The Fame Game

by Rona Jaffe

  Silky looked at Honey and Tamara nervously. They were the two with tempers, and she was afraid Honey might blow it and tell this man to go shove it up his ass and rotate. She fixed them with a desperate stare. They were seething, but they kept still. She hated him as much as the other girls did, but she knew he was the only man who could make them become famous. They would have to listen to him. Maybe he knew more about how ladies acted than they did. After all, they had almost raised themselves. It would be nice to be a lady.

  Mr. Libra thrust a pile of contracts at them. “Take them home and read them and sign them. And wash that filthy hair. Tomorrow I want you here at nine sharp for styling, make-up, and gown fittings. I’m going to put you on television.”

  “Television!” The girls looked at each other wonderstruck.

  “Shee-it!” Honey said in delight.

  “That’s ten dollars,” said Mr. Libra.

  “Oh, f … fudge!” Honey stammered. Ten dollars was a lot of bread.

  “Very good,” said Mr. Libra. He handed them some money. “Here’s fifty dollars for carfare and shampoo for all of you. Be back tomorrow. Good-bye.”

  They left the suite, counting their money, and took a taxi, the first taxi they had been in since they got to New York.

  “That Whitey sure is one ugly-lookin’ motherfucker, ain’t he?” Honey said in the cab.

  “He sure is,” Tamara agreed. “When he was born I bet they threw out the baby and saved the afterbirth.”

  The girls laughed. “That motherfucker talked to us like we was his maids,” Beryl said.

  “Carfare!” Honey stormed. “Up his syphilitic ass!”

  “Cocksucker!” said Cheryl.

  Silky decided the present was none too soon to start thinking clean, so she said nothing.

  The next morning they showed up promptly at Mr. Libra’s hotel suite, and for five hours they were terrorized by a nitty faggot hairdresser named Mr. Nelson, who was wearing a really sharp white leather suit. He fitted all the girls with Buster Brown wigs and a couple of extra hairpieces to change off. Then the dress designer arrived—Franco, who was very young but completely bald—and he and Mr. Libra consulted on what the girls were to wear. No one asked them for their opinion on anything, so the five of them kept a sullen silence. They had been through a lot in life, but they had never met anyone like Mr. Libra or Mr. Nelson or that Franco, so the truth was they were rather awed.

  “I’m going to dress them all alike,” Franco said.

  “But no sequins,” said Mr. Libra. “I’m sick and tired of sequins—you see them on every singing group in the business. The Supremes invented sequins. I don’t know how anyone else gets a chance; there isn’t a sequin left on Seventh Avenue after those three get through. I want Silky and the Satins to be unique. And no fishtail mermaid dresses, either. I want them to look young.”

  Franco suggested baby dresses, but Mr. Libra said his wife and all her friends wore baby dresses and they were a hundred years old. Young, he kept saying, young, young. Silky privately thought that she would like nothing better than to look like Diana Ross of the Supremes, who was her idol, except Diana Ross was awfully old—twenty-four or something. Finally Mr. Libra and Franco decided to dress them all in knicker suits like little boys.

  “We’re going to look like a bunch of dikes!” Tamara protested.

  “I know you’d rather look like whores,” Libra said, “but I’m managing you now, and you’ll do what I say.”

  “Couldn’t we wear tuxedos?” asked Honey.

  “Oh?” said Libra. “So you want to look like elderly dikes?” That shut them all up for good, and Franco said he would make them knicker suits in black velveteen, burgundy velveteen, and white brocade to start off, with maybe one in a nice plaid wool for the daytime teen-age show Libra had booked them on.

  It was the first the girls had heard of their booking. “What teenage show?” they chorused. “What show? What show?”

  “The Let It All Hang Out Show,” Libra said triumphantly. “You’ll be on next month.”

  The girls squealed with delight. The Let It All Hang Out Show was the top afternoon teen-age song and dance show on television, and everyone they knew at home who had a TV set always watched it.

  The next morning Mr. Libra installed the girls in the Chelsea Hotel, and after that there was a round of more fittings, more experiments with make-up with Mr. Nelson until all the girls could do their own make-up properly, both for street wear and public appearances, and then there were their dance lessons, which they all loathed. Mr. Libra even put them all on a diet to clear up their skins and keep them trim. He constantly corrected their grammar, and gradually they were all becoming conscious that there was a world they knew nothing about.

  Silky got a card to the Public Library, and faithfully read her book a week, carrying it with her all the time because there was so little free time to read now. The other girls kidded her about it, and said she was carrying a book so she could meet an intellectual fellow and that she never actually read it.

  Their first album was making it big, and the new single, “Lemme Live Now,” was in the top ten. The money was pouring in, but they never saw any of it, except their allowances and living expenses. It didn’t matter, though, because they had more money now than they had ever seen before. They haunted the five-and-ten, as purchasers now, and were thrilled to flaunt a ten-dollar bill to pay for a lipstick.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Libra booked them on every free benefit in town. All those shows needed free talent to fill up the bill, and were glad Silky and the Satins were so available. Mr. Libra said the exposure was invaluable, because eventually they would be invited on the Tonight Show. Silky was amazed that there were so many free benefits. You could work your whole life away and never make a cent. But it was thrilling to see all those other real stars in person, and the dresses and jewels on the rich ladies in the audience fascinated her. She made it a point to study them carefully so that when she got to handle her own money she would know how to dress.

