There Should Have Been Castles

by Herman Raucher

I watched Maggie get dressed. She was magnificent. Everything about her was just right. So natural. No hang-ups. Crazy as a loon if you’d ask some psychiatrist but perfect for me at the time. Before leaving she kissed me on the cheek, like an aunt. And then I was alone in my suite at the Ritz-Carlton.

  I ordered from room service. A beer. Lobster thermidor. French pastry. And a pot of coffee. I signed Maggie’s name and included a big tip for the waiter because he asked no questions. And I wondered if he hadn’t had a shot at Maggie, too. Could it be that I was jealous? I’d have to watch that kind of thing.

  I went back to the post and sacked out. The very next morning I submitted my “Convenience of the Government” form. Two days later I was transferred to a medical holding detachment. General McArdle wasn’t wasting any time.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ginnie

  1951

  With Don gone I came very close to craziness. I had broken with Annice and her group, Sayonara had folded, I had no prospects, and Don had skipped to LA—all of it leaving me with a few hundred bucks and a barn of an apartment, whose rent I would have to swing all on my own.

  I spoke with Roland about it and he suggested that I inform Ben of the situation, that, if Ben couldn’t help out with the rent, I give up the apartment and look for something smaller, and that, until I found a place that made sense, I could stay with him.

  I didn’t want to move back to the Village. It seemed like a step backwards. Also, I didn’t want to lose Ben, a desire you’ll have to admit was pretty flaky in that I had yet to meet him and, for all I knew, never would.

  Anyway, being very big on “first things first,” I wrote to Ben and informed him of my circumstances. He sent back a hundred and fifty dollars and signed his letter “Peter Pan.” I loved him so much for that that I knew I could never let him lose his apartment.

  So, while auditioning for a whole flock of musicals and never being picked, I went in for waiting tables again, at a restaurant on Lincoln Square called Chips. They hadn’t built Lincoln Center yet but everyone was talking about laying aside that land, which was at the time kind of slummy. It was right around the corner from ABC and was about the only restaurant taking root in that area that wasn’t just a convenient bar for fall-down drunks. At least with ABC around, a lot of people and performers were coming around because, not only was Chips the only game in town, it also served pretty good Italian food.

  But it bored me a lot and depressed me even more to be waiting tables as my mother once had done, and to make the smell of marinara go away I would work on accents. I would pretend to be French on one night and English the next and see how many people I could fool.

  As to the pay—that was the worst part. The pay was good, so good that I didn’t dare quit. Chips was a small place, most of its business done after eleven P.M., and no one really cared to work such late and long hours but me. It didn’t matter to me what time it was. To this day I seldom know what time it is.

  But life was passing me by. It wasn’t what I wanted to do. It wasn’t the way I saw myself. Also, because it was dark and late and boozey my ass was getting a lot of pinches it could have done very nicely without. My butt was beginning to bloom with blue polka dots, not a nice sight to see upon stepping out of one’s shower.

  Well, it all ended on a rainy morning at about two A.M., when one of the customers, hypnotized by my short skirt, slipped his hand between my legs so fast that I never saw it happen. I only felt it. I thought it was a bat trying to get into me, and, goddamnit, if I was going to lose my virginity, it wasn’t going to be to a Parmesan-reeking vampire I hardly knew at all. On my tray at that time, by mere happenstance, was a mushroom-and-onion pizza, large, heavy on the mozzarella, and gluey with tomatoes. With barely the flick of my wrist, it upped and flew away, almost hitting the low ceiling before flipping over and coming in for a landing on the head of the bat’s owner. The sonofabitch looked as though he’d been swimming underwater and had come up directly beneath a pizza that had been innocently floating by. In seconds he was wearing it like a Dali-esque watch, only I wondered why no one was laughing but me. Well, the reason no one was laughing was that the gentleman under the pizza was chief of detectives for the twenty-third precinct, upon whom much good will depended since it was he who saw to it that the drunks were picked up as soon as they touched Chips’ front door and that the two hookers who nightly occupied the corner table were allowed to do their business there, especially as the house got a cut.

