I now knew, for example, that Gray had had a lot of friends, and that four of them were named Randy. (Okay, okay! So it was probably more likely that all four messages had been left by the same Randy, but I couldn’t be certain of that now, could I?) I knew from the preponderance of masculine names that most of Gray’s friends were male. Aside from Aunt Doobie, the only female name on the list was Binky-”Binky from acting class,” to be more precise.
Binky’s message was the only one with a phone number, and I decided to dial it that very night, before the morning papers with the news of Gray’s death hit the stands. I drained the dregs from my third wine glass, lit up another cigarette, and placed the call.
One ring, then two, then a brusque “Hello.” It was a man’s voice, and it didn’t sound happy.
“Oh, hello,” I said, trying to sound calm and cool as a cucumber (which was impossible since I was hotter than a roasted chicken, and as calm as Daffy Duck on the opening day of hunting season). “May I speak to Binky please?”
There was a long pause, and then the brusque voice growled, “Who is this?”
“Uh… mm… you don’t know me,” I stammered, madly searching for the right thing to say. “ My name is Phoebe Starr and I’m a friend of Gray Gordon’s and I’d like to talk to Binky if I-”
“You’re a friend of Gray’s?” The man’s tone had turned from curt to curious.
“Yes, that’s right. We’re neighbors in the Village.”
“So, what do you want to talk to Binky for?”
I was reluctant to answer the question. Who was this impertinent man? And why was he screening Binky’s calls? Was he her father, brother, husband, boyfriend, or lawyer?
“Well… uh… see, I’m an actress,” I began, taking my own sweet time, speaking as slowly as I could without seeming retarded (I didn’t want to reveal too many personal facts-okay, fables-until I knew who was on the other end of the line) “… and I’ve been looking for a new drama coach. So, when I ran into Gray on the street the other day,” I continued, still stalling, “I started asking him a bunch of questions about his acting workshop. I wanted to know how much it cost, and if you had to audition, and if he thought I’d be able to get in. But Gray didn’t have time to talk to me since he was in a big hurry to get to the theater… so he gave me Binky’s number and said I should talk to her about it.”
The man burst out laughing. “
Her?” he croaked, between guffaws. “Are you sure Gray said ‘her’?”
Boo-boo alert. Right name, wrong gender.
“He didn’t actually use the word ‘her,’ ” I hurried to explain. “I just assumed…”
“Then, you assumed wrong, sweetheart. Do I sound like a girl?”
“
You’re Binky?”
“The one and only.”
“Please pardon my mistake, Mr… uh… um… er…” I stumbled, hoping he would fill in the blank of his last name.
“Kapinski,” he said. “Barnabas Kapinski. But you can call me Binky. Everybody does.”
“Okay, Binky,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, it’s all right with me.”
He laughed again. “It’s not a very manly name, I know, but then, neither is Barnabas.”
I giggled, just to keep the good will flowing. “You’re in Gray’s drama workshop, right? You’re studying at the Actors Studio? With Lee Strasberg?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Ooooh, that’s so wonderful!” I gushed. “You must be a really good actor! I know Mr. Strasberg only accepts the best. And some of his students are famous stars already! I mean, James Dean and Marilyn Monroe are studying at the Studio now, aren’t they?”
“Yeah, but you don’t see them around much. They’re kind of busy making movies.”
“And what about you?” I probed. “Are you starring in any movies or shows?”
He laughed again. “Not unless you count my starring role at the Latin Quarter every night. I’m the best bartender they have.”
I let out another giggle and tried to think of a way to get him to talk about Gray. “Well, that’s a better job than Gray had,” I stressed. “He was just a busboy before he landed the
Hot Tin Roof understudy job. And now he’s a star! At least that’s what Brooks Atkinson says. Did you read his review of Gray’s stand-in performance in the Times today?”
“Of course. Atkinson is the best drama critic in the city. I read every word the man writes.”
“So, what do you think about what he said? Is Gray as good an actor as he claims?”
“Yeah, yeah, Gray’s okay, I guess,” Binky replied. “He seems pretty skillful when he’s doing scenes at the Studio. I didn’t see him on stage last night, though, so I don’t know about
that… But what the hell does it matter what I think, anyway? Brooks Atkinson said he’s good, and that’s all that friggin’ counts. Gray’s a lucky guy. He’ll be getting more offers than he can handle. He’s on a friggin’ free ride to the top.”
I couldn’t see Binky’s face, but judging from his grudging tone of voice and vulgar choice of words, I’d have wagered it was green with envy.
“I bet you’ll be next,” I said, hoping to soothe his jealous soul and turn his attentions to more important matters (i.e., the things that mattered to
me). “Everybody who gets accepted at the Actors Studio eventually hits the big time, right?” I asked. “That’s why I want to study there so much. Do you think I have a chance? Is it as hard to get in as everybody says?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty tough,” he said, warming to the role of the wise advisor. “First of all there has to be an opening in the Studio. Mr. Strasberg likes to keep the headcount under control, and sometimes he won’t accept a new student unless he’s lost an old one. And then-if a space does open up and you want to apply-you’ve got to do at least two auditions, have excellent recommendations, and be super serious about pursuing an acting career. You’ve got to have some experience, too.
Professional experience, I mean. Not just high school or college stuff.”
“Gee, that
is tough,” I said, with an exaggerated sigh. “Still, I am really serious about being an actress, and I do have some professional experience. I’ve done some summer stock and a slew of radio commercials. Does that qualify?”
“It might be enough,” Binky said, “but all the experience in the world won’t do you any good unless you perform really well at the auditions. That’s what Mr. Strasberg cares about the most-whether or not you have an exciting stage presence, and whether or not you can act.”
“Oh, I can act, all right!” I said, with unshakable self-confidence. (Am I a good actress, or what?) I wanted to convince Binky of my talent and drive so that he would accept me as a striving colleague, and show me around the Studio, and introduce me to his and Gray’s fellow drama students (be they friend or, more importantly,
foe).
But Binky wasn’t very receptive to my performance. He paused for a moment, then muttered, “You sound pretty damn sure of yourself, little girl.”
Uh-oh. His tone had turned gruff again-especially when he pronounced the words “little girl.” Had I overstepped my feminine bounds? Had I threatened Binky’s masculinity with my forceful (albeit fake) self-esteem?
“Oh, that’s just an act,” I hastened to admit, working to recover lost ground and get back on Binky’s good side. “I kid you not. I’m nothing but a nervous Nellie inside. I’m so full of self-doubt, I’m bursting at the seams.” (This part was a snap for me to play since it was completely in character.)