So what? I’m already hot as a firecracker!
I moved in like a cat. Norm had speculated I might fall for a hunky buddy of his on base, but he never suspected Darren, whose sibilant voice and poetic demeanor were hardly the answer to a maiden’s prayer. And frankly, he was no great shakes in bed. I can only give him a C. (Which still beats a D, the damn best I can come up with for Norman. I dearly loved the man, but as Dorothy says in Golden Girls about her ex-husband, Stan, “It always seemed to be over before he got into the room.”) About a week later, Darren got word that he was being sent to Korea. He told me he was leaving immediately for California to visit Lawrence Lipton, then his parents.
So there I was, yearning for Tom, who held me in his thrall despite his undeniable dark side; but married to dear, devoted, loving Norman, who was pretty mixed up himself; and sleeping with poetic Darren, who I suspected had one foot in the closet, if you get my meaning.
Another World was not my first soap opera.
I kept cooking, doing the laundry, caring for Mark, but I was in emotional splinters, electric bolts shooting through my head all the time—never mind my heart. I couldn’t pull myself together. So what did I do? If you guessed “Rue did the mature, responsible thing”—please, pay closer attention. You’re obviously not following this. If you guessed that I went to California with Darren, thus ripping good-hearted Norman’s life apart—well, you get a gold star.
Norman didn’t try to talk me out of it, and I have to wonder now, Why not?
Oh, why didn’t he have me thrown in the loony bin? Did he want me to go? Did he subscribe to that butterfly BS about “if you love something, set it free”? The afternoon we left, Norm was completely blitzed, drunk as a hoot owl. I was devastated for him, but desperate to get away from the electric splinters. Darren and I drove to Ardmore, left Mark with my astonished parents, and continued to Los Angeles. My folks must have been appalled, but they never said so. In their repressed, non-expressive Oklahoma 1950s way, they probably surmised I’d been driven a little crazy by what I’d been through with Tom. I had always been so reliable. As a teenager, I had behaved maturely. Even as a little girl, I’d always behaved like a “grown-up.” They’d made it clear to me from early childhood that I was expected to be a little lady, do as I was told. “Never dispute your elders!” I followed their rules, because I wanted their love. But now I was acting like a nutcase, running amok. And, children, run amok I did. Powerful, painful forces ruled my feelings, and the only relief came from running away. Run from the pain!
Frog: “I don’t think I’ll go to school today.” Curtain.
But of course, Frog School followed me, as it always does.
In the spring of 1959, Venice, California, was at the heart of the Beatnik movement sweeping the country, and Lawrence Lipton’s home was at the heart of the Venice Beatnik crowd, peopled with creatures I’d never imagined existed. Painters in torn T-shirts, writers in torn T-shirts, musicians in torn T-shirts, paint on their Levi’s, all living in crumbling one-room digs, sleeping on mattresses on the floor, some with sheets, some without. Graffiti covered the walls. Disjointed jumbles of free-hand art. A lot of “Bird Lives!” and quotations from writers I’d never heard of. These lost souls had big aspirations, no clear direction, were primarily without talent, and undoubtedly on drugs. Eight or ten of the more promising ones showed up at Lawrence and Nettie Lipton’s large table for dinner every night, where they argued for hours over writing and art and ate everything in sight. It was probably their only real meal of the day.
Lawrence and Nettie kindly welcomed Darren and me. Fresh from an appearance on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, Lawrence was riding the huge success of his recent book. Darren fit right in with this heady crowd, apparently Lawrence’s pet. Larry and Nettie had the beautiful custom of calling each other by double endearments. Sweetheart Darling, Lovey Precious, Baby Dear. Bright and upbeat, they held sway over this unruly coterie of loud, bumptious beatniks who obviously adored them. I quickly came to adore them, as well, but felt like a trout in a koi pond. All these artists, but not an actor in sight. Where were the theatre buffs and playhouses? Nobody ever mentioned theatre, but they argued writers at the top of their lungs. I couldn’t discuss anything these fellows were all passionate about. I sat at dinner, wondering what they were talking about, and why Larry and Nettie fed and encouraged them.