  Their room in the Chelsea was a shambles, with clothes and empty boxes, bags, and tissue paper flung everywhere. The twins’ cousin, Lester, arrived from Philadelphia with his girl friend and moved in with them, sleeping on the floor, because with the five beds the sofa had been removed. The girls decided that family was not considered men, and Mr. Libra could not possibly object, but anyway they did not tell him. Then the twins’ sister, Ardra, arrived, and after her, Silky’s brother, Cornelius. The girls sent down for more pillows and blankets, and all their guests settled comfortably on the floor. Rich Marvin wanted Tamara to live with him in the Village, but she thought the Chelsea was more fun. The boys bought beer and Bourbon with money the girls gave them, and there were parties every night. Sometimes they would buy big bags of fish and chips and break their diets, drink and stuff themselves, and dance and sing to the stereo the girls had chipped in to buy. They bought about a hundred and fifty records, and then they bought a color television set, and nobody ever got much sleep except Silky, who was terrified that she would lose her voice if she didn’t take care of herself, and who had long ago learned how to fall asleep through any kind of racket.

  The Chelsea was really a groovy place, full of nuts like themselves, and they made a few new friends. One of them was a good-looking black boy named Hatcher Wilson, who was a singer, too, and played the electric guitar. He was twenty-four, and he liked Silky. She liked him, too, but she remembered her vow, and she told him she wanted him for a friend, not a boyfriend. He hung around anyway, mainly because she didn’t pay much attention to him and he wasn’t used to that. Hatcher was a real ladies’ man, and terribly vain about his looks and his clothes. The other girls thought Silky was crazy not to get some use out of a fine-looking stud like him, and they flirted with him and made him feel right at home.

  “If you don’t grab that Hatcher Wilson,” Tamara kept threatening, “I’m goin’ to grab him and marry him.” Tamara was going to marry everybody; if it wasn�
��t rich Marvin to get his money, it was her own cousin Lester to raise halfwits.

  “I ain’t goin’ to marry anybody,” Honey said. “Not me. I been married a hundred times.”

  They all wondered about Mrs. Libra, how she ever could have married an ugly freak like Mr. Libra. “What do they ever do in bed?” Honey would ask, and they would all howl with laughter trying to imagine that ape in bed with his wife.

  “She jus’ throws him a banana and says: Come git it, King Kong!” Beryl screeched, rolling on the bed with laughter.

  They all agreed Lizzie Libra was a good-looking woman. “I bet she’s got somebody else,” Cheryl said wisely.

  “You think so?”

  “Yeah,” Cheryl said. “Wouldn’t you, married to that?”

  “She looks kind of dried up,” Honey said.

  “Don’t you kid yourself,” Cheryl said. “Did you ever look at her eyes? That woman got real man-hungry eyes.”

  They all decided to take a good look at Mrs. Libra’s eyes the next time they saw her.

  It was a good time, that month before their first television show. It was a real good time. Later Silky was to look back on it and remember it as the last good time of her life.

  The girls rehearsed the Let It All Hang Out Show for two days. Silky was so nervous she couldn’t eat a thing the entire time, except for many cups of tea laced with honey for her throat. She kept feeling her throat close up, as if she would never be able to get a note out of it, and although she was not a religious person she prayed almost constantly that everything would be all right. The only thing that kept her going was the young director, Dick Devere. He was a tall, skinny, distinguished-looking man, with a calm, professional attitude that set her at ease whenever he spoke to her. It was only when she was not actually the focus of his attention that the panic began again. This show wasn’t just one of those free benefits; it was the big time.

  From the moment Dick Devere first spoke to her, or actually to all the girls, Silky admired him. He had this real cultural way of speaking, the way he pronounced words. And he dressed in a way that wasn’t at all sharp but certainly was hip. She knew his clothes were expensive. And she liked the way he moved, sort of relaxed but quick. She would watch him moving about the set, directing the other acts, and she thought he was kind of sexy. That surprised her, because it had been such a long time since she had thought of any man as sexy, or even as anything. Then, after she sang for the first time, she had the idea maybe he was noticing her too.

  She didn’t at all hold it against him that he was white. Silky had never been prejudiced. In fact, she kind of liked it. He was nothing like pimply Marvin, or that ape Mr. Libra, or the cruddy Eyetalian boys in her old neighborhood. He was real classy. She wondered if he had a wife or a girl friend.

  They did the show in their new plaid knicker suits, with little red ascot ties and their Buster Brown wigs. They looked groovy. And they had never sounded better, since they were only lip synching to their records, so it was crazy of her to worry about losing her voice, although logic had nothing to do with it. After all, someday soon they would be doing their singing live, on an even bigger TV show than this, and it would be a heck of a mess if she couldn’t sing now, just because there were millions of people watching what was coming over the camera at their end. All the girls were aware of the unseen audience, and the thing was, you had to sing out loud anyway, or it didn’t look real. When they did “You Left Me,” as usual Silky got carried away and changed some of the words without even knowing it. The girls knew it, though, and they were furious.

