“We have a camera set up to record the reading,” the boyish director told Richey, “so we can review it later.”
Richey/Willy took his mark and looked around the room, commanding silence by his mere presence. Naturally a medium-sized man, today Richey somehow seemed smaller. Heavy oil plastered down his hair and made it appear darker. He’d parted it in the middle. Richey wore a wrinkled, lightweight gray summer suit and an awful, gaudy yellow tie. He'd purposefully turned up the end of one wing of his starched white shirt collar, presumably to signify slovenliness. Loose white socks gathered above the tops of oversized, black wing-tip shoes. Wire-rimmed glasses drew attention to his pallid complexion attained with makeup. Richey could be a chameleon under certain circumstances, which is a great gift for any actor.
In a squeaky voice, Richey said, “I’m going to read excerpts from Willy Loman’s part that reflect the theme of the play and the reasons for Willy’s failure as a husband, father, and man. In the first act, Willy is recalling a conversation with his boys, Hap and Biff, when they were young. Willy compares his sons to the studious neighbor boy, Bernard.”
Carmen watched, fascinated, as Richey got into character by cocking his head and listening intently, as if high-frequency instructions were incoming from above. Several other observers also looked around, trying to hear what Richey/Willy heard — which, of course, was impossible.
Suddenly, Willy had an infectious smile on his face and the audience brightened with him, as if a light from the stage had washed over them. Moving first left, and then right, Willy gave enthusiastic advice to his sons: “It doesn’t make any difference if Bernard gets the best grades in school because that doesn’t mean anything in the business world, you understand? The man who people admire gets ahead. Be liked and you’ll always make a good living. Take me, for instance. I’ve never waited in line to see a buyer. They just announce my name—‘Willy Loman is here’—and I breeze right into the big man’s office.”
Richey paused and looked at the floor for several seconds. “My next reading is from Act Two. Willy is in a Boston hotel room with a woman and Biff comes to tell his dad he’s flunked math and won’t graduate high school, and won’t get a football scholarship to college. Biff is devastated to find his father in the midst of an affair.”
Richey again got into character and suddenly appeared cantankerous and embarrassed at the same time. He waved his arms about wildly. “Let’s get going, Biff. Get my suits out of the closet and put them in the suitcase. What? What! For God’s sake, don’t make a big deal out of it. She’s just another buyer staying in the hotel. Stopped by to talk shop.” Willy/Richey suddenly looked as if the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. “Don’t cry, Biff. You’ll understand about these things when you grow up. You mustn’t blow something like this out of proportion.”
Willy seemed worn out, and beaten down by life. Carmen used a Kleenex to dab at unexpected tears. Richey told her he had memorized the performances of Lee J. Cobb and Dustin Hoffman when they portrayed Willy, on stage and in the movies. Richey had borrowed from both of them, particularly Cobb’s facial expressions and Hoffman’s body movements.
In his own voice, Richey said, “I’ll finish with Willy’s imaginary conversation with his brother, Ben, in which Willy talks about his funeral and reminisces about his boys, especially Biff.”
Richey/Willy took on the demeanor of a man fading away, almost a specter. “Oh, Ben, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could relive all the great times? I remember one winter, the boys riding in a sleigh, their cheeks all red with color. One success after another. Nothing but good news. The road ahead looked so bright. I’d come home and he’d always carry my bag into the house. And, polish and polish that red Chevy until it sparkled! Why wasn’t it ever enough, Ben? Why’d he hate me?”
Richey/Willy stood silently for about thirty seconds and somehow made it seem as if the light was fading from his eyes, and life’s energy draining out of his body. Was he in character, thinking about Willy’s life and his relationship with Biff, or was Richey thinking about himself and his son, Ethan. The play was a classic because it spoke to every member of the audience. It crystallized a universal story about a human being trying to maneuver his way through life and end it feeling loved, respected and successful in his/her chosen field of endeavor. But, in the case of Willy and so many others, there’s nothing at the end of life except disappointment, weariness, and a long list of unanswered questions.
