Forward to Glory

by Brian Paul Bach

  ‘You mocked me all through this, Del.’

  ‘Aw, c’mon! Cancha take a joke? I knew he was worth picking up that dastardly day. A loser of the pavements! Headed upwards! It was just a charitable, public service, is all.’

  ‘Del, just dump the ‘loser’ shit once and for all, huh? Everybody in the world’s not a loser, you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well. Your kid tonight! Zowie.’

  ‘I tell ya, Del, look at this room. This place. See what we’re responsible for? Big stuff. Big moments. Moments in people’s lives.’

  ‘What’re you, going back to your days in the Wm. Morris mailroom?’

  ‘There’s something about this kid that makes me stop and smell the roses. He makes me look at the moment, and the consequences of the moment. I guess I’ve never really done that before.’

  ‘You may not believe me, Son, but I don’t have a problem with what you’re saying. I’ve been looking for a way to do just that for the whole of my career. Mind if I join in?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m glad you feel that way, Del. No, come on in. First there are only a few. But their numbers will grow, I tell you. How many, I cannot even guess. You’re in, Del.’

  ‘But listen, Sonny. I got some points. Why didn’t, and why don’t, you give this kid some help in working out all this shit? He’s all on his own.’

  ‘Because, Del, I don’t want him all pansied-out by doing everything for him. It’s not his style, anyway. Does anyone know how he came out of the nameless dark to suddenly appear on our door-step? I don’t know any of those things. And I probably never will. They’re beyond me. No, our job is right here. We are the promoters, the enablers. We assist, but in this case, we don’t mollycoddle. I don’t want him ruined.’

  ‘OK. Agreed.’

  Then, with a puckish leer, Del leaned over and said, ‘So, does he have to do his own shopping if he needs athlete’s foot powder, or his own laundry, or his oil changes?’

  ‘I do declare, Del, if he wants to, yes. And he wants to.’

  22.

  Alun Parsnip Presents: BUTTERBUGS, Starring In A Special Presentation

  Grauman’s Metropolitan!

  An impossibly vast, Brobdingnagian block of brick and stone and plaster and tile and cast concrete and deep pile and velour, and strange, oh so strange, art and décor and, and – stark wonder!

  Upper lobby murals inspired by some lost race! Hard-to-describe lanterns and chandeliers with turquoise and teal and lavender low-wattage bulbs! Brown light dully glowing, grey panels filling, amidst forest-green slabs amongst the stone piers. Indirect ways unto earthen mosaics and frescoes, subdued in color, despite otherworldly orientation, spangled with gold squares or dull silver, narratives from buried epics, mightier than we know. Of Urwand’s Lessons, Vunn’s dynasties and other triumphs we should know of, but don’t. Early capitals on pillars – Minoan, Cretan… or possibly cretin?

  That was Grauman’s Metropolitan Theatre, a wholly original work, on par with the Pantheon in Rome, Les Invalides in Paris, or the Kunsthistorisches Museum in old Vienna!

  So far from here, where it came from, and so long ago, Grauman’s embryo – foundational time, before time! Furnitures of astonishing heaviness, with puzzling brocades! Hangings, arras, swags, alcove fixtures, textured walls, even in the most obscure places! Doorknobs of beaten ancientness! Paintings of the most ornate and arcane symbolism! Blessed unknown! Sacred to the joy of the bizarre!

  Further inside, struck by the savagery, the massive primitiveness, and the speedy dream of some legendary palace; if Stalin had built Persepolis – well, perhaps not. Jan Toorop or Félicien Rops might have had a hand in it! It was all so magnificent.

  Yet, one might almost be compelled to flee, out of pure terror.

  In its far-flung complex of lobbies, corridors and foyers, a land of great images. Mutant creatures out of Ser Marco Polo or the Neverfound Annals of Andromeda: snail-deer, coiled and reared-up in agonized guardianship to the upper levels; reptilian hog-kittens in sarcophagic repose, taunting the intruder with the inscription ‘They shall not pass’ engraved in the pumice-rubbed stone in words of English, translated from the archaic Nuxtussian tongue; back-lighted totems of clueless heritage; claw-bearing and slug-like Procrastination beasts, the spirit of the building itself; and a George Washington-faced sphinx sitting atop a mountain of sloped and knurled concrete, specially imported from quarries in the center of the construction material-producing planet of Zomptzruzz.

