by Bobbi Marolt
“Let Felice read last. The women before her deserve their chance.”
Clive’s interest was renewed. “Okay, let’s have the next reader.” He looked back at Liz. “In the future, talk to the director before you close auditions. In the meantime, let’s see how Felice does.”
While the remaining women read, Liz scribbled feverishly over her script. She tagged dialogue with the opposite character and she drew a sketch of a split set with similar features placed opposite. On the top left, she wrote “Marty.” On the right, she wrote “Felice.”
“Counting your chickens?”
“They’re just names, kitten.”
“Just names?” She assumed “kitten” was to soften the blow of using Felice and she was uncomfortable now with Liz’s claim of producer. “You can be more honest with me. You’ll let Clive audition these women and then you’ll flex your muscle, won’t you?”
She continued with jots and deletions. “Only if Felice proves herself deserving of the part, and I hope she does. She’s exactly what the show needs. Her envy over you will have people knocking down doors to get tickets.”
Marty scowled. “Oh, well, of course. Sometimes I forget I’m a commodity.”
Liz looked up at her. “If Felice is our choice, Clive and I will discuss it with you.”
Marty turned her eyes front and scanned the rounded backs of the seats until the stage came into her view. She fixed her gaze on the drape that occasionally moved on the right. She knew Felice caused the motion of that curtain. She’s exactly what the show needs, Marty’s brain repeated. Liz’s statement evoked the evolution of Broadway divas. Out with the old and in with the new. Not gonna happen. Marty wouldn’t give Felice the opportunity to upstage her. Her eyes remained riveted on the wing, and then she laughed.
“You know what? Bring her on. If that curtain rises with Felice Tate on the other side of the stage, God bless all of us.”
“Atta girl,” Nina said from behind and patted Marty’s shoulder.
Marty wanted to scream. Not out of anger, but out of fatigue and for her resiliency that had decided to shirk its duties. She fought to keep her emotions in check. Her current situation, everything that had happened in recent weeks, called for a good yell that would shake the shingles from Battery Park to Harlem. Meanwhile, she’d await the final candidate.
Growing impatient, Marty stood. “Clive, wrap this up and get to Felice.”
“Felice is next,” Liz said.
Before the current woman finished her monologue, Marty grabbed the revised copy of the script. She left her seat in row five and proceeded backstage. There, at the wing, Felice stood and she faced the stage. Marty stepped quietly and stopped inches from her. She leaned so close to Felice that she almost became a part of her.
“Boo,” she said.
Felice swung around and tripped over her feet. She smashed into Marty and both landed on the floor with Felice on top. Felice looked scared to death.
“Damn it!”
As Felice was about to push herself up, Marty grabbed Felice’s arm. “Looking for another kiss?”
“You wish.” Blushing, if not mortified, Felice got up from the floor and helped Marty to her feet. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I whispered. Are you that skittish around me? It seems that wouldn’t be a natural Tate trait.” Marty picked up the script and handed it to Felice.
“I’m scared to death, walking in here and half expecting you to put your money where your mouth is.”
“You’ve been dancing all over me in the columns, and now you’re—”
Felice glanced at the front page of the play. “This is the show? What’s all of this scribbling? Oh, how professional your team is.”
If Felice hadn’t strummed her smartass chord, Marty would have more readily accepted her presence and encouraged her to read. Instead, the true Felice emerged, and Marty wasn’t in the mood for her.
Marty glared. “That mess could be your ticket to Broadway, Ms. Tate. You’ll read from that script, and I suggest you begin soon.”
Felice protested. “That’s not fair. The others read what they’d chosen.”
“Yes, they did. Doesn’t it make more sense to read from the script you’ll work from? You’re the only one given this opportunity. If you don’t get out onto that stage now, I swear I will take you over my knee and spank you.” She looked at her nails and then back at Felice.