  Not that that would have made any difference to me, a bat in the crotch being a bat in the crotch regardless of who its keeper might be. I had reacted purely on reflex. If it had been Mayor Wagner under my skirt, he’d have gotten the flying pizza just as quick as Detective O’Hare. Governor Harriman would have gotten it, too, as would have President Truman, though I like to believe that, had it been Clark Gable, I might have been more patient—like a half hour.

  At any rate, a small discussion ensued, the gist of which was that I was clumsy, ill-tempered, and fired. It was “Good-bye, Mister Chips,” and it was raining as I trudged across Central Park to my apartment, out of work, out of luck, out of the frying pan, into the crapper.

  I ate a can of sardines and considered my options. I could go to work as a receptionist, maybe at ABC, because I was cute and knew some of the people there who often ate at Chips. Or, I could apply for a job as an experimental corpse at Roosevelt Hospital, which, if nothing else, would be more fulfilling than being a receptionist at ABC. Or, I could panhandle because I was cute and there weren’t too many cute panhandlers. Or, I could cry myself to sleep because I was good at it and could do it immediately and still keep all my options open for the next day. I did the last because that’s what I always did.

  When I awoke I reached over for my copy of Variety. I always read Variety because the obituaries cheered me up. They were not only heartfelt and creative, but they also meant that people in show biz had died and that jobs were open as a result, such as a tightrope walker, usher at the Roxy, and a trained dog. There was also a small blurb stating that open auditions were being held for dancers for chorus jobs in Guys and Dolls. I didn’t waste a second cup of coffee.

  There were more girl dancers at the Forty-sixth Street Theatre than marinara spots on Chips’ walls. And most of the girls were pretty if not outright beautiful. I mean, show me a man who doesn’t respond to a long-legged girl in black leotards and I’ll show you the man who headed up the auditions that day.

  I didn’t get his name, I only knew that he was bored, rude, and gay. There was a piano player and a drummer and a work light, and that was all. The girls went onstage in groups of six after first watching our bored, rude, gay choreographer (he was not Michael Kidd) do a quick rendition of “A Bushel And A Peck”—so quick that it was over almost before we had our leotards hitched up. There was simply no way in which a dancer could come in cold and do what he did without looking like a gimpy marionette on tangled strings. But I knew Guys and Dolls inside out. I had seen it maybe forty times. I could do the choreography of “A Bushel And A Peck” blindfolded. And I damned near did.

  And as I did, I became aware that the other girls were just melting away, walking off the stage, vaulting back into the orchestra, and plopping into their seats (just as when I had danced like mad for Annice, to avoid the cut). And when I had finished, they all applauded sarcastically.

  The faggy choreographer looked up at me. “Ever do this show somewhere before? In stock maybe?”

  “Nope.”

  “You know it so well.”

  “I’ve seen the show.”

  “How many times?”

  “Two or three.” I heard the girls laughing. “Maybe four.”

  “Pray, tell us your name.”

  “Ginnie Maitland.”

  “Ever dance professionally?”

  “Yes. The Annice Chatterton Dancers.”

  “That’s a Negro group.”

  “Yes, I’m—I danced with them.”

&nbs
p; “Oh, yes. You’re the white girl.”

  “Still am.” I thought that was funny. Nobody else did.

  “Who’s your agent, Goldilocks?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “No matter. You’ll work for scale?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Be in Tuesday afternoon. Twelve thirty. The rest of you, thank you very much. Just fill out the cards and leave ’em with Clancy. We’ll be in touch. Next six, please. Hurry-hurry.”

  I had it! I had the job! Guys and Dolls! All that hanging around had paid off! Frightening! If I’d hang around Alfred Lunt I could be Lynn Fontanne! I was so elated, so knocked out, I immediately called Roland at his office and it was so good to hear his booming laugh. Then, before going back to the apartment, I went to the A & P to stock up for my eating orgy. Four bundles of junk food—I had to get a cab to get home, and make two trips up the five flights of stairs. And when I finally opened the door and went in, a girl was there. An immense girl in a stewardess outfit who smiled and said her name was Jessica.

  I smiled and said I was Ginnie and would she please get the hell out, and that went for the man with her who was either a pilot or a doorman.