  It seated 7806 in austere but truly grand style. No one dared put their finger on a label for what surrounded them. Still, the struggle persisted as to where this thing came from. It was not Hittite, nor hardly Persian. Not Inca, nor from the creators of Baalbek. Taxila could never lay claim for its inspiration, and ruined Zimbabwe of old could not, either. It was a nameless civilization that had reigned at the nativity of this design, perhaps before Creation itself (according to Ussher’s system). Or it could have emerged from the detritus of the Deluge, monumental proof that they knew how to create and how to build, before freedom was gone from the world!

  The terrible wonder it inspired was elevated above all convention, and the movie-going patron knew indefinable exaltation just by entering (under the nation’s longest marquee), and proceeding into this exuberant but mind-blowing composite. Here was where the Drama could flourish amongst weird but transporting environmental atoms. Surely enhancement of indeterminate proportions would materialize within this astonishing admixture…

  Here was where the longest distance between projector lens and screen enhanced the motion picture experience – as if that micro-millisecond delay in light reaching its destination with subservient sound subliminally introduced some cosmic element into the audiences’ absorbency, endowing the given movie with more magic than anywhere else, regardless of which studio it came from, or even who was in it, or what screen process by which it was delivered. In fact, whether the presentation was on screen or stage, images were brighter, clearer, and more memorable at the Metropolitan. The sound richer, the meaning of everything more exalted, somehow.

  One night, ultra-late, when sitting in the center section after the show, Mr. Grauman had the place all to himself. He pondered his place in the showbiz universe, and looked straight up, as if for guidance. The great Doily Dome hovered way up there, lighted in a Neptunian way, from the far-off solo ghost light on stage. It was then and there that the Grand Old Showman had the inspiration to embark on the stormy seas of motion picture production and distribution, and thus, the great success that is Metropolitan Pictures was born.

  Only one of the examples of the Metropolitan’s mysterious and promotional powers…

  The house itself, though: Sid’s most opiate dream. Ben M. Hall called it ‘Croesus in Concrete’, with building blocks plucked from a narcotic ocean of dreams, hands guided by maestro architects William Lee Woollett and William Wig, unto completion.

  Unexplainably sublime.

  And so, Butterbugs got himself down to Blackjack Pershing Square and thence to Sixth and Hill in time for the lights to come on.

  He felt the misty thrill. Faces appeared out of the gloom and looked up at the Metropolitan’s immense, bulbed sign on the roof.

  SID GRAUMAN PRESENTS THE METROPOLITAN

  So many letters glowing, so many sources of light, each with an individual halo, spreading across the entire truss-span. Both onlookers and the sign itself had huge expectations.

  ‘Be there at 7:00. At the Metropolitan, you hear??’

  Sonny had been ecstatic. He so loved the Metropolitan, like many in the Industry’s crème, and securing it was the biggest booking coup of his career, so far. Oh, he’d handled all the stars in heaven one way or another, but booking this house, for his own purposes, that was something else entirely.

  Through the greasy dun night, letters on the marquee read: TONIGHT ONLY: THE BARD’S ‘MERCHANT’ WITH AN INTERESTING CAST OF YOUNG PEOPLE.

  Name on a marquee for Butterbugs? Well, not yet
awhile.

  His recent acting in front of a camera had been disorienting. As with about three quarters of the actors who ever lived, his orientation was toward the immediate reality of the stage. Even the strut across the long walk of the Shrine’s boards had taken its own sense of theatrical engineering, but with motion pictures, the cut-and-paste logic required some revisionist decisions to be made, as far as craft was concerned. The adaptability of the actor must and shall be practiced. Were classes, workshops, seminars, or even retreats needed in order to learn this stuff? Sonny had pushed the stage as grammar school, so that answers to such questions could be found via legit experience, as he maintained this very night.

  Why, particularly?

  ‘Can I really be a photoplay actor?’ Butterbugs had confessed unto Sonny.