Then, Richey walked away as Willy. Walked right by the camera operator, the youthful director, the receptionist, other actors and observers, up the short flight of stairs, and out of the library into the gray cold of the day, where one’s breath hung visibly in the air for a few moments.
No one said a word, nor moved, until Carmen suddenly rushed after him, bursting out into the parking lot.
Richey had taken off his stage-prop glasses and his eyes brimmed with tears as Carmen came to stand near him. It looked as if she wanted to take him into her arms, but was afraid to embrace a strange man. “Wow,” she said, and meant it. “I never knew.”
“Was it good, did you think?” he asked, in imitation of Lee J. Cobb’s raspy, demanding voice.
“Good? It was great! Fantastic, magnificent. Anybody else who came to try out for Willy’s part has to be dying in there right now. I saw a guy drop his script on the floor and hold his head.”
He nodded like Dustin Hoffman; that nod that kept going like his head was a ball on the end of a rubber band. “I don’t know about this so-called modern dialogue. Did it sound natural? I hope the story doesn’t get lost.”
“It sounded fine, Richey. The story is timeless. Universal.”
“What about you?” Richey/Willy/Lee J. Cobb demanded, jutting his jaw. “Maybe you could try out for the part of one of the girls at Frank’s Chop House. Whadaya say, Carmen?”
She brushed an errant strand of hair from her face. “Not today, Richey. Maybe next Saturday. There’ll be another audition then.”
“Yeah, yeah, next Saturday. Next Saturday,” Richey/Willy/Dustin said, waiting around in a small circle. Carmen could see that he couldn’t or didn’t want to get out of character. Didn’t want to leave.
As she drove south toward the suburbs, he slumped against the door, a sad look on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“I was just thinking about the play. About the relationship between Biff and Willy. Toward the end of act two, Biff says that the truth was a stranger in their house. Willy blew him so full of hot air that he couldn’t function in the real world. He says to Willy, ‘Pop, I’m a dime a dozen, and so are you!’ That must be the way Ethan feels about me.”
“I doubt that.”
“Maybe not. He'll probably be successful in the banking business there in Chicago. Maybe all my hot air blew him in the other direction. The right direction. Maybe I should be proud.”
∞ ∞ ∞
She tried to talk him into celebrating somewhere else, but Richey insisted on going to The Stadium. Carmen tried not to let that choice detract from her enthusiasm for his success. Their success.
Inside, the majority of televisions were tuned to the interstate college football rivalry pitting the Tigers against the ʼCats. It was one of the big games of the college football season and drew a slightly younger crowd than usual. The majority of these rabid fans were not students. Maybe they knew a student enrolled at one of the two campuses; or, most likely, they were fans simply because the teams were from their home state. That was possible today, since the state line ran north and south right through the center of the metropolitan area. Finally, it was an excuse to get drunk and loud, as if they needed one. No one talked; everyone shouted.
Even though she’d been in the bar numerous times since meeting Richey, Carmen felt distinctly uneasy there. First, she really didn’t like bars for deep psychological reasons that involved her alcoholic father. Second, she felt out of place because she usually was the only
Hispanic in The Stadium. Oftentimes, including this afternoon, she was overdressed in a black pantsuit, which made her stick out among the jeans and sweatshirt crowd.
They found two empty seats at the far end of the bar, where a pole obstructed the view of the various monitors.
When their drinks arrived, Carmen held up her glass and said, “Here’s to you, Richey. I know you’ll get the part of Willy.”
He clinked his glass against hers, and said, “Thanks, Carmen. I hope so but you never know.”
“They couldn’t possibly give it to someone else.”
“Really? Why not? Life isn’t fair, remember? Every day of the world people get cheated out of what’s rightfully theirs, or what they should have a right to expect.”
“You’re not a dime a dozen, Richey. No one who saw your performance today could believe that.”
