William Heyliger

“ Joe gripped the books. He had read about agents and the part they played in show business. No actor could get any place without an agent; but no agent would bother with an actor unless the actor was good. His head swam.
They rode down to the lights and the ebb and flow of visitors, to the cheerfulness and blue leather of the fourth floor. The receptionist looked questioningly at Joe; he put his hands together and shook them. The blonde seemed pleased. The loudspeaker gave them Lucille Borden tough-girling through another episode of Years of Danger. ”

“ Heat baked the city, and a torpid world of radio counted the weeks until September.
For Joe Carlin, life had changed: the dusty McCoy Building and the stage-effect microphone in Ambrose Carver’s office became something that had happened in the past. His days were now spent in Vic Wylie’s office. If Wylie, in the agony of putting together six shows for the fall, could give him only half an hour, that half-hour became something to look back upon. If the disheveled, wild-haired producer could give him no time at all, there was always the possibility of a half-hour to-morrow. ”

“ Now that he was at liberty, no actor, beginning to look a little seedy, led him into a quiet nook to negotiate a small loan. None of the show people mentioned the Sue Davis show. Nothing else had changed. There was the same sharp anxiety that showed itself only in off-guard moments, the same glib talk of fat parts about to turn up, the same business of having a bright gag ready for casting directors, the same sham front that fooled nobody. ”

“ Tony Vaux said. “I don’t mean it’s a bad show.”
Joe began a hesitant: “Perhaps—”
“Again, Joe?” Tony chuckled. “What is it this time?”
“Perhaps Mr. Bartell comes in too fast. He’s supposed to be a retired old man with no worries except baseball. Sits around in the shade and enjoys life. Never in a hurry—that’s what I mean. Doesn’t Pop come in too crisply? You sort of lose the mellow, unhurried old man. If he came in leisurely, a little drawly....”
Joe knew that Vic Wylie was watching him intently. Had he been too free with his opinion? Tony rolled the cigar across his lips. ”

“ Wylie leaned across the desk. “You’re mailing Joe’s father a new contract. A ten per-cent contract. You can give him any reason you like.”
Amby sprang to his feet. “That contract’s iron-clad. Why should I take ten? Do I look dumb?”
“I’ll let you write the answer,” Wylie said. “Radio wants the good will of the public; it can’t let itself get hurt. I’ll go to every station in the city and show them how they’ve opened their doors to somebody who’ll hurt them in the end. How long do you think it will be before they bar you? Who do you think they’ll listen to, a gyp agent or Vic Wylie?” ”

“ Wylie, hearing him read the first time, had ripped his first sentence apart with a fiery tongue. Tony, offering no criticism, kept mumbling dialogue. The audition went on to the script’s end, one person doing no more than making sounds, the other trying to breathe character and atmosphere and feeling into words.
“You almost make me feel you’re a green rookie,” Tony chuckled. “But not a scared rookie. Get the point, Joe? You’ve never been off the farm. You’re a big, husky, corn-fed kid; you’re scared and you’re homesick. You’re not going to let anybody see you’re scared. You play tough. ”

“ Sometimes, Joe thought wanly, it was hard to be wise. The easy companionship of show people, light-hearted despite its anxiety, the feeling that came over him every time he walked into a station, the hush that settled over a studio as the clock in the control-room crept toward the opening, the thrill as the show went on the air! He couldn’t give up all that.
“Vic,” he said, “I’m sorry. I still want show business.”
Wylie sat with his unshaven chin sunk down on his chest. “All right, kid. I’ve laid it on the line to you and I feel better. If you want show business, you want it. ”

“ There isn’t any game in the world that’s tougher. I’ve seen it around the country: stage-struck kids working in crummy night clubs or picking up a few dollars from movie houses that run Saturday vaudeville. I’ve seen it at Hollywood: movie-crazy kids storming the Central Casting Bureau because they’ve won a two-bit beauty contest or have a straight nose. But at least, if you work at Hollywood, you get paid. There’s no such thing at Hollywood as a sustaining movie. Hollywood doesn’t fatten itself on gratis talent. Radio’s just a little tougher than any other part of show business. ”

“ What do they know about whether a show’s good or bad? Somebody says: ‘I just don’t like it,’ and Munson gets cold feet. Isn’t this show for the public, and isn’t this somebody who doesn’t like it one of the public? Perhaps the show really isn’t good. You can’t blame a sponsor for being careful. A coast-to-coast hookup may cost $250,000. Even a single-station, local show is expensive. The sponsor has to pay for script, production, cast, radio time, perhaps music. It runs into money. But if a sponsor wants advice, why doesn’t he rely upon people who know? ”

“ Tom Carlin cleared his throat. Joe waited anxiously. Nothing was said.
“Another mistake,” Amby went on, “is to think because Joe has a good audition he’s a radio actor. He has to learn. Will a station teach him? No. Not after he’s sixteen; they say eighteen is too late. They haven’t time. So who rehearses him? I do. I worry for him, and think for him, and plan for him. You know what radio stars get? You know what is paid for the Eddie Cantor show?” ”

“ Does anybody work for you for nothing?”
“Hardly.”
“In show business the answer is ‘Yes.’ Show business is different. It pays off different. You see, Mrs. Carlin?”
Kate Carlin drawled: “Are you worth fifty per cent?”
“Ah!” said Amby briskly. “Now we are getting places. Without an agent what happens to Joe? Who knows him? Is there any producer or casting director who says: ‘Carlin was good in so-and-so; call him in’? No, because Joe has never had a part. So he has to make the rounds of the stations, day after day, round and round. He is not a radio actor; he is a race-horse. ”