  “Can’t you even remember that old song?” Honey said, mad.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You certainly had enough practice,” Honey said. “I know the words.”

  “I know the words,” Silky said.

  “That girl sure is dumb,” Honey said to the others.

  Dick Devere just laughed. After the show he asked Silky to come have a drink with him. The girls raised their eyebrows when they saw her go off with him, but Silky didn’t care. She was floating on air. All the way to the bar she was wondering whether she dared order a real drink even though Mr. Libra had told them they must never drink in public.

  They went to a little bar down the street from the television studio. There were a lot of television people there. Silky had changed into her own clothes; a navy-blue wool sailor suit with a white blouse, and she was still wearing her wig and her television make-up. She glanced at herself in the mirror over the bar when they walked in and she thought she looked real good. They sat in a booth near the back, and Dick Devere ordered a Scotch on the rocks.

  “Bourbon and Coke,” she said recklessly.

  “Cigarette?”

  “Thank you, I don’t smoke.”

  “Good girl.”

  She chewed on a nail.

  “How did you ever get the name Silky?”

  “On account of ma’ voice,” she said, because it was what Mr. Libra had told her to say.

  “You’re going to be very famous one day,” Dick Devere said.

  “You think so?”

  “There’s no doubt about it. I can always tell. I see hundreds of singers, but none of them have what you do.” He smiled at her. “What’s that book you’re reading?”

  Silky showed him. It was The Death of a President.

  “I’m glad you’re not reading Valley of the Dolls,” he said.

  “Oh, I read that too.”

  “You read a lot,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “I read a book a week. I really read them too; I don’t just carry them around like the girls say.”

  “You don’t get along too well with the other girls, do you,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “Oh, sure I do!” Silky protested. “We get along just fine. They’re great girls.”

  “I think they’re jealous of you,” he said.

  “Oh, no, they’re not. We all get equal money.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference. They know you’re going to be a star someday and leave them far behind, and what’s worse, they know you deserve it and they don’t. Don’t you notice they’re jealous?”

  “I’m just too busy singing,” Silky said. The drinks came and she gulped down half of hers. It made her feel warm and more relaxed. “I’m trying to figure out where you’re from by the way you talk,” she said, “but I can’t.”

  “I’m from the Middle West. What you’re listening to is the accent I learned in a short stint at radio-announcer school. I did that for a while after college, while I was trying to break into directing. Where are you from?”

  “South Philadelphia.”

  “Then why do you have a Southern accent?”

  “I don’t,” Silky said.

  “Sometimes you do.”

  “My parents were from Georgia,” she said, remembering.

  “Are they still alive?”

  “No,” she lied. “They’re both dead.” Well, maybe her father was dead; she hadn’t heard from him in years.

  “I think you should take acting lessons,” he said thoughtfully. “Has Libra talked to you about that?”

  “No. We’re taking dancing lessons now.”

  “Well, you should ask him about an acting class. Eventually you’re going to do a Broadway musical, and you should know how to act.”

  She had forgotten about the rest of her drink. The things he was saying to her were making her dizzy. “What Broadway musical? Me? What are we going to play, a black Little Women?”

  “Not we,” he corrected. “You.”

  “I’ll never leave the girls,” she said.

  “You left them to come out with me,” he said. She realized he was teasing her.

  “That’s different,” she said.

  “Not so different. People are going to seek you out, want to see you on your own. You’re going to have a life of your own. I’m just telling you this because I want you to know it isn’t going to be so easy for yo
u to get along with the girls after a while, and I don’t want it to be a shock for you. It’s always better to be prepared.”

  “I don’t go out with anybody, and I never minded who they went out with,” Silky said. She finished her drink.

  He ordered two more. “Don’t you know anybody in New York?”

  She thought about telling him about her vow and decided against it. Telling anybody might break the magic. “Oh, I know a few boys,” she said.

  “But you don’t like any of them?”

  “I’m too busy to date,” she said. Then she realized what a dumb thing that was to say—he might think she didn’t want to see him ever again. “I mean, I guess I don’t like them much.”

  He smiled. He seemed to know a lot of things she didn’t have to bother to tell him. She couldn’t decide if he made her nervous or not. He certainly was sexy. She had decided that, anyway. He was as sexy as hell.

  “Have you always read a lot?” he asked.

  “No, just since I quit school. I didn’t think quitting school was any reason why I should stop my education.”

  “Have you ever read The Wind in the Willows?”

  “I never heard of it,” she said.

  “It’s a children’s book, but like all good children’s books it’s really for grown-ups. You should read it. And read Mary Poppins.”

  “I saw the movie,” she said.

  “It’s much better than the movie. Movies of children’s books are terrible. The great thing about a children’s book is you have to use your imagination. Once you see the people in front of your eyes on the screen you have to go by the director’s idea of what they should be like instead of your own.” He took a little leather-covered note pad out of his pocket, and a slim gold ballpoint pen and began to write. “I’m writing down a couple of books you’ve probably missed that I think you’ll enjoy.”