Felice flushed. “That’s harassment. I could—”
“You could what? The way you shoot your mouth off around town, no one will take you seriously.” She guided Felice to down center stage and pointed to Liz and Clive. “They’ll determine if you’re good enough. If they agree to use you, they’ll discuss it with me.”
“Really?” Felice laughed. “Marty Jamison will welcome me with open arms. Please. I’m a snowball in hell, standing here.”
Marty turned to the house. “Clive, Felice changed her mind. I think you should call back—”
“I have not!” Felice yelled to Clive in her own determined way and turned back to Marty. “Just let me read.”
“Break a leg.”
Marty walked off stage and waited in the wing. She’d prefer Felice wouldn’t get the part, strictly for selfish reasons. Emotionally, the situation was fifty-fifty for her. For Felice’s public barbs, she could dangle this job in front of her, make her eat her words, and maybe request an apology. No, she didn’t want an apology. She was just tired and cranky. Felice was a good sidekick. Marty rubbed her eyes, trying to awaken more while she waited for Felice to begin.
Felice cleared her throat and stood silent. She looked over at Marty and then back toward the house. Marty sighed. Felice seemed lost on that bit of stage, and if she didn’t get on with her reading, Clive would thank her and tell her to go home. Felice motioned for Marty to come out to the stage.
“What’s your problem now?” she asked, but then noticed Felice’s irregular breathing pattern. “Are you okay?”
“I think I’m going to throw up.”
Marty laughed outwardly. She softened, took hold of Felice’s arm, and eased her to the stage floor. “Just breathe.”
Clive walked to the apron. “Are you okay, Felice?”
“Yes. Can I have a minute before I read?”
“Yeah, sure. Liz is writing up something new and we’ll get it to you in a minute. Just relax.” He returned to his seat.
“What does he mean?” Felice asked.
“I’m not sure, but we’ll find out soon enough. Are you feeling better?”
“A little. I didn’t think I’d be nervous around you. It’s easier talking crap about you than showing you I’m a qualified actor.”
Marty rubbed Felice’s arm in a motherly way. “I’m aware of your talent. Since I received this script, everyone around me has said you need to play opposite me. I’ve laughed and I’ve groaned about it, but I’m ready to accept this situation as a given.”
Felice looked mildly astonished. “You’d actually work with me? After everything I’ve said?”
“You’ll grow out of the naïve wannabe star and concentrate on great acting. Everyone goes through that phase and some make it to the top. Now you have the chance to convince them that you’re the only woman capable of handling the role. I’m handing you step one, Felice.” She watched Liz approach the stage. “If they give you the thumbs up, you’re mine.”
“Oh shit,” she said, now fully astonished. “I’m not the same caliber as you. I’m just mouthy and having fun. Auditioning was a joke. I wanted to annoy you.”
“Really?” Marty snorted a laugh. “Look, you were brave enough to come. Since you disrupted the process, you should at least read. What do you have to lose?”
Liz approached the apron and held papers toward them. “Clive wants you to read together.”
Marty glanced over the paper and handed one to Felice. “This is new dialogue.”
Liz nodded. “And it’s just the beginning. As soon as we h
eard you two bickering, we needed a fresh approach. Have fun.” She smiled and returned to her seat.
Marty leaned over to Felice. “Are you okay to do this? You won’t lose your lunch, will you?”
“I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself. I almost idolize you. Why do you think I make comments? It isn’t just about press. It’s about me wishing I had half the talent you have. I don’t belong here.” Felice stood. “Thank you,” she said to Clive, “but I’ve decided not to read for the part. Good-bye.” Felice walked toward the wing.
Marty fumed, caught Felice by the hand before she disappeared into the wing, and pulled her back to the stage. “Wait one damn minute, Tater tot. You disrupted this audition, your presence closed the audition, and now you chicken out? That’s bullshit. You’ll read for this part if I have to work your legs like a bellows and blow the words out of you.”
Felice shoved her hands onto her hips. “Tater tot. That’s so cute. Can’t you come up with something more original?”
