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“Please,” I said, running on stage. “This will only take a minute.”

“Okay, go ahead. One minute.”

“This is the way I see radio in a couple of years. You know, now we have soap operas. Well, someday we’ll have foreign-language soap operas.” I began singing “Sorrento” and did my Italian soap opera routine. They must have thought I was crazy, but I was just showing them I could sing.

The whole audition lasted about five minutes. I could hear them laughing. They did not stop me. They let me finish. Frank Corsaro, who had acted and directed at Yale, and whom I had seen in
Mrs. McThing,
came up on stage with Ben Steinberg, the musical conductor. They were both little guys, my size. They looked me over. Ben Steinberg said, “We know you can’t sing and you probably can’t dance, but you’re very funny and we need one more pirate.”

Corsaro said, “The only problem is that the guy who did it on Broadway hasn’t made up his mind if he wants to tour. If he says no to our show, you’ve got the job.”

“When will you know?” I said.

“Well,” Steinberg said with a shrug, “he’s singing in the chorus at the Roxy. Why don’t you go down there and ask him.”

I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I almost had a part in a Broadway show—or at least the national company of a Broadway show. I ran to the Roxy stage entrance and waited for the actor.

As he emerged I said, breathless and excited, “You were in
Peter Pan
on Broadway, right? I just auditioned for your part in the national company, and I get it if you keep working at the Roxy. Are you going to stay here or go out on the road?”

It seemed an eternity before he answered.

“You’ve got the part,” he said. “I told them I wouldn’t go on the road unless they hired my wife.”

“Thanks!” I yelled. “And thanks to your wife. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

The tour starred Veronica Lake as Peter Pan and Lawrence Tibbett as both Mr. Darling and Captain Hook. I played Cecco, a pirate. I embellished the role with a pratfall. I flew in through a swinging door, bouncing
on my bum, talking while moving. As I could neither sing nor dance, I felt the least I could do was fall well.

Peter Pan
was the first integrated musical ever to play the South. We hit Baltimore, Louisville, Memphis, Oklahoma City, Dallas, New Orleans, and Chicago. On tour, Veronica Lake, a close friend of John Carradine—the wonderful Hollywood character actor who was Casey the preacher in
The Grapes of Wrath
—was caring for one of his sons, Keith or David, I forget which. Just before we were to open in Baltimore we rehearsed one of the scenes in Veronica Lake’s suite. One of the Carradine kids was asleep in bed.

Alvin Ailey, who later founded his famous dance company, and Frank Neal, two of the black members of the cast, stayed in a separate hotel from the rest of the company and could not eat in the same restaurants with us in the southern cities. On matinee days, we’d all send out for food and eat together in the theater. In Memphis we were told we would not be allowed to open with a mixed company.

Just before curtain, the company manager came backstage, gathered us together, and said he’d just spoken to someone at City Hall, and it was okay to open.

We couldn’t believe it. Everyone wanted to know how he’d made it happen.

“I told him we were going to open, and if they didn’t like it, they could go fuck themselves. He didn’t answer me, so we’re going on.”

We opened at the Memphis Auditorium to very few people. At one Saturday matinee we couldn’t end the first act. The curtain line was J. M. Barrie’s classic “If you believe in fairies, please clap!” The line never failed to get applause. One had to be dead not to respond. This time, nothing. Veronica Lake, a little dismayed, said again, “If you believe in fairies, clap your hands.” Still nothing. Once more she said, “If you believe in fairies, clap your hands.” The rest of the company was now gathering in the wings. Still no applause. Veronica Lake finally turned to Morty Halpern with a look of “What shall I do?”

“Say it again,” he whispered.

“Please, please, clap your hands if you believe in fairies!” she begged.

Two men seated in the balcony got up and skipped down to the orchestra, waving handkerchiefs and saying, “We do, Miss Lake, we do.” And the curtain came down.