  ‘What we want is permanence!’ Sonny had declared. ‘And presence! The stage? Just for the moment it stands. The moment! The fleeting moment! Who remembers the Broadway of 1914? Huh? OK, then. Now, who remembers ‘Tillie’s Punctured Romance’ (Keystone, 1914)? I tell you, I do!’

  He was probably still bitter about Tashkent Chimm’s testament, ‘Justified Obscurity’. ‘That ‘New Yorker’ article,’ as he referred to it. Its message was of heavy cheer as far as permanence was concerned.

  ‘But let me tell you,’ Sonny concluded, ‘if you can’t do it up in front of the footlights, you can’t do it anywhere. The transitory leads to the permanent. Now get on up there, right now!’

  Tonight, Butterbugs would have to prove if he was a natural or not. Sonny had seen a few of the ‘Doughboy’ dailies, but it was the faith factor that still made him back Butterbugs. The pudding in which proof was intermixed had yet to emerge from the boilage process. Good lookin’ ingredients, promising bouquet, but a flavor yet unknown. Pudding can decay into putrefied suet pretty fast.

  To the stage actor, a few picture hits are fine enough. Money as incentive. Similarly, to the photoplay player, some legit hits never hurt anybody. Prestige publicity. Harmony was possible. Harmonious earnings were, as well. An actor must shift gears, as easily as a non-doping Tour de France artiste. There would be no more discussion about the difference in mediums. That was for outsiders. Acting was acting. Period.

  In the meantime, a performance at a flagship house required his participation.

  As Butterbugs made his way from Sixth down the alley to the backstage door, he thought, all those nights in all those houses out in the wastelands, out beyond the fringe, all of them, were leading up to this moment. Suddenly he was overcome with emotion. He retired to one of the great pilasters that clad the exterior of the theatre, and braced himself. In the steamy half-light, he found the waterfalls of feeling cascading over him from a great height, or so it seemed. Mixed they were, not all bad, not all good. He had to react though, and the weight of their water was considerable. He wondered if he could hold up. He bowed himself under the pressure, then stood tall, repeatedly. It was a time of testing – feelings restrained, pent-up for months. Now they coiled and whirled, eddied and crashed, around and down upon him. Unexpected and unhelpful. He was silent in this experience, but gesturally tweaked. In the blue shadows, his motions looked monstrous.

  So it was no surprise that a passing showgirl, with her top-hatted escorts, noticed the fluctuating, forbidding figure over in the gloom.

  ‘Look at that beggar over there! He’s ready to vomit! Do something! Do something, don’t you hear? Get him before he gets me!’ shrieked the showgirl, her voice echoing high into the urban canyon.

  One of her escorts picked up a sharp stick and boldly zeroed in on Butterbugs, ready to commit mayhem on his person, if only to cease any offensive actions, so that his lady could proceed to the stage door in peace.

  Just before the chivalrous one was about to deliver a showoff whack to the side of Butterbugs’ temple, from the end of the alley, a turning automobile headlight momentarily lighted the actor’s face.

  ‘Why Dorcas,’ the escort yelped, ‘this here is one of the players in tonight’s presentation of the Bard’s ‘Merchant’! We should help, not hinder him.’

  ‘He’s not going to spray toxic ichor all over me, is he?’

  ‘No, my goofball,’ he laughed. ‘Continue into the Metropolitan, and prepare for your Prologue. I will see to our ‘beggar’ here. He is clearly in crisis.’

  Naturally, Sid Grauman’s shows always had an elaborate Prologue before the feature. Tonight being a Special, the lineup consisted of the Prologue, the one-off ‘Merchant’ presentation, then the picture, ‘Emil Boulderground’ (Standard Pictures). The show would get out around 2:39AM.

  ‘Come friend, take my hand,’ said the man to the shattered Butterbugs. ‘You are Butterbugs, I presume. I am Alun Parsnip, producer of tonight’s ‘Merchant’. Sonny told me all about you.’

  ‘I – am just so –’

  ‘Not to worry, my dear fellow. A case of Special-night jitters, I can assure you. Just starting out in our profession, aren’t we?’

  ‘We am. I mean…’

  ‘Of course, of course. Probably thought you could tackle anything before this moment of truth, eh?’

