By Myself and Then Some (7 page)

I had decided that I had to devote my days to finding work in the theatre. A couple of girls I knew were theatre ushers at night. The pay was ridiculous – eight dollars a week – but at least I’d have my days free. The eight dollars would only take care of carfare and lunches with a bit left over. It would mean the end of my helping. Mother for a while – until my ship came in, please God. I had put aside something from my modeling – maybe $100, which was a great deal to me. I had lunch at Chock Full O’Nuts – cream-cheese sandwiches on date-and-nut bread, ten cents; orange drink or coffee, five cents. Not substantial, but filling, and it got me through the day. I had saved up enough money to buy a skunk coat wholesale to keep me warm in New York winters. The only problem with it, I was to discover, was that when rain or any other moisture hit, people in elevators or offices would begin sniffing curiously and looking around to see where the poor dead animal lay. On me, alas. I broached the subject of ushering to Mother – she of course agreed. She would always give me the chance to prove that I was right to want what I wanted. By then we had moved to
Greenwich Village – 75 Bank Street. It was a small apartment, but the neighborhood was clean and fun – totally different from the West Eighties. The bus on the corner took me uptown in no time.

I went to the office of the Shuberts, Lee and JJ., who owned most of the theatres on Broadway, to apply for a job as usher. Why they paid eight dollars weekly while independent theatres paid the lavish sum of eleven dollars I don’t know, except, as I was to discover later, they were not known for their generosity to employees. At that point I only wanted to be hired – to work in a theatre – to feel part of it. The hell with the salary. Since I had left the Academy, nothing even resembling a break in the theatre had turned up. I had to start concentrating only on that. I had decided I would give myself ten years to make the grade. If it didn’t happen by then, it never would. But I had to be around live theatre – if I couldn’t learn by actually practicing the craft, then perhaps I could learn by watching others. Professionals! So I was hired by the Shuberts.

Before I was assigned to a theatre permanently I was sent to a few theatres for a week or two of apprenticeship – that meant learning exactly what was expected of me. The rules, etc. Wearing a black skirt and sweater, I reported to the head usher at the Morosco Theatre on 45th Street, where Noel Coward’s
Blithe Spirit
was playing. The stars were Clifton Webb, Leonora Corbett, Peggy Wood, and Mildred Natwick. The curtain was to go up at 8:30. I arrived at 7:45 – earlier than necessary, but I couldn’t wait. The head usher arrived before eight – she gave me a white collar and a pair of white cuffs to adorn my black sweater. That was the usher’s uniform of the day. She showed me how the programs were to be piled neatly at the head of the aisle, and as the theatre doors opened I observed carefully the procedure to be followed. First, ‘Tickets, please’ to the theatregoers – then directing them to the correct aisle, or leading them to their seats down one’s assigned aisle, giving them one program each. Then back up the aisle to stand at your station until the next ticket stubs were presented. I did nothing but watch that first time. Another part for me to play – and in a theatre! The lights went down, the curtain went up, the play began. I was in heaven. I never took my eyes from that stage. It was a marvelous, funny play, beautifully acted, and I made myself believe that because I was an usher, standing in the rear of the theatre, I was a part of it. No longer just a spectator – a participant. But even with
my wild fantasizing I could never have dreamed that so many years later I would be acting in that same play – playing Leonora Corbett’s part, with Noel Coward himself in Clifton Webb’s part, and that Clifton would be my friend.

It was exciting to find myself in the theatre before and after the play. The mystery of it all was magnified even more. I watched the play carefully for half a week, fascinated by the actors’ ability to make the audience laugh at each performance. But, alas, I couldn’t stay on. The head usher told me I was to go for the rest of the week to the Imperial Theatre, to usher at
Let’s Face It
starring Danny Kaye. A great way to see plays. Cheap, too.
Let’s Face It
was a wonderful show – Danny Kaye had made an enormous hit and Eve Arden was in it with him. To be ushering at a musical really lifted me off the ground. I’d had no idea how different it would be; how the atmosphere, from the moment the doors opened and the audience started to arrive, was totally altered by whether it was a drama, comedy, or musical comedy. After the people were seated, the overture started. Music! Fidgety feet! It was all I could do to keep myself from dancing down the aisle. The Shuberts would have loved that – I don’t think! Danny Kaye was funny and marvelous. How I’d love to meet him. So what did I do? I went backstage after the show one night, knocked on his dressing-room door, and he opened it. He was washing his make-up off. I nervously told him I was a would-be actress who had been ushering in his theatre – how good I thought he was and would he give me his autograph, please? He asked a few polite questions about my non-existent career and gave me his autograph, for which I thanked him profusely and left. I felt safe going backstage because I knew this was not my permanent ushering assignment.