In every city there were parties thrown by wealthy patrons who wanted
to meet Lawrence Tibbett and Veronica Lake. The two stars would agree to this on the condition that the entire cast was invited. Mr. Tibbett had been with the Metropolitan Opera for years, but his voice had faded. As Captain Hook he had the opportunity to talk his musical numbers—as Rex Harrison would do in
My Fair Lady
a few years later. But Tibbett rarely did this. He attempted to sing as well as he could, to oblige his expectant audiences. Most of the listeners did not know he was struggling. At each of the post-show parties, the host or hostess would invariably tinkle a glass and ask if Mr. Tibbett would mind singing “On the Road to Mandalay.” Tibbett, having been through this many times before, would magnanimously decline, saying, “Thank you, thank you, not tonight, but Jerry here will entertain you. Do the ‘Italian Soap Opera,’ Jerry.” Then when I did my thing and Lawrence Tibbett started laughing, everyone else laughed too.

New Orleans, Louisiana

November 1951

Dear Professor Falk:

Just a quick note. We have wended our way through Baltimore, Pittsburgh, Bloomington, Louisville, Memphis, and now New Orleans.
Peter Pan
has gotten excellent reviews in all the cities except Louisville, but business is below par…. It is rumored we have to gross $21,000 per week to stay alive. We have been averaging $18,000.

Incidentally, my bit, which takes approximately twenty-five seconds, is the biggest laugh in the show. I’ve injected my own line and some business, which although not Barrie, is good enough to remain in.

Bobby Barry, the little comic, has been showing me lots of tricks and thinks a lot of me.

My duties in the show constitute everything from singing to dancing, and I do a pratfall….

We have been rerouted for a long stand in Chicago starting November 20th. It is believed the show would have folded long before this but for the fact the Shuberts put their dough in and we are now playing a Shubert House (New Orleans) and will be playing the Great Northern in Chicago. It is theorized the Shuberts like low-budget shows
and would rather play to a two-thirds house than to keep their houses dark.

While in Memphis I met Tom Fitzsimmons and Sam McCulloch, who you had teaching at Syracuse. They’re about to venture into a commercial theater.

They saw me in the show, and Tom said of my performance, “It was a neat bit of comedy.” The long hours of toil are crystallizing into clean, sharp, emphatic moves that have good effects on the audience.

At any rate they have asked me to consider becoming part of their resident company as comedian/stage manager. They hope to open the first of the year, with many stars.

As things stand right now, I think it’s a good opportunity, and I will accept the offer, leaving
Peter Pan
if necessary….

Regards to Francy, Mrs. Falk, and faculty.

Your devoted student,

Jerry

THE CROYDON
AT RUSH AND ONTARIO STREETS
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
DE-LAWARE 7-6700

November 24, 1951

Dear Mr. Falk:

A lot of things have happened, the biggest being that
Peter Pan
folded tonight in Chicago … But I have a job with Tom Fitzsimmons and Sam McCulloch in Memphis starting tomorrow….

I know that Memphis may never make me a star, but the value of the experience might make me more eligible for stardom when the opportunity beckons later on.

Mr. Falk, how do you feel about this reasoning?

Your devoted student,

Jerry

The 200-seat Memphis Arena Theater, in the shape of a half-moon, with the audience encircling the actors, had once been a swimming pool in the basement of the King Cotton Hotel.

To ensure an audience their first season, Tom Fitzsimmons and Sam McCulloch had instituted a star policy. Eva Gabor, John Carradine, James Dunn, Arthur Treacher, Vicki Cummings, Signe Hasso, and Margie Hart, a famous burlesque stripper, were among the many who signed on for one show or another.

The resident company included Rex Partington, my schoolmate, who later inherited the directorship of the Barter Theater from Robert Porterfield, its founder. Barter launched the careers of both Gregory Peck and Jeffrey Lynn. In 1949, I and hundreds of other hopefuls lined up on West 45th Street to do a one-minute audition for Shirley Booth and Robert Porterfield. Miss Booth was appearing in
Come Back, Little Sheba
at the Booth Theater. I had one minute to prove I could act. Be funny, I thought. I started by saying, “Miss Barter, I mean Miss Booth, thank you for letting me audition for you and Mr. Porterhouse, I mean Mr. Porterfield, here at the Barth Theater. I mean at the Booth for Mr. Barter.” I got them laughing but didn’t get the job.

At the Arena I was hired as stage manager and supporting cast member at a salary of $75 a week. My stage-managing duties were mainly being responsible for coordinating lights and sound and running the show. I soon discovered I was completely unsuited to this work. I was more interested in trying to be wonderful in my few limited minutes on stage. At 8
P.M.
I’d slap on my makeup, jump into costume, and at 8:30 call “Places,” then await my moment—the one that might someday make me a star. The thrill of acting with stars was enough to fill my cup.