I went with Darren to say good-bye to his parents, quiet, kind, normal folk who lived in Ojai, an artsy, academic town surrounded by orange groves, a big sky, and lovely mountains. A Shangri-la where rich people sent their kids. Darren had been accepted into an exclusive private school there because they expected him to become a force in the literary world. He was a gentle intellectual, hardly battleground material. Nevertheless, off he went to Korea.
I knew by then I wasn’t in love with him, so after he left, I wasn’t sure what to do. Larry and Nettie invited me to stay on while I decided, for which I was grateful and relieved. But I wanted to get out of their hair as soon as possible, and I was determined to find my way in the theatrical world (was there one?) in Los Angeles. The Yellow Pages yielded four playhouses worth checking into. The first three were not for me, but the Pasadena Playhouse was about to start its “Summer Talent-Finder Course,” four weeks of training culminating in a production of Noël Coward’s Present Laughter in the Patio Theatre. I scheduled an interview, looked up Pasadena on the map, and somehow found my way there. (I have a terrible sense of direction, but I can read maps like a champ, thanks to my fourth-grade geography teacher.) The powers that be talked to me for an hour, had me read a couple of scenes, and accepted me.
“Lots of film and television movers and shakers attend our plays,” I was told. And they’d had some major stars in the program. Barbara Rush was discovered there. So were Victor Mature, Gig Young, William Holden, Eve Arden, Robert Preston, Eleanor Parker, and later, both Gene Hackman and Dustin Hoffman. The Playhouse had been out of commission for a while, and the building had fallen into serious disrepair, but it was now being renovated, gearing up for a new era. I didn’t care much about all that. I just wanted a good part in a good play with my own kind—actors, directors, and a stage to work on. But it would be on my dime. And I had only a few dimes left and only four weeks to make some money. But where? And how?
A falling-down old hotel on the beach in Venice provided a haven for artists. In the once-elaborate lobby—proud in the 1930s, now decrepit and probably unsafe—art students gathered by the dozens to sketch and paint, earnestly soaking up the expertise of their guru du jour, a guy named Randy. He was looking for new models. Nude models. The pay was twice the minimum wage: two dollars an hour. A fortune! Two dollars an hour! But nude, you see.
But two dollars!
But nude.
As in NAKED.
I brought it up at dinner, and the crowd around the table couldn’t comprehend why I wasn’t jumping at this easy money. Two bucks an hour! Oh, for—for crying out tears!
“What’s the matter with you, Oklahoma? Jesus, man, get with it!”
“Wow, can you believe this chick? What are you, honey, from outer space?”
Nettie said in her soft voice, “It’s all right, Rue. Sweetheart Darling, it’s art.”
Then they all went back to discussing Jack Kerouac.
Ah. It’s all right, it’s art. I take off all my clothes, climb onto a platform, and pose butt naked for an hour. And I get two dollars. And it’s art. An actress is required to expose her innermost being, raw emotions, nothing hidden, I reasoned. This is only exposing my body in front of a group of fifty art students…for two dollars an hour. I visited the art class and watched the proceedings, hoping the ancient ceiling wouldn’t fall in on me. The students were intent on their work, focusing on sketching, while the models, some not in the greatest shape, were supremely matter-of-fact as they shed their robes, took center stage, and tried to strike interesting poses, perfectly immobile for twenty minutes, three poses an hour. As I watch
ed, I thought, I can do better than that. After all that dancing, I was graceful, imaginative, and could hold a pose for twenty minutes without tiring. Heck, I figured I’d be a natural. Randy told me I could start the next day and, if I was satisfactory, work two or three sessions a week. And it was a very well-paying gig, he reminded me, to be paid in cash, on the spot.
Ah, that next day is forever etched in my memory. In Nettie’s old beige chenille bathrobe, I climbed the steps onto the stage and slipped off my sandals. I dropped the robe nonchalantly off my shoulders, strode center stage, naked as a jaybird, and struck a pose. The students bent intently over their sketch pads. Attempting to relax, I breathed lightly, not moving a muscle, and tried not to wonder if they were all noticing how small my breasts were.
“Okay, everyone cool it a few,” said Randy, walking through the standing artists, pointing out this and that. I didn’t know whether to put my robe on or not. Everyone ignored me. I might as well have been a bowl of fruit. After two more twenty-minute sessions, Randy called an end to the class and I went over to put on my robe.
“You’re good, honey,” Randy told me. “Come back Wednesday at three.”
