Read Online Kiss Me Like A Stranger: My Search for Love and Art by Gene Wilder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gene Wilder
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play called
The White House
, starring Helen Hayes. It had a good cast, and most of us had done the play with her on Broadway that spring. She played the wife of every president from George Washington to Woodrow Wilson, and I played one or two lawyers, a college roommate, and Mary Lincoln’s son at her trial. The play didn’t last very long on Broadway, but Miss Hayes liked it so much that she took a big cut in salary and asked all of us to tour New England with her in the summer.
I liked Helen Hayes—as an actress and as a person—but as well as we all got along with her, none of us ever called her Helen, only “Miss Hayes.” I wanted to be a little more familiar, but she had an aura about her from a world I had only read about.
When I got back to New York, I decided to give my marriageone last chance. Mary was due back in ten days. I found a new apartment on Fifty-seventh and Third Avenue. It was only one room, but it was a big L-shaped room, with a little kitchenette, and it was new and clean, with sunlight pouring through the large window that overlooked Fifty-seventh Street. The rent was $150 a month, which was certainly reasonable, but also the limit of what I could afford.
I bought a new dining room table, made of raw pinewood, and I antiqued it myself. I’m not a very good carpenter, but this had more to do with painting than carpentry.
On the morning of September 5, I bought some flowers, placed them in a little vase in the center of the table, and took a shower. When I got out of the shower, a telegram arrived:
Staying in Italy another two weeks. Stop. Mary.
I had the urge to break something. I sat still for a long time, trying to think of what I could do to release the rage in me. Then I searched through my address book until I found what I was looking for: “If you should ever get lonely, just give me a call.”
As I was about to knock on Karla’s door, I heard a man talking in her apartment, and then I heard Karla’s voice. I figured,
Well, a neighbor, a relative, who knows?
I knocked.
Karla came to the door. I saw what looked like a well-dressed businessman just finishing tucking in his shirt. He reached for his jacket, and Karla introduced us. I don’t remember what his name was—I just remember the tucking in of his shirt.
The man said a polite good-bye, and Karla asked me to come in and make myself comfortable.
(What is this? Am I supposed to pay her?)
She offered me some coffee and then invited me into her bedroom,as if we had arranged all of this beforehand. Karla started getting undressed. After a few awkward moments of standing there, I got undressed.
“You know,” she said, “I’ve become something of a nymphomaniac lately.” She followed this with a little laugh.
“It’s just that, at this point in my life I get a little lonely. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Me? No, of course not.”
(What in God’s name am I saying? I sound like Woody Allen.)
I got into bed with her and sort of kissed her, after which she put “it” inside. I guess you could have counted to seven or eight, and then boom.
I tried to be as polite as I could manage to be in what was an absurd situation. And actually, she was trying to be polite as well. I just wanted to get out of there. After several polite thank-yous I said a polite, “Good night, Karla,” and left.
A day or two later a friend of mine, who saw that I was coming apart at the seams, suggested that I see his psychoanalyst—just for a recommendation. Her name was Ingrid Steiner. I made an appointment, and, after listening to me for a short while, Dr. Steiner called a therapist she knew named Margie . . . ever hear of her?”
Margie smiled.
chapter 11
A TASTE OF FREEDOM
A week after
The White House
closed, I walked into Margie’s office and gave her a cheerful, “Hi.” “
What’s the matter?” she said.
“What do you mean? . . . All I said was, ‘Hi.’ ”
“What happened?”
I got to the couch
The White House
, starring Helen Hayes. It had a good cast, and most of us had done the play with her on Broadway that spring. She played the wife of every president from George Washington to Woodrow Wilson, and I played one or two lawyers, a college roommate, and Mary Lincoln’s son at her trial. The play didn’t last very long on Broadway, but Miss Hayes liked it so much that she took a big cut in salary and asked all of us to tour New England with her in the summer.
I liked Helen Hayes—as an actress and as a person—but as well as we all got along with her, none of us ever called her Helen, only “Miss Hayes.” I wanted to be a little more familiar, but she had an aura about her from a world I had only read about.
When I got back to New York, I decided to give my marriageone last chance. Mary was due back in ten days. I found a new apartment on Fifty-seventh and Third Avenue. It was only one room, but it was a big L-shaped room, with a little kitchenette, and it was new and clean, with sunlight pouring through the large window that overlooked Fifty-seventh Street. The rent was $150 a month, which was certainly reasonable, but also the limit of what I could afford.
I bought a new dining room table, made of raw pinewood, and I antiqued it myself. I’m not a very good carpenter, but this had more to do with painting than carpentry.
On the morning of September 5, I bought some flowers, placed them in a little vase in the center of the table, and took a shower. When I got out of the shower, a telegram arrived:
Staying in Italy another two weeks. Stop. Mary.
I had the urge to break something. I sat still for a long time, trying to think of what I could do to release the rage in me. Then I searched through my address book until I found what I was looking for: “If you should ever get lonely, just give me a call.”
As I was about to knock on Karla’s door, I heard a man talking in her apartment, and then I heard Karla’s voice. I figured,
Well, a neighbor, a relative, who knows?
I knocked.
Karla came to the door. I saw what looked like a well-dressed businessman just finishing tucking in his shirt. He reached for his jacket, and Karla introduced us. I don’t remember what his name was—I just remember the tucking in of his shirt.
The man said a polite good-bye, and Karla asked me to come in and make myself comfortable.
(What is this? Am I supposed to pay her?)
She offered me some coffee and then invited me into her bedroom,as if we had arranged all of this beforehand. Karla started getting undressed. After a few awkward moments of standing there, I got undressed.
“You know,” she said, “I’ve become something of a nymphomaniac lately.” She followed this with a little laugh.
“It’s just that, at this point in my life I get a little lonely. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Me? No, of course not.”
(What in God’s name am I saying? I sound like Woody Allen.)
I got into bed with her and sort of kissed her, after which she put “it” inside. I guess you could have counted to seven or eight, and then boom.
I tried to be as polite as I could manage to be in what was an absurd situation. And actually, she was trying to be polite as well. I just wanted to get out of there. After several polite thank-yous I said a polite, “Good night, Karla,” and left.
A day or two later a friend of mine, who saw that I was coming apart at the seams, suggested that I see his psychoanalyst—just for a recommendation. Her name was Ingrid Steiner. I made an appointment, and, after listening to me for a short while, Dr. Steiner called a therapist she knew named Margie . . . ever hear of her?”
Margie smiled.
chapter 11
A TASTE OF FREEDOM
A week after
The White House
closed, I walked into Margie’s office and gave her a cheerful, “Hi.” “
What’s the matter?” she said.
“What do you mean? . . . All I said was, ‘Hi.’ ”
“What happened?”
I got to the couch
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