“ Joe’s breath made a sound in his throat.
“You’re good, kid, but you’re not good enough. There’ll always be somebody better. That’s the curse of small-time radio. Thousands of kids working in radio all over the country, wild with ambition and dreaming of the pot of gold. They’re good, but not good enough. You’ve got to be better than good. Archie Munn was good; he’s out of radio. Stella’s good; she’s working as a part-time waitress. Lucille Borden was good, and she was selling stockings when she got the breaks. ”

“ Kate Carlin brought a bulky envelop out into the hall. “Dad brought these papers home last night and forgot them this morning. Do you mind taking them down?”
It was the boy’s first visit to the store since the day he had told his father he wanted to be an actor. There was the same air of unhurried alertness, the same quiet atmosphere of sureness and efficiency. ”

“ Joe was motionless, silent. Wylie put down the telephone.
“Arch tells me you were there, kid.”
“Yes.”
The producer sat with his head in his hands. “She’s a type,” he said harshly in the silence. “She hasn’t much range. But give her a type part she fits and they don’t come any better. You hear that, kid? They don’t come any better. Look what happens to her. You think that’s rare? You don’t know the stories small-time radio can tell. Why do they stay in it? Oh, I know. The big time. It’s a dream; it’s like a drug. Not one in a thousand ever cracks the big time. ”

“ No, no, Joe. This is where we do a smooth job with our eggs.” He called Amby at the Munson store.
Joe heard the rasp of a briskly important voice: “Good morning. This is the public-relations-radio office. Mr. Carver speaking.”
Tony boomed genially. “Hello, Amby. Boy, how do you think of them? Good? It’s a natural. How do you think of them? You ought to be writing script. You come up with ideas in each hand and every idea’s a honey. But look, Amby. Isn’t this too good to waste? I mean, if it’s used now— Sure; that’s the point. We should build up to it; set the stage for a big smash. ”

“ He thought of Mr. Fairchild and of books, and the two streams of thought somehow drew together and mingled. An announcer’s voice, breathless, echoed in his memory. “Munson’s brings you to-morrow’s styles.” He began to tingle. Why couldn’t people be told about books, too? Thomas Carlin presents—
“All set, Joe,” his father said.
The thought stayed with him while they took the car from a parking lot and moved in crawls and spurts through the downtown traffic.
“What was the talk with Fairchild, Joe?”
“Books. He isn’t satisfied.” ”

“ Stella Joyce seemed to read his thoughts. “You’ve heard of hair dye, Joe? If Pop were in a bread line, his shoulders would be back. It’s all front.”
“Everything’s front in show business,” Archie Munn said roughly.
Lucille Borden’s voice was quiet. “A brush can keep one suit going a long time. An actor with one shirt washes it every night and hangs it to dry while he sleeps.”
So that was how it was! Joe, his throat still tight, ate food that was tasteless. They went back to the office.
Vic Wylie, impatient, awaited them. “Stella! You, kid! We have about an hour.” ”

“ Many of them are artists, real artists. That’s what makes it all the tougher.” The hand of this new Vic Wylie was on Joe’s shoulder. “Don’t let it tear you apart, kid. You can’t change it. It’s show business.”
Vic Wylie said, “Don’t let it tear you apart, kid. You can’t change it. It’s show business.”
But show business had changed for Joe Carlin. Pop Bartell’s appearance at Miss Robb’s desk to ask for mail or telephone calls became poignant with pathos. And the loungers were no longer a happy-go-lucky group of care-free Bohemians, snapping their fingers at to-morrow and laughing at to-day. ”

“ Suddenly Vic Wylie’s office became a gathering place for idle actors and actresses, a sort of unofficial club. Some passed into the inner office to audition for parts in the six shows coming up; others, slanting constant glances toward the closed door, lounged in the outer office and chatted with a gay light-heartedness that seemed to Joe to fill the place with magic. The entrancing gossip of show business was all about him.
“I understand FKIP’s auditioned the I Want Work platter a dozen times and can’t hook a sponsor.”
“I don’t put much faith in novelty shows. They’re too big a gamble.” ”

“ Kate Carlin cried: “Joe, are you all right?”
Sure, he was all right. He was swell. Curt Lake could have script-writing—he wanted no part of such a headache. Why couldn’t he find the words? It shouldn’t be so hard to express a thought. Just about two sentences. Inspiration came to him from whatever void it is that gives birth to inspiration. He went back to the typewriter.
Thursday night he finished the script in an exultation of authorship. Nine pages—that’s how long a Curt Lake script ran for a fifteen-minute show. ”

“ Stella asked.
The producer’s eyes opened vaguely. “Did I? I forget. Don’t bother me.”
Joe went out and brought back coffee and sandwiches.
“Leave them there,” said Wylie. He had whipped himself back to work and was reading script.
“Eat them now,” Joe insisted. “The coffee’ll get cold.”
“Another one who thinks I need looking after,” Wylie snarled. But he ate. “Kid, don’t pay much attention to me when I blow my top. Everybody in show business is nuts.”
If being nuts was the price of show business success, Joe was willing to be nuts. There was no second attack of mike fright. ”