears was sitting at his desk. Boy, he really did look like Eisenhower.

  "Hi," Mickey said.

  Spears looks at him blankly.

  "Mr. Spears." Shit. He should have called him Lowell. "Mickey Ashman," Mickey said. Jesus. Why did he have to announce his name? Spears was the one who discovered him. But the blank look on Spears' face was still there.

  "Bobby Emerson," Mickey said, kind of jumping into the room the way the character he was going to play in the pilot would.

  Spears looked confused.

  There was a very long moment of silence. Mickey could hear himself breathing. Maybe Spears was a drunk or something like that. He'd heard stories about people who couldn't remember because they . . . the dawn broke. Mickey saw the recognition.

  "Mr. Nutty."

  "Chunky."

  "How are you, kid? On the lot to read for something?"

  Mickey started to laugh, then stopped when he looked at Spears' face.

  "No. Not to read. Just came to see—" The headache was pounding.

  "Mister Spears. Listen. I really came by to ask you, uh, when are we starting to shoot our pilot? Big Business? The one you brought me here for?"

  Spears' eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he said.

  "I mean I've been trying to reach you for four weeks," Mickey said. "And you haven't called me back, and I didn't know what to do about the rest o
f my life because I knew that we'd be starting to shoot any day, so I—" Mickey could feel himself sounding a little choked up, and he had a quick flash of one time, a million years before, when he'd gone to his father to tell him that it wasn't fair that Harvey got to stay up until eleven and he had to go to bed at nine, and his father had looked at him that night and was so preoccupied he didn't seem to see him standing there, just the way Spears was looking at him right this minute. " . . . So I came to tell you all of that in person because I . . ." Mickey remembered later that he heard himself go on with that speech for a very long time, and while he did, Spears said nothing at all. In fact, he never even got up from his desk. He also remembered later that somewhere in the middle of it all he realized that he was afraid to stop talking. Afraid, because all of a sudden he knew that when he finished telling Spears his story, Spears would say just what he did say.

  "Get out of my office, Ashman. You asshole. Are you crazy coming over here at nine o'clock in the morning and walking into my office unannounced, with that bullshit about our pilot? How the fuck did you ever get on the lot, you no-talent pushy bastard? Get your stupid face out of my sight or I'll call security and have them drag you out of here by the balls."

  The phone rang. Spears picked it up.

  "Yes?" he said brusquely into the phone.

  Mickey couldn't move. This was a joke. It had to be a joke. Spears was going to put down the phone now and smile at him and laugh, and admit it was nothing but a joke.

  "I'll be right there," Spears said into the phone. Then he slammed the phone down and stood.

  Mickey still hadn't moved. His mouth was dry and his eyes were starting to water.

  Spears walked around the desk, past Mickey to the door.

  "Please," Mickey heard himself say, "just tell me what happened."

  "Kid," Spears said, turning back, "don't make something out of this. Because there's nothing to make. And that's it. You came in here like a million other kids did to read for Bobby, and you stunk. So you come on a plane from Chicago, instead of in a Volkswagen from Laurel Canyon. What do you think that makes you? I'll tell you. It makes you an actor from Chicago who stinks. Go take acting lessons."

  Spears turned away and had his hand on the doorknob when Mickey grabbed him. It was more like a hug from behind, but Spears stiffened.