  To make it brief, she knew Don and Ben and claimed to own the lease along with two other girls, and she didn’t appear to be making it up. I put her and Captain Stykes (his name) into Don’s room and would have explained about the refrigerator and the sink and the shower, except she knew all about them.

  Another pilot, Captain O’Neill, was on the couch, having crash-landed there while I was out auditioning. He was either from another airline or another hotel, though he might have been a postman or a drum major. I helped him into Ben’s room because he was too drunk to make it on his own. It was all getting a bit tight and, swearing to travel only on trains and busses from then on, I wrote to Ben for advice on how to deal with the situation.

  The next day Jessica rolled out of her room but only to get something to eat. As to Captain Stykes, I guess he was eating Jessica because I didn’t see him again for two days. Actually, there was so much of Jessica to eat that it’s a wonder he wasn’t in there till Lent.

  I went over to the theatre to get fitted for costumes and to Capezio’s to get some ballet shoes and sneakers. When I got back to the apartment, Jessica and Captain Stykes were in a holding pattern in Don’s bedroom but Captain O’Neill had taken off, his place in Ben’s room taken over by Captain Hennon, of Barnum and Bailey Airlines, or so it seemed because he came at me like a tiger.

  For the next few days there was a lot of heavy air traffic in the apartment. Ben called, saying he’d gotten my letter. He confirmed Jessica’s story and asked if I could handle it all. I assured him that I could and we chatted. And when I hung up I felt better about things and slept very well. In the morning, Captain Hennon was gone. I was alone. Thank God.

  I continued to work my way into the show as one of the Hot Box Girls, and was scheduled to go on in a couple days, rehearsing my one line, which I wanted desperately to say right, with feeling and professionalism.

  Anyway, I’m back in the apartment, alone, working on my one line, giving it all the nuances I can come up with, working so late into the night that I don’t fall asleep until maybe dawn. And then, deep asleep, I hear the phone ringing and I grope to pick it up and it’s Ben, only I’m so out of it I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Something about a first-class promotion which I figured upped him to lieutenant or something, only I didn’t want to grill him on how a man could go from a private to an officer just like that. So I just congratulated him, hung up, fell back to sleep, and when I got up I wasn’t even sure I’d spoken with him.

  Some days later, convinced that Ben had called, and feeling sublimely confident that all doors were swinging open for me and that, no matter which one I chose, it was guaranteed to lead me to fame, fortune, and bliss, I walked over to Saks Fifth Avenue to take a gander at what 1951 had to offer—money being no object, but thirty dollars being my limit as who knew what disaster the next day might serve up.

  I found a nifty blouse, $23.95, blue with white polka dots, the opposite color scheme of my ass when I was working at Chips, which is why I probably bought it. Back at the apartment the phone was ringing. Fort Devens, Massachusetts, PFC, Ben Webber on the line. Nothing important, just that he was getting out of the Army and was coming home.

  My sweet Ben. He was coming home. My dear, beautiful, coming-home Ben was coming home.

  I changed the lock on the door. What the hell, though I didn’t legally own the lease, I did have squatter’s rights; and with Ben due in soon, I wanted very much to discourage people from barging in on us highly unannounced. If they phoned ahead, fine—I’d try to accommodate them. But they couldn’t just come by and flop in like I was Traveler’s Aid. Those days were over.

  After rehearsing my way into Guys and Dolls, it was time for me to go on. My first Broadway show and, understandably, I was scared titless. All the other replacements had been in Broadway shows before so they were relaxed. Also, because the show had been running for a while, there was no pressure on anyone to do or die for dear old Runyon. Vivian Blaine and Sam Levene and Isabel Bigley were gone but, happily for us, the audiences were enjoying the show almost before they sat down, practically applauding their Playbills, and when the overture played, they sang along, knowing the lyrics perhaps better than the composer.

  But not me. During the overture I was in the john, throwing up. There I was, in this sexy costume, wearing a merry widow bra that started above my hips and ended below my boobs. It was all boned in so that, if I were to raise my arms too suddenly my tits would fly off to the second balcony. As it was, even if they didn’t fly off, they were pushed up so high that I looked like a double-chinned squirrel with the mumps. I mean, I was ready to pop.