And he gave me two crisp, lovely one-dollar bills.
I’d been searching the paper for real jobs and saw that the Harlequin Supper Club in Azusa was looking for “singing and dancing waitresses to present musical material.” Fifteen miles east of Pasadena. A bit of a shlep. But I could dance, I could sing passably, I was a choreographer, and although I was never a waitress (at least, not yet), the owner felt I could swing it. All the meals were to be served from a rolling cart, after which we three servers—me, another girl, and George Kelley, who happened to be the current Mr. Pasadena—would perform floor shows at eight, nine, and ten, each night featuring food, songs, and dances from a different country. Monday was England, Tuesday France, Wednesday Spain, Saturday Hawaii—you get the idea. Pay? One dollar an hour, plus tips. We had to come up with costumes, but the owner (who was also the chef) would foot the bill, provided it was modest. We were paid twenty bucks a week for the rehearsals, and it worked out that we’d end the daytime rehearsals and open the restaurant the very night before the Pasadena Playhouse was to begin its daytime rehearsals. Unbelievably good timing! I’d have seven weeks of employment. I was desperate to get Mark out to California, and I still wanted keenly to go to New York, but that would take a lot more moola than I was earning now—with or without clothing.
After posing the following Wednesday, I told Randy I’d found a steady job and wouldn’t be available anymore. It had been stressful for me standing there nude, even if they did see me as a bowl of fruit.
“I’m sorry to lose you,” he said. “Will you at least share a farewell glass of wine with me this evening? The lobby won’t be available. Come to my room in the basement of the hotel.”
“Your room?” says I.
“Third cubicle on the left,” says he.
Hmm, farewell glass of wine, huh? He’d always behaved professionally, so…oh, who am I kidding? This had all the earmarks of a real Beatnik experience. A one-time, far-out, unheard-of piece of audacity: strictly sex. But dare I? Dare I? Did I dare?
Oh, I daresay, I did.
That evening, I descended those basement stairs, trembling like a leaf, wondering who exactly I thought I was and what exactly I thought I was doing. On the floor of the third cubicle on the left was a mattress surrounded by candles. Randy appeared, drained his last swallow of wine, said “Hi!,” and jumped me. Was this Beatnik foreplay? I’d never been jumped before. And never had sex like that before. It was athletic. Like, wild, man. And I liked it. I didn’t feel guilty. In fact, I felt liberated. I was getting a fast course in a brand-new area. Pure sex!
One night about two months later, there came a knocking at my chamber door and there stood a haggard Randy, flanked by two skeezy pals.
“Can I borrow three dollars?” he asked.
Well, hell, I thought, embarrassed. You only paid me four total!
I gave him the three bucks and never saw him again (more’s the blessing!), but I figured the education had been worth it. I’d not only learned to hurtle myself enthusiastically into boisterous sex but had found the courage to pose nude. And I was still one dollar to the good.
So what the heck. I’d still give Randy a solid A.
English Night at the Harlequin meant donning green leotards for “Robin Hood.” America was “Steam Heat,” a Bob Fosse number in white shirts and black derbies. For Spain, we did a mean flamenco—implementing the castanet technique I’d learned at Jacob’s Pillow. France was a cancan. Italy was “Finiculi, Finicula.” Hawaii was our blockbuster. We two gals did a hula, then George burst forth in a short feathered skirt and huge headdress, his Mr. Pasadena muscles bulging, and did a thrilling frenzy number. And oh, my, could he frenzy! Attendance was sparse, but we performed as if we had a full house, six nights a week. We closed at eleven, but George and I always spent an hour or more talking and laughing in the parking lot. Then I left for Venice in my station wagon and he took off on his Harley. He was fun, but too rich for my blood. Older, experienced, and way too good-looking.
Early every morning, I drove from Venice to Pasadena and rehearsed Present Laughter from ten to five. Exhilarating! I was acting! Then I was off to Azusa to be a singing-dancing waitress for four hours, then back to Venice for a few hours’ sleep. I had no idea where I would go after the closing of the play. I yearned for New York, but how could I do it with Mark? I ached for him every minute of every day. The Harlequin fed us dinner with enough leftovers to take to the Playhouse for lunch, I was living rent-free at Nettie’s, so I’d saved enough to pay the Playhouse summer tuition and get by a few months. Just before the play opened, I gave notice at the Harlequin and trained my replacement, who—bless her heart!—learned the routines in jig time so I could begin evening dress rehearsals on the play just before opening night.
