It was time for
me to do some serious acting. “You’re so right, Barnabas,” I simmered, doing my best Susan Hayward (she really knows how to emote). “An important director like Elia Kazan would surely laugh at a name like Binky. And isn’t that who you’re auditioning for this evening? Elia Kazan?”
“Yeah,” he said, eyes darting from my face, to the floor, to the well-lit landing at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Kazan’s one of the founders of the Actors Studio, and whenever he needs a new face for one of his movies or plays, he looks here first. If he likes my work tonight, my career will be made in the shade.”
“Gosh!” I cried, flapping my lashes like a starstruck fool (I felt my role called for a little more pep and hooey). “Aren’t you nervous? How can you be so cool? I would be having a heart attack!”
“Yeah, I’m nervous,” he said. “But I’ve been practicing my audition scene for so long, I know it like the back of my hand. I’m going to be a smash tonight. I can feel it.”
“I’m so excited!” I fluttered. “Thanks for letting me come!”
“No problem. I work best in front of a big audience-the bigger the better. And the head honchos like to have extra spectators on audition nights so they can get their reaction to the performances. Come on,” he said, turning and leading the way up the stairs. “Everybody’s here already. You better get yourself a seat.”
BEYOND THE UPSTAIRS ENTRANCE HALL, with its many framed photos of Studio luminaries and workshops-in-progress, was a small theater. The six-or-so rows of wooden seats were arranged in elevated tiers, in a wide semicircle around the stage, which was really no stage at all, just the bare wood boards of the floor. Other than the small table and chair set smack in the center of the floor (or stage, or whatever), there was no scenery. An odd clutter of ladders, brooms, stools, folding chairs, and other pieces of battered equipment served as the only backdrop.
“I’ve got to go in the back and get ready,” Binky told me. “You can sit wherever you like, except for those two empty seats in the front, and the two empty seats in the middle of the fourth row. All the others are up for grabs, and you better grab one before they’re gone.”
He was right. Most of the chairs were already taken, by a chatty, eclectic assortment of men and women, in many different age brackets, in many various styles of dress, primarily business and casual, but also kooky and bohemian. (I seemed to fit in all four categories at once.) I spotted an empty seat in the middle of the next-to-the-last row and quickly worked my way up the tiers, and past a long line of knobby knees, to claim it.
The second I sat down, I started studying the people in the audience, paying special attention to those who were 1) around Gray’s age, and 2) dressed like acting students-i.e., blue jeans, T-shirts, and loafers for the guys; tight skirts, blouses, and ballet flats for the gals. I hoped to zero in on a couple of Gray’s closest peers and try to talk to them when the auditions were over. Spying a handsome young man with a dirty blond ducktail in the second row, and wondering if his name was Randy, I craned my neck forward for a better look.
Lord have mercy! I screeched to myself (in the same tone both my Georgia-born grandmother and Willy Sinclair would use). It’s James Dean! I’m sitting five seats and three rows away from James Dean! If Abby ever finds out about this, she’ll kill me!
To say that I was shocked would be like saying Salvadore Dali was a little bit strange. If I had thought for even a second that Abby’s fave new screen boy would be here, you can bet your sweet tushy I’d have brought her with me! Abby would have had the famous film idol wrapped around her little finger by now, and if it turned out James Dean had been a friend of Gray Gordon’s… who knows what stories (or clues) he might have revealed to us (I mean, her).
But as shocked as I was by the sight of James Dean, that was nothing compared to the stroke I suffered when another well-known (to me) man suddenly pushed his way into the audience and sat down in one of the two reserved seats right in front of me. When I caught my first glimpse of him, I almost passed out. My temperature shot through the roof, my heart went into convulsions, and I broke out in such a serious sweat my bangs went from damp to dripping.
It was Baldy!
My first frantic impulse was to slip down to the floor and crawl under my seat. But slipping and crawling were out of the question. There wasn’t enough room. And all the closely packed chairs on either side of me were full, making a fast, inconspicuous exit from the row impossible. I was stuck. All I could do was sit there like a stump, holding my breath and hiding my face with my hand, praying to every deity I ever heard of that Baldy wouldn’t turn around and see me.
For the time being, my prayers were answered. Baldy leaned his large torso forward, propped his elbows on his knees, and-without a single backward glance-aimed his eyes at the stage. And he continued to sit that way, leaning and staring forward in a seeming trance, until another man entered the crowded fourth row, squeezed his way through the gauntlet of knees, feet, and legs, and sat down next to him.
There was nothing shocking about this well-known man’s arrival. He was the director Elia Kazan, and everybody in the audience, including myself, had been expecting him to appear. I
was surprised, however, by the audience’s cheerful and friendly reaction to his unannounced entrance. Everybody was looking at him and smiling. James Dean stood up and saluted. Many people were waving and applauding, and those sitting close enough stretched out their arms to shake his hand. The well-dressed man to my left leaned over and gave him a sporting slap on the back.
Was I the only one in the room who felt uncomfortable being in Kazan’s presence? Was I the only one who remembered that just three short years ago, in 1952, Kazan had gone before Senator Joe McCarthy and the House Un-American Activities Committee, and identified eight of his old theater friends as former members of the Communist Party? So what if the man was a brilliant Broadway director? So what if his movies were huge Hollywood hits? Did that make it okay for him to be a snitch?
I was spinning these and many other questions around in my brain when a medium-tall middle-aged man wearing a suit and a tie and a pair of large horn-rimmed glasses stood up from one of the reserved seats in the center of the front row and turned to address the crowd.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” he said. “My name is Lee Strasberg, and I welcome you to the Actors Studio. One of our founders, Mr. Elia Kazan, is with us tonight, and three of our most talented young actors will be auditioning for the lead understudy role in his current Broadway success,
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. And now it’s time to get started. We hope you will enjoy the auditions and continue your support of the Actors Studio.”
There was a brief round of applause, and Strasberg returned to his seat.
So that’s it, I said to myself. Kazan is looking for an actor to fill Gray’s shoes, and Binky is hoping his own feet will fit.
Now even more questions were spinning in my dizzy skull. How long, I wondered, had Binky been preparing for this Cinderella audition? Had he begun rehearsing after or before Gray was murdered? How much had he coveted Gray’s understudy role? Enough to kill for it?
And what about Baldy? I reminded myself, staring straight at the back of the man’s big hairless head. What did he have to do with the whole production?
Going crazy from the storm of questions and my inability to answer any of them, I was relieved when Binky suddenly emerged from behind the stage, then walked out into the middle of the floor and introduced himself.
“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Barnabas Kapinsky and I’ve been a member of the Actors Studio for four years. For my audition tonight I will be playing the role of Brick in a scene from