  Anyway, I’m about to write a suicide note when this other dancer, Florrie, who had befriended me because she had five cats and what was one more, comes by and hauls me out of the john, consoles me, and tells me that it happens to everyone and that I shouldn’t let it get me, that the curtain was going up and that if I was not out there I’d fuck up the whole show, so I’d better get my high tits onstage even if they fly off to Havana.

  “But Florrie, I don’t know my line!”

  “It’ll come to you.”

  “If I blow my line, the whole show’ll stop!”

  “Your line isn’t for twenty minutes. Your tits are due now. Come on!”

  And out I went. And I was fine. I mean, everything I’d heard about being scared backstage and how the only cure is to go on, and how, with going on, all fear evaporates, it was all true.

  So—Adelaide and her Hot Box Girls do their number and we all leave the stage so that Adelaide can be alone with Nathan Detroit, her boyfriend. And then it’s time for my line and I’m ready. I come back onstage because I’m supposed to be looking for my earring, and I’m supposed to say to Nathan, “I’m all dated up with Society Max and he goes and breaks it on account of your dopey crap game.” It’s an important line because it furthers the plot in that it tips off Adelaide that Nathan is running the crap game again after having promised Adelaide that he wouldn’t. Without that line the audience would not understand why Adelaide was getting mad at Nathan—and—because it was the third scene, it would confuse the thrust of the rest of the show, okay?

  Okay, so there I am. Adelaide is alone with Nathan, and out I come, prancing, leggy and loony and confident, and I say to Nathan, “I’m all dated up with Society Max and he goes and breaks it on account of your crappy dope game!”

  Now you must understand that I have done two weeks of tediously being on people’s asses over that line and have no idea that I’ve done a spoonerism on it, saying “crappy dope game” instead of “dopey crap game.” I mean, to me, it sounded right, only I know that something’s wrong because Nathan collapses into a wet raspberry and I see the spittle coming out of his mouth, firing over the footlights like a hydrant.


  Then Adelaide goes up, also spouting spit, and then the audience goes, and I don’t understand anything because Nathan and Adelaide aren’t doing what they’re supposed to be doing. And so I freeze and figure, “Oh, shit—my boobs have popped!” And I’m afraid to look down and see, only the audience is hysterical and the stage, manager is falling on the floor and Florrie is trying to keep from peeing, so I look and I see that my boobs are still there, still tucked under my chin like grapefruits on the rise. So then I think, what if I’m split? I mean, I’m in fishnet stockings, no panties, my boobs are still in place—what is going on that I can’t see? It has to be that I’m split and that my entire bottom is hanging out like it’s in Macy’s window. And now I have to go over with my ass aimed at the audience and bend down and pick up this earring.

  Well, I figure, Ethel Merman would do it. Mary Martin would do it. The show must go on. So I go over, and I find the earring, and I say, “Oh, here it is.” And it’s a colossal stretch because I’m not supposed to bend my knees. And the audience is plotzing so now I’m sure I’m split and that everything from front to rear is showing.

  Well, I say to myself, what’s done cannot be undone. If the world has seen my crotch, so be it, all girls have crotches and I’ll stack mine against anybody’s so why all the hoo-ha? So I do my walk-off like nothing has happened and I get applause like Lynn Fontanne, nude, never got.

  Back onstage, Adelaide retrieves the day by saying, “What she meant to say was dopey crap game—not crappy dope game,” which gets another five minutes of applause and which also tells me what I’ve done.

  Delighted that I hadn’t flashed my vagina, I was all the same crushed that I had blown my one line. But, if onstage my boo-boo received applause, offstage it received an ovation. The cast, the crew, even our silly-dilly choreographer came over to lay hands of congratulations on me. What had I done? Two things. I had livened up the show, saving it from falling into a pattern of dull sameness that every long-running show risks, and I had shown pluck—not my vagina and not my ass, but pluck. I had gone on with the show. When all about me had lost their heads, I had held onto mine, holding it high in the process.