“You’re trying my patience.” She picked up the page that Felice had dropped to the floor. She shoved it back into her hand. “You have the first line.”
Felice looked at the paper and, with a lilt in her voice, said, “Fine.”
Marty wished to God she could just go home and go to sleep. Lips pursed, she tapped her toe, and waited, and waited. Felice cocked her head.
“Just read your line,” Marty said impatiently. Felice said nothing more and then Marty heard Liz and Clive laughing.
She tried to curb a giggle. “That was my line.”
Marty stopped her toe in mid tap. She looked at her page of the script. In Liz’s handwriting, the dialogue beneath the subconscious character’s name had a single word. Fine.
She let go of the script page and watched the paper sail quietly to the floor. She looked up at Felice and Felice backed away. Marty didn’t know what expression Felice saw, but there was fear in her eyes. Marty held the look for another moment, just because she could. Then she abruptly turned and faced the house. “I want Felice opposite me,” she said. Allison let out a whoop and Nina clapped.
Felice let out her breath and then sucked in another. “Oh my God, I can’t—”
Marty shook Felice’s hand. “Welcome to Broadway. We have an unnamed play that’s pretty much nothing more than a massive jumble at this point.”
Visibly shaken, Felice looked around the stage, up and into the catwalk, and then her eyes followed the proscenium arch. “I don’t believe what’s happened. I’m playing Broadway.”
There were goose bumps on Felice’s arms and Marty’s flesh prickled in response. For her, watching Felice was like watching herself all those years ago. She felt Felice’s wonderment. The magic of the theater had never ceased.
“The pay sucks. We’re on scale.”
“Coffee money. I’ll manage,” Felice said. “I guess this is where I thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” To Marty, those few minutes with Felice proved just as amazing and amusing as when Liz poured her heart out on the same floor.
Clive and Liz approached the stage. They congratulated Felice and sent her to wardrobe. A bottle of black dye, or a wig, was in order.
“We have some things to run through with you,” Clive said.
Careful of the footlights, Marty sat near the edge of the apron. Was it bedtime yet? She sighed sleepily. “I’m listening.”
Liz began. “Basically, the show remains the same. Your character wants to commit suicide and she talks with her subconscious. Instead of Felice playing the consoling, younger subconscious character, she’ll play the whimsical smartass. In essence, she’ll play herself.”
Marty blinked. She narrowed her eyes. What did she just say? She and Felice would play themselves? She looked to her right, at Clive, and then left at Liz. Marty guessed where they were about to go and she wasn’t pleased. She leaned forward, placed her hands on their arms, and pulled them arm against arm. Marty rubbed her hands over her face and then through her hair. She bit her lip. Marty made every imaginable gesture, just to keep from flipping out. If they understood how she steamed inside, they’d be halfway to Buffalo. Still, she was professional enough to listen, just in case she was wrong.
Liz and Clive continued back and forth. Talk of new ideas, box office numbers, and how the show had magically transformed from a drama, to a comedy, and now to a…to a what? A biomedy? That sounded like a remedy for indigestion. Somebody please make them stop and she could go home and get some sleep.
“What do you think?” Clive asked. “I think Liz has the right idea.”
Marty looked at Liz.
“We’re talking a sold out house every night,” Liz said. “Before the show ends, you and Felice will own this town. New York will eat out of your hands. With a good start tonight, I can have a new script by the time I’m back from the Bahamas.”
Clive wrote in his notebook. “I’ll get a press release out and we’ll get the marquee changed today. Maybe we can get you and Felice scheduled for a Live at Five interview on NBC. I’m thinking Sue Simmons for the interviewer.”
“We’ll prime the Tri-State Area,” Liz said.
They continued with their rapid-fire ideas. While their personal dialogue banged like pots and pans in her brain, Marty’s head geared up to explode. To counter their moment, she turned diva.