Present Laughter was a hit. Toward the end of its short run, the Playhouse folks asked if I’d sit in the audience of a television show called It Could Be You!, saying they wanted some students in the balcony to publicize our new season. Then Mother called and said she was bringing Mark out for a visit! I was overjoyed. She arrived with a rawboned, redheaded country girl named Ruthie Mae Henry, who’d been babysitting Mark. Ruthie Mae had never been out of Oklahoma, and Mother said this trip was a bonus for the good care she’d given my baby. Nettie and Larry welcomed the whole crew into their home, immediately enchanted with Mark—as was everyone. I showed Mother and Ruthie Mae around Venice Beach, which they found as far out and groovy as I had. That afternoon, the sophisticated Larry Lipton sat chatting with my little Oklahoma mama, and I listened in amazement as Mother not only held her own with him but had him in stitches. Where did she get such savoir-faire? Heavenly days!
The next morning, at the studio in Hollywood, It Could Be You! started with two surprised recipients being called to the stage for prizes. Then they broke for a commercial.
“Our final prize,” the MC announced when the show resumed, “will be awarded by a star of screen and stage, Mr. Lee J. Cobb!”
Mr. Cobb, who’d played opposite Marlon Brando in On the Water-front, took center stage.
“I’m here to give a full third-year scholarship, the first of its kind, to a performer at the Pasadena Playhouse,” he said. And then he boomed, “It Could Be You…Rue McClanahan!”
Mother beamed from ear to ear as ushers squired my stunned self onto the stage and Mr. Cobb read some very complimentary remarks about my acting and handed me a framed award.
Plus, the MC added, “this handsome set of Samsonite luggage!” And someone brought out two white suitcases and an overnight case. What next? A year’s supply of Ivory soap? But hey—I didn’t care if it was cornball, I used that luggage for the next fourteen years!
It had been a conspiracy. The Playhouse and Mother and Nettie and Larry had been planning it for a while. The scholarship would cover my tuition for
nine months, and Mother would pay Ruthie Mae to stay with Mark while I rehearsed and performed. I was duly appreciative. But I wanted to be doing real theatre—the kind where they paid me, instead of the other way around. I wanted to be in New York! But in New York, I’d have no money, no prospects, and most important—no way to keep Mark.
So. New York would have to wait.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Hand me his hammer and chisel!
There’s a statue in this marble crying for release!”
—BIPPO SPUMONI, MICHELANGELO’S APPRENTICE FROM 1612 TO 1612
On Mark’s first birthday, I baked a white cake with white icing. He was walking—well, sort of lurching. I put the cake outside on the grass and made snapshots of him proudly toddling toward his cake…and then stepping in it. We both thought that was hilarious, but it turned out to be a parable of sorts for much of what lay ahead. Just when everything seemed to be coming up sugar frosting roses—ker-plop. I’m an optimist by nature, though. I tend to laugh off most missteps, even when things get a little messy.
Ruthie Mae, Mark, and I moved into a tiny two-bedroom apartment six blocks from the Pasadena Playhouse. Ruthie Mae slept in one bedroom on a real bed. Mark and I were in the other bedroom, he in his port-o-crib, I on a mattress on the floor. Since the scholarship didn’t cover any living expenses, I’d started looking for a day job, when out of the blue, Norman wrote that the Army was going to send me a monthly spousal check for a little over two hundred dollars! This would make his personal paycheck less, but dear, generous Norm wanted me to have this stipend, which made it possible for me to be with Mark when I wasn’t performing or in class.
I also got a letter from Darren, saying he’d been medically discharged with a nervous breakdown, would be back in the States in a week or two, and wanted to see me.
Oh, dear.
I dreaded telling him I couldn’t continue a romantic relationship with him, especially in his state of mind, but when I spoke with him, he seemed more disturbed from his experience in Korea than from my news. He went home to Ojai, saying he hoped to see me again someday. He never did. Many years later, I heard he had become a Buddhist monk in France, and I like to think of him there, happily writing his poems and stories. Perhaps in French.
My First Five Husbands Page 8