In
The Second Man,
my inventiveness took over. I played a butler—a small role, but not small to me. In one scene I merely had to clear away some silverware. I pre-stashed knives and forks and dishes and so forth in every nook and cranny of the set. On cue, I entered carrying a tray. When I finished clearing the table, I’d head to the kitchen, only to discover a spoon I’d overlooked, and then a plate, and then a glass. The scene now turned into a little treasure hunt, with the audience, seated in the half-round, joining in and pointing to places on stage I had missed. When the tray resembled Pike’s Peak and could no longer hold another saucer, I triumphantly marched out through the swinging doors to applause and laughter.

Offstage, I had pre-set a box of broken crockery. As the clapping faded, I dropped the crash box. The scene ended. More laughs. I felt being an actor was the greatest profession in the world.

Although my theatrical inventions hardly ingratiated me with the regular company, the disapproval never dampened my enthusiasm. I had indeed developed a following. Small, but a following.

Rosemary Murphy, whom I had a crush on, put it this way: “Jerry, you have so much creativity. Have you ever tried masturbating before you go onstage?”

The arrival of a new star each week aroused in all of us a sense of adoration, almost worship. I did all I could to make things smooth for them, on and off stage. They, of course, were unaware of my personal internal combustion.

When Arthur Treacher arrived to do
Clutterbuck,
the Benn Levy farce, with Vicki Cummings as his costar, he immediately announced to the resident performers, “Say your lines, buzz off, and collect your money. That’s what this business is about.” We all laughed. Of course, this did not apply to Mr. Treacher, who did much more than say his lines. He was a master farceur, and milked the script for every chuckle, to the delight of everyone.

That week I was assigned to the title role, i.e., Clutterbuck, who simply walks across the stage a few times to a recording of the “Third Man Theme.” The budget did not allow for an assistant stage manager. Backstage, before making my entrance as Clutterbuck, I had to drop the needle on the record, then on cue amble nonchalantly across the stage. Once in the wings, I’d race behind the backdrop to stage left to lift the needle off the recording. Mr. Treacher had no idea I was also working the turntable.

On the night of the dress rehearsal, Mr. Treacher in his veddy English way said, “You’ll always get a laugh on your entrance, dear boy.”

Opening night, right on cue, I dropped the needle and walked on as Clutterbuck. There was a huge laugh, something I hardly expected, and then applause. Applause for my simple entrance and exit? How wonderful. I did nothing funny. I checked to see if my fly was open. I
kvelled,
which is Yiddish for being very happy inside, at this incredible reaction to my entrance.

As I continued to
kvell,
the music continued, right into Mr. Treacher’s next speech.

“My God,” I said, racing around behind the set. I hastily removed the needle as it scratched loudly over the amplifying system.

At the end of the act, Treacher was apoplectic. “What in God’s name happened with that music?”

I told him I got caught up in my applause, and I was very sorry.

“My dear boy,” Mr. Treacher said, “if you do that part right, they always applaud. But they’re not applauding you. They’re applauding my reaction to you. Now remember, just make your entrance, get your money, and pip off. That’s what this business is all about.”

My favorite star was James Dunn. He had won an Academy Award as the alcoholic father in
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn,
Elia Kazan’s first movie, and with us he was playing Elwood P. Dowd in
Harvey
.

Dunn must have spent most of his Memphis Arena salary on parties for the cast. Each night he’d invite us to his suite and regale us with food, drink, and funny stories.

“I win the Academy Award and I’ve got no work next week,” he told all of us. “It doesn’t bother me. They just don’t have any roles.”

In
Harvey
I played Wilson, the psychiatric attendant, a role I felt eminently at home in. It was great being onstage with an Oscar winner. He was brilliant as the man who holds conversations with a large imaginary rabbit, and I never failed to tell him so. Before returning to Hollywood, Dunn said, “Kid, if I ever get back on Broadway, you’re coming with me, even if you have to hold a stage brace.” Again I
kvelled
. For all I knew, James Dunn was just being nice and nothing more, but it was also nice to hear it.