  ‘Well, I –’

  As the lanterns hanging from the fire escape began to cast their wan but stylized glimmer on Butterbugs’ face, Alun took note of his expression, and surmised that perhaps the classic jitters scenario might not especially apply to this particular thespian.

  ‘In any case, my man. Your confidence is being tested, eh? We do not always have to know why.’

  ‘Th-thank you, Mr. Parsnip.’

  ‘Alun! Now, are you up for this tonight? We can easily turn about and I will call you a cab at Pershingside.’

  Butterbugs was suddenly fully aware of what Alun was implying. Here was a crossroads, unlike any he had stood at before. It wasn’t a case of making a choice based on no opportunity at hand. Indeed, it was just the opposite. And the choice was, would he seize this chance at establishing himself as a performer of merit? Or would he choose to indeed turn about and invariably head for – justified… oblivion?

  Since he had already experienced the latter, and he had only the most minute taste of the former, and he had come to this city wholly in order to strive for moments like this, this particular moment instantly became an occasion in which it was possible to prudently, if not enthusiastically, say ‘Yea’ to success.

  Or even ‘YAY!’

  Dumbo! Take the money! Take the money!

  But what about the tonnage of this present disturbance, based on who knows what, as far as feelings were concerned?

  ‘Fuck it!’ Butterbugs ejaculated.

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  Butterbugs smiled guiltily.

  ‘Sorry about my language, I was musing to myself, and it just came out.’

  ‘Do not worry about your usage, in this case,’ Alun replied. ‘I take it that you mean not to carry on tonight.’

  ‘Alun, you are an associate of Sonny Projector’s…’

  ‘I am. For these seven years. A close one, I might proudly add.’

  ‘Then I can trust you, as I would him?’

  ‘With no doubt in your stout heart, my fellow.’

  ‘It’s just that, a minute ago, I had to decide. You made me decide.’

  ‘To not go on stage, this night?’

  ‘Nay! Entirely the opposite! The curse that I uttered was addressed to my – my stupid side, my defeatist side, the side that would talk me out of anything and everything and make me what I wish most not to be, a, a –’

  ‘Well there’s no need to speak it all the way through, Butterbugs. I am delighted with your decision, first off. You must understand, within the sphere of acting can come doubts and tribulations of all kinds. Why, there’s not one member of any troupe, worldwide, who has not held feelings such as yours at one time or another. Come, abandon your isolation, and enter into the world of our community. Be of good cheer. Mend your thoughts now. You’ve a part to play this eve, and in our city’s most importa
nt venue! Plus, I don’t wish to worry about futzing with a stand-in. Be glad of all things just now.’

  Butterbugs gave a gasp of relief. Here was what he really had wished for, all along: a quitting of isolation and a beginning of community.

  Alun doffed his top hat in the direction of the backstage door.

  ‘Come! Take it up!’

  They proceeded thence. Alun continued, in relaxed and chatty mode.

  ‘It’s remarkable that Sonny was able to get a booking here, but one night only is better than nothing. Me, I’m in nirvana-type heaven. I’m usually doing shows down at the La Peri or the CloudCuckoo, way off, way down Broadway. So far! Sometimes at the Belasco, sometimes at the Mayan, but they’re exceptions. The Metropolitan? Why, it’s our unthinkable temple. Sacred ground, my boy! This is indeed a special night!’

  ‘For me as well, and I improve by the minute, Alun. It’s just that I felt this sense of – I don’t know, of hyper-reality, due to the immediacy of the moment.’

  ‘Well, Bub, I don’t exactly know what you’re talking about right now, as far as specifics are concerned, but we’d better get you to your dressing room. This place is so massive; it’ll take a while to get up there. Now come on.’

  Alun remained patient at this greenhorn’s reticence in letting go of his equivocations entirely. There was one cure he knew of, though: to act.

  Here, at the entrance to its back passage, the prodigious block of a building, darkly brooding, from which a very low-level rumble seemed to emanate (an impending energy, growing in order to support the events of the evening, perhaps), nevertheless possessed an inexorably welcoming quality. It was felt all over, from the silhouetted volutes of its cornice molding way up there somewhere, down to the hallowed steps leading up to its door for both stars and starlets – and mere glimmerers, as well. Humbly then, did Butterbugs follow his opera-caped producer up, unto the temple.