“I’m not trying to be a wet blanket, Carmen. I was happy with my audition, but it was a bittersweet feeling. It’s a good part in a great play that’ll be performed by a mediocre acting troupe in front of audiences that will number in the hundreds. The lead performers will get about five hundred bucks apiece, if they’re SAG members. And, if there’s a profit. The producers probably will be lucky to break even. They are only doing this for credits. To showcase their talent. Hopefully, leapfrog to the front of the class.”
There would be six rehearsals at the library beginning the last week of October. Performances were scheduled for the first two weekends in November, on Friday and Saturday nights, and Sunday afternoon. Those performances would take place in Cranston Hall, a theater on the third floor of The Shops, a mall and hotel complex located downtown near the J.T. Warren Convention Center. There would be a dress rehearsal the Wednesday night before opening night on Friday.
“Your performance ranks right up there with the best, Richey,” Carmen persisted stubbornly, not wanting to let him rain on their celebratory parade.
Richey held up his empty glass to get the bartender’s attention. Many of the other patrons stared suspiciously at the character Richey had created, perhaps wondering if it was really him. One guy sitting on the other side of the bar shouted, “Richey, you look all fucked up! You got cancer or something?”
“Yes, the doctor says I got two weeks to live! The funeral expenses will be a bitch. I think you guys should buy my drinks until I die.”
“Go ahead and fuckin’ die, then!” the critic said, generating laughter and a chorus of Fuckin’-As from those sitting near him. One guy gave Richey the finger.
Richey ignored his inebriated brethren and continued with his analysis of life’s unfair nature. “I never understood why we teach young kids in public school all those myths they have to unlearn almost immediately after they turn eighteen and enter the work force,” he said, accepting a martini from the bartender, who said it was on the house.
“What do you mean?” Carmen asked.
“We tell school kids they can have what they want and achieve all their dreams if they are good and work hard. What a bunch of bullshit! It’s nothing other than propaganda. Who do they think are gonna work all the shit jobs? You actually have a better chance of making it to the top and getting rich if you suck up, are unscrupulous, or a flagrant crook. Willy Loman knew that, but like everyone else he denied it, choosing instead to believe the ideal until he couldn’t believe it anymore.”
“How’s it feel to be the world’s premiere cynic,” Carmen said lightly, sipping her margarita.
“Good. It feels good to know the truth and tell it. It shall set you free, I’m told. That and damn good vodka. Stoly or Absolut, preferably, although that certainly isn’t the bar stock here.”
“You’re funny, Richey. Maybe you can do some standup comedy on karaoke nights.”
“Like Fantine in Les Miserables, I could sing: ‘Now life has killed the dream I dreamed.’” Anyway, I’m trying to put my bitter, angry days behind me, Carmen, so maybe it would be appropriate to turn my experiences into a comedy routine. My time in Hollywood certainly was a joke.”
“Maybe you didn’t give it enough time,” Carmen replied. “And, I agree with you. A lot of it is luck, or who you know.”
“Or, who you blow. I didn’t suck any dick when I was out there, or bend over and grab my ankles. Maybe that was the problem. I’ve certainly thought a lot about it since I came back.”
“And, your conclusions?”
“I was one of those school kids who got brainwashed. Unfortunately, I accepted the idea that the business of America is business. That everyone should get a job. A regular job like my father and all his friends had. Acting really isn’t a job job. It’s entertainment, a service the audience pays for, if they’ve got the money to spare, and appreciate the art form. It’s not one of life’s essentials.”
“Life would be pretty boring without it. What do you call what’s going on in this place?”
“Depravity? The point is, I always felt a bit ashamed of being an actor. Felt that way almost against my will. I can’t tell you how many people, including my pops, said to me, ‘Richey, you’re smart enough to be a doctor or a lawyer, so why don’t you go to school and do that instead of this acting thing.’ Actors, they’re all faggots or liberals, anyway.”
“You didn’t listen to all those contrary voices, obviously.”
