Read Online Moose Murdered: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love My Broadway Bomb by Arthur Bicknell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Arthur Bicknell
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in farce, Miss Copeland tore into Stuart as if he were a fresh slab of beef just tossed into her lair. She caressed him, she stroked him, she ran her fingers through his hair, and then, like Cyd Charisse, entangled her leg around his, grabbed hold of a chunk of his ass with one hand and gave him a good, long, exploratory grope in the crotch with the other—all the while undulating to a primal rhythm nobody else was privy to.
In a matter of seconds, Stuart’s face went from pale pink to fire engine red.
As a parting gesture, Joan took full advantage of the plush carpeting by dropping to her knees and burying her face deep into Stuart’s groin, growling and tugging at his trousers like a young dog with a chew toy.
I don’t think anybody heard a word of Joan’s dialogue. The roar of our laughter was so loud, in fact, that Mary cut her break short and came running back in to see what the hell was going on.
“I want to sincerely thank all of you for this special opportunity,” said Joan once we’d all quieted down. “You know where to reach me.”
We had to wait for Stuart to compose himself before letting in any of the few remaining actors. He’d withdrawn to the side of the room and was fanning himself with his script. “She grabbed my crotch,” he kept saying over and over. “She grabbed my crotch…with her teeth!”
“You need a cigarette?” asked John.
Nothing—and no
one
—came anywhere close to matching the intensity of Joan Copeland’s audition the rest of that last afternoon at the Bennett Studio. We saw Fisher Stevens and Brian Backer (two authentically teenage Stinky contenders), and a few more Dagmars—including Holland Taylor, who gave a great reading but struck me as being more of an edgy June Cleaver than Nurse Dagmar.
Stuart was called out of the room at the end of the day, and came back a few minutes later obviously trying to hide his glee. In true businesslike fashion, he asked John to join him outside for a minute.
After another few minutes they came back in, and John walked over to the table with his head lowered.
We’d had enough of the histrionics by then, Ricka and I.
“What?! Just say it!”
John shrugged and said, “We’ve signed Eve Arden.”
After a little victory dance, Ricka walked over to Stuart and solemnly put her arm around his shoulder.
“Well, Stud,” she said, “We’re gonna let
you
break the news to Miss Copeland.”
Chapter Four:
Casting Off
Somewhere in the bundle of mug shots we carried with us into Sardi’s restaurant that late October afternoon lurked the remaining cast members of
Moose Murders
—all we had to do now was to flush them out in time for the callback auditions beginning the following week. Sardi’s, the most popular watering hole for show people, was the best place to chow down if you wanted to flaunt your involvement in any current project of
note
. The food here was irrelevant; you went to steep yourself in tradition, feast your eyes on hundreds of celebrity caricatures hanging from the walls, and—most important—to stuff your ego. Every time you strolled into the place, there was at least a ninety percent chance that you’d be noticed by the Broadway Brass.
The brass was a little tarnished that afternoon. The only “celebrity” to show up was Leo Shull, the bombastic blowhard who owned and published
Show Business
, a weekly trade tabloid notorious for ripping off casting notices from its far worthier successor
Back Stage
. I had firsthand knowledge of Leo’s distorted sense of ethics because I’d been one of his miserably paid editorial thieves several years before. During that time I’d never once witnessed him living up to his early reputation as the “actors’ crusader,” but I could vouch for the fact he fought damn hard to make sure his rag carried more “news” than his competition—no matter what the cost to his own dark and wizened soul.
And now, here he was again, pushing his way through the crowd,
In a matter of seconds, Stuart’s face went from pale pink to fire engine red.
As a parting gesture, Joan took full advantage of the plush carpeting by dropping to her knees and burying her face deep into Stuart’s groin, growling and tugging at his trousers like a young dog with a chew toy.
I don’t think anybody heard a word of Joan’s dialogue. The roar of our laughter was so loud, in fact, that Mary cut her break short and came running back in to see what the hell was going on.
“I want to sincerely thank all of you for this special opportunity,” said Joan once we’d all quieted down. “You know where to reach me.”
We had to wait for Stuart to compose himself before letting in any of the few remaining actors. He’d withdrawn to the side of the room and was fanning himself with his script. “She grabbed my crotch,” he kept saying over and over. “She grabbed my crotch…with her teeth!”
“You need a cigarette?” asked John.
Nothing—and no
one
—came anywhere close to matching the intensity of Joan Copeland’s audition the rest of that last afternoon at the Bennett Studio. We saw Fisher Stevens and Brian Backer (two authentically teenage Stinky contenders), and a few more Dagmars—including Holland Taylor, who gave a great reading but struck me as being more of an edgy June Cleaver than Nurse Dagmar.
Stuart was called out of the room at the end of the day, and came back a few minutes later obviously trying to hide his glee. In true businesslike fashion, he asked John to join him outside for a minute.
After another few minutes they came back in, and John walked over to the table with his head lowered.
We’d had enough of the histrionics by then, Ricka and I.
“What?! Just say it!”
John shrugged and said, “We’ve signed Eve Arden.”
After a little victory dance, Ricka walked over to Stuart and solemnly put her arm around his shoulder.
“Well, Stud,” she said, “We’re gonna let
you
break the news to Miss Copeland.”
Chapter Four:
Casting Off
Somewhere in the bundle of mug shots we carried with us into Sardi’s restaurant that late October afternoon lurked the remaining cast members of
Moose Murders
—all we had to do now was to flush them out in time for the callback auditions beginning the following week. Sardi’s, the most popular watering hole for show people, was the best place to chow down if you wanted to flaunt your involvement in any current project of
note
. The food here was irrelevant; you went to steep yourself in tradition, feast your eyes on hundreds of celebrity caricatures hanging from the walls, and—most important—to stuff your ego. Every time you strolled into the place, there was at least a ninety percent chance that you’d be noticed by the Broadway Brass.
The brass was a little tarnished that afternoon. The only “celebrity” to show up was Leo Shull, the bombastic blowhard who owned and published
Show Business
, a weekly trade tabloid notorious for ripping off casting notices from its far worthier successor
Back Stage
. I had firsthand knowledge of Leo’s distorted sense of ethics because I’d been one of his miserably paid editorial thieves several years before. During that time I’d never once witnessed him living up to his early reputation as the “actors’ crusader,” but I could vouch for the fact he fought damn hard to make sure his rag carried more “news” than his competition—no matter what the cost to his own dark and wizened soul.
And now, here he was again, pushing his way through the crowd,
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