I still spent my days pounding the pavements, going from office to office, trying to get a foot in the door – any door. Still selling
Actor’s Cue
during lunch. I also collected weekly unemployment insurance, being eligible from my time in the garment center. Ushers were non-union then, and no one – not even the government – expected anyone to live on eight bucks a week. Standing in line in those dingy offices to collect money that is yours to begin with is a somewhat humiliating experience. I know that – but then I was damn glad to get it. When the money was taken from my weekly check I hadn’t missed it that much, and getting it back was like a gift.

I was sent to the Golden Theatre to usher for several performances of
Angel Street
. I loved it – Vincent Price and Judith Evelyn were so good and so mysterious. I followed my Danny Kaye pattern with Vincent Price, who was also removing his make-up when I went around. He was warm and gentle – ‘God, actors are nice people,’ I thought. I don’t know what
they
thought; nothing, more than likely. After what amounted to a two-week apprenticeship I was set for the St James Theatre, where the Boston Comic Opera Company, performing Gilbert and Sullivan, was to share a season with the Jooss Ballet. I had my own place in my own theatre, and I felt important and very possessive about it.

The Boston Comic Opera Company was great fun to watch. Opening night I was very excited and, as there was an opening night for each Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, I was excited a good deal of the time. I learned to recognize the critics. I’d lower my voice, saying, ‘Tickets, please.’ During the interval I’d stand in the lobby saying, ‘No smoking – please extinguish all cigarettes before entering the theatre – curtain going up,’ in my best American Academy voice. Hoping I’d be noticed, of course – discovered. The Jooss dancers were first-class. When I arrived at the theatre they would be doing their warm-ups in the rear aisle. I got to know a few of them well enough to strike up a mild conversation. They were all foreign and didn’t speak English too well. They danced
The Green Table
and that was my first exposure to the best of ballet. Hans Zullig was a principal dancer in it and very fine. That ballet, I was to learn later, was a classic and he was admired by balletomanes the world over. I had a tiny crush on him, ready to enlarge it at the slightest provocation (was constantly looking for someone – anyone – to have a crush on), so spoke with him whenever I could. He was very small and shy, very sweet. When he asked me if I’d have dinner with him on a Sunday night, of course I was thrilled. My mother told me to relax – again I was trying to make something out of nothing – looking for a romance – but I had to have
something
. He came down to the Village to pick me up – away from the theatre, in ordinary clothes, he looked smaller than ever. My mother could not believe him – but he was very nice, very soft-spoken. We went to a tiny bistro, talked of our lives – he missed his home, but loved to dance. He came to life then, much as we all do, I guess. The evening ended
in friendly fashion, but no romance in my eyes or his. Another fantasy shot to hell.

My days continued to be filled with making the rounds. Broadway was alive with fantastic shows then, and stars – Gertrude Lawrence in
Lady in the Dark
, in which Danny Kaye had first been noticed – Paul Lukas in
Watch on the Rhine –
Dorothy McGuire in
Claudia –
Boris Karloff in
Arsenic and Old Lace
. I still stood outside Sardi’s at lunch trying to meet and talk to anyone who might help me. One day Paul Lukas emerged. I brazenly cornered him, of course, knowing what a marvelous actor he was. He asked me if I was an actress – I said yes – he asked me if I’d like to see his play – oh, yes, I would love it, I answered. So he asked me to come around backstage when I could, and he would get me a seat.