“Maybe subconsciously. Maybe that’s why I didn’t give Hollywood enough time. Only a year. All actors struggle, some for their entire professional life. There are character actors who die after decades in the business and no one even knew their real names. But, those actors accepted all the liabilities of their profession: the scorn, frustration, low pay, and the defeats. Why? Because they were dedicated to their profession. They weren’t ashamed and they were working. People like that are real actors, not part-time self-doubters like me. They accept the fact that they aren’t going to get paid a weekly or monthly salary. Not consistently, anyway. They don’t expect health insurance and a retirement fund. They may even forgo marriage and a family, or marry another actor. They are committed to weathering long periods of time when they have no income and no place to sleep except friends’ apartments. Frankly, I never really had that level of commitment.”
“You had a wife and a son to think about.”
“Yes, that’s true,” he said, downing the martini in one long gulp.
Silence reigned for several minutes. The boisterous atmosphere of the bar on a college football Saturday was a welcome respite.
“How come you didn’t rage at the world when you discovered you couldn’t paint for a living, Carmen?”
“Because I’m not good enough to make a living as an artist.”
He looked at her and drew his head back in a gesture of shock. “That's not true! I’ve seen your stuff. You’re good, period. The marketplace makes a thousand miscalculations per hour about what’s valuable and what isn’t. I’ve been in many art galleries and heard people rant and rave over the genius of some work of art while I’m thinking that any third-grader could have done just as well. Usually, they only like it because they read somewhere that some critic said they should, for some fatuous reason. Actually, I don’t believe art should be judged in the marketplace by critics and rich people.”
“How would you judge it?”
“It shouldn’t be judged, other than maybe by other artists. Art should be executed and/or performed, period. Artists should be organized and control every aspect of their work products. Financial investors trying to make a profit from art should be banned. Unfortunately, it’s easier to herd cats than to effectively organize creative artists.”
“Your audition today will be judged,” she said, not wanting to point out that he’d already judged himself a failure as an actor. Yet, he continued to audition.
“Yes, I will be judged by several sniveling young playwrights and producers trying to get into the business of entertainment. To them, art is just a vehicle. You’re making my point, you know, Carmen.”
She remained silent,
not wanting to argue further with him.
But Richey wouldn’t let it go. “You remember how we met?”
“Of course.” It was during a summer art fair in Tremont Plaza, where Carmen had rented a booth to exhibit her oil paintings and bronze sculptures. Richey had been very enthusiastic about her work and he bought several pieces. At the time, Carmen initially figured he’d made the investment just so she’d feel obligated to go out with him. He wasn’t the first customer who had tried that gambit. However, he had convinced her that he cared about her work. Really cared, and understood the passion of it. It’s not possible to fake such enthusiasm. At that point, she became interested in him, although she had begun to fear that she was making a classic girlfriend mistake, by trying to mother Richey, or reform him. She knew now that neither approach would work.
“How do you know you wouldn’t get better, maybe even great, if you spent as much time on your own work as you do coming up with the art work for some magazine print ad designed to sell dog food.”
“I didn’t think you listened when I told you about my accounts,” Carmen said, laughing. The ad agency where she worked had landed a new account with a company that manufactured pet food and supplies.
“In the nineteenth century, many French painters considered painting their life’s work and people respected them for it.”
“Yes, and many of them starved, including Van Gogh. He and Gauguin lived like gypsies. They were homeless, sometimes. Neither one of them had a ten-year-old daughter. If they did, they didn't care what happened to her. I’m neither that insensitive, nor self-centered. Or, as you say, I’m not that committed.”
“So, in fact, you’re just like me. You didn’t want to feel the pain and humiliation of pursuing your passion to its deadly end, regardless of the price.”
Carmen held out her glass again, hoping to put an end to this conversation. “I’ll drink to that.”
He toasted her good-naturedly and sat silently for the longest time while looking directly into her eyes, his head nodding. Each of them understood that the other understood, which partly explained their mutual attraction. They really were soul mates, even with the differences in age, ethnic background, culture and lifestyle.
The Money Game Page 9