Marty held her hands up. “Stop it.” Silence. She waited the proper beat. “First of all”—she zeroed in on Liz—“you need to brush up on your Who’s Who in theater. I already own this town.” She smiled and nodded. “Oh yeah, and don’t you forget that.” Liz’s smile disappeared. “Second, I will not allow either of you to pimp my private life to the masses. Third,” she repeated the word more forcefully, “third, if this comes down to my having to perform your way, somebody better start writing some damn music to keep this songbird happy.”
“We don’t have the cash flow for songwriters and an orchestra,” Liz said.
Marty shot an angry look at her. “Find it. You and the good doctor own this show. You should be busting your ass and gathering financial support. You so aptly worked your producer hat today. Produce some cash for us.” She swept her eyes to Clive. “I’m serious. You want to make a joke of me? Then you had better drown me with the key of B flat. If I don’t have at least one song in my hand by Monday, I’m out of here.”
Liz found her producer hat again. “I’ll have you in court.”
Marty laughed. “For what? My contract says a dramatic, one-woman show. That’s not what you’ve got here. I’ll counter sue. And you know what? I’ll win. Take that thought to the Bahamas with you. End of story.” Marty stood and exited stage left. She stopped and waited behind the drape.
“Talk to her,” she heard Clive say.
“I’ll give her a few minutes.”
Allison spoke up, irritated. “You guys threw too much at her. Your idea is damn brilliant, but you know how stressed Marty’s been. I’m surprised she didn’t tell both of you to go to hell.”
“I think she did,” Clive said.
Although a temperamental diva had always lurked close to the surface, Marty’d kept that part of her at bay on most occasions. Today was an exceptional day. Her heart thumped wildly against her chest. Exhilarated and with enough spontaneous energy to scale the proscenium arch with her fingertips and back again, she did the second best thing. In a light-footed jog, she wound through the maze of hallways and into the early afternoon sunshine.
Marty darted across the street and up to the streaming havoc of Times Square at noon. After a quick right turn and a pace powerful enough to expend some anger, one street later she arrived at Europa Café. She shoved the door open and stopped abruptly at the counter.
“The usual, Ms. Jamison?” the barista asked.
“Please. A shot of espresso, too.”
Marty paid him and then sat in a seat that faced Broadway. Her heart continued its strong rhythm against her chest. She looked out the window and stared at
the globe on the JVC billboard across Broadway. She fiddled with the straw in her drink. What irked her most was Allison’s statement that it was a brilliant idea. The more she thought about that statement, she understood that their new take on the show truly was a smart move.
In Gypsy, when Rose realized her daughter’s act had ended up in the dregs of a sleazy, vaudeville burlesque show, she made the moment work. Rose forced Louise into performing a strip number. “You aren’t really gonna strip. All you’re gonna do is walk around the stage…and drop a shoulder strap,” Rose had said. Reluctantly, Louise gave the audience a little and they begged for more. Louise was an instant success.
Without Felice and the new direction of the show, “dregs” closed in as the operative word for their play. With Felice on board and new ideas, there could be nowhere to go but up. Marty felt personally defeated with that admission.
She stared at her colossal, silkscreened likeness that hung next to the JVC globe. “You do own this town, but you’re not above giving a little.”
She grabbed her coffee and walked casually back toward the theater. When she came across the bagel shop on 44th street, she went inside, sat down, and then pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Here’s another one for you, Joyce.” She called Liz.
“Where are you?” Liz asked.
“I’m sitting in the seat you were in on the day we met.”
“Really? Is that a good memory or one you’d rather erase?”
“It fluctuates. Had you asked me fifteen minutes ago, I’d have wanted to erase that day.”
“Then I’m thankful for the interlude. Are you coming back or do I have to send the hounds for you?”
She sensed a smile at the end of Liz’s sentence. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I’d like all of you to meet me in my dressing room. Will you arrange that for me?”
“Of course. Are you okay? Clive and I hit you with a lot.”