One day his play had a matinee and we didn’t. I rushed to the Martin Beck Theatre, backstage to Paul Lukas’ dressing room – he remembered me, got me a seat, and asked me to come round afterward. He was staying in between shows. Lillian Hellman’s
Watch on the Rhine
was another extraordinary experience – a beautiful, strong play, magnificently acted. The audience was in tears at the final curtain and the cheers for Paul Lukas were deafening. Again I was transported, and felt privileged to be allowed into his dressing room. He was friendly and easy – sat me down, asked me about myself, what I had done, what I wanted to do. He was my first important friend in the theatre; though I was still a baby, I went to him for counsel and he treated me seriously. I don’t know why he was so good to me, but he was. He allowed me to watch the play whenever I could – listened while I told him which latest producer I had tried to see, my frustrations, all of it. He was sympathetic and tremendously helpful, and of course I respected and admired him.

T
he
Stage Door Canteen was
about to open in New York and it needed hostesses. Only theatre folk qualified. I signed up for Monday nights. I was to dance with any soldier, sailor, or marine who asked me – get drinks or coffee for them, listen to their stories. Many of them had girls at home – were homesick – would transfer their affections to one of us out of loneliness and need. Some would come every Monday night to see the same girl. It was really very sweet and sad and fun, a
natural set-up for a dreamer. There was always music, and stars would appear each night to entertain or talk to the boys from the small stage. My first night there I couldn’t believe it – Alfred Lunt and Lynn Fontanne were washing dishes and serving coffee. Helen Hayes too. Betty Kalb and I had signed up together. Each of us was so busy watching the famous stars coming in that there wasn’t time for us to compare notes until the end of the evening. On Monday nights there was fierce jitterbugging. Many a time I found myself in the middle of a circle – everyone clapping to the music – while I was being whirled and twirled by one guy, then passed on to another, nonstop, until I thought I would drop. Judy Garland and Johnny Mercer came in one night and sang some of Mercer’s songs – John Carradine came in – and many, many others. It wasn’t much to do for the war effort, but it was something. At least the boys had a place to go that was clean and fun and a relaxing change for them.

I overdramatized every situation for myself. A young sailor took a fancy to me – I think I reminded him of his girl. He came in every Monday night for weeks, then one night he told me he was going to sea – didn’t know where, of course. He was charming and very homesick. He asked if he could write to me. ‘Certainly,’ I said, ‘I’ll let you know what’s going on back here.’ I didn’t know what to say to him – war was a fiction to me, not a reality. I didn’t really understand what it meant – how could I?

I continued to pound pavements – make the rounds. They were casting a show called
Johnny 2 × 4
by a man called Rowland Brown. He was producing it himself and it was to be staged by his brother, Anthony Brown. It called for a large cast, I was told, so I headed for the Brown office. I met both brothers – it was a small office filled with actors, and the Browns were accessible. Rowland Brown told me the speaking parts were already cast, but there were to be many walk-ons. The setting was a speakeasy and they wanted atmosphere. Would I leave my name and address and they would call me. That again! I had left my name in so many offices it had become routine. I still hoped and still prayed with the same fervor, but nothing had ever happened. The next Monday, I
was
called and asked if I’d come to the Brown office. I couldn’t believe it. I got myself together and marched over to 44th Street. Rowland Brown told me there was an opening for me as a walk-on. The salary was only fifteen dollars per week – I would have to join
Equity – it was not a speaking part, but it was on a stage! On Broadway! I was beside myself. In as controlled a voice as possible, I said I would love to be in his play Mr Brown said he would make the arrangements with Equity, call me when the contracts were ready, and get all the information to me about rehearsals, wardrobe, etc. The play was not going out of town, but would rehearse for three weeks, play a few previews, and open in New York.

I was on a cloud. At last I would be a professional actress – a full-fledged member of that hallowed union, Actors’ Equity. It wasn’t a real part, but it was a beginning. Perhaps the tide was beginning to turn – my luck beginning to change. I had no idea what I would need in the way of clothing for the show – make-up – what I would actually have to do. How would I be able to wait for that call to sign my name on the piece of paper – how would I wait for that first day of rehearsal? Mother was thrilled because I was thrilled. It was a beginning, a breakthrough. There is no high on earth like the high of realizing even part of one’s dream. I was in a daze. Couldn’t wait to get to the Canteen that night to tell Betty Kalb. What did I care that the salary was fifteen dollars a week? It was Broadway, and I’d be behind the footlights – other girls would be leading people to their seats, and they’d be coming to see
me
for a change. Did I have a shock coming! Betty was as happy as I was, and I told everyone else who would listen. I was bursting that night. It was my first feeling of complete happiness. At that moment I had everything I wanted.