 After the Curtain by L. Suzanne Winnow one Before the Curtain
“Gosh, Mr. McSteinburg, there’s sagans of people out there!”
The elderly looking gentleman chuckled and shook his head. "Charlie, I thought you said you had played some of the bigger venues. And for that, I don't think there's any house in Cincinnati that can hold billions and billions of people. Five thousand, maybe."
The young man let the curtain fall back into place. "Well, yes, sir… I mean I did work some houses as large as this but… Jeez! This place is packed!"
Another chuckle. "I'd imagine so. But you'll get used to it just like I did." He adjusted his suit and patted his beard. "Were there any last minute changes?"
Charlie blushed and patted his pockets. "Oh, yes, that's what I came out here for. There were a couple of things Aaron thought might play well to this crowd." He located the cards and passed them over to his boss.
He hummed while he looked them over. "Piece of cake. Nothing here that we had not already discussed." He winked and slid the cards into his side pocket. "I love the strategy sessions before the show. Keeps us fresh and very, very current."
"Yes, sir."
"That's something a beginning standup needs but cannot afford – and I wish I had one years ago. And quit calling me 'sir', Charlie. A simple 'Joe' will do."
"Yes, sir, ah, thank you, Mr. Joe." He scurried off nervously.
Ol' Joe McSteinburg chuckled again and shook his head. Oh, to be so young again, so green. He began pacing off the stage and familiarize himself with the room he had to work with. All stages were different and the variations had to be accounted for and it was something he preferred to do with the full house beyond the curtain rather than in the empty theatre in midafternoon.
It was his ritual of taking possession of the arena. The routines and stories rolled over in his head as he paced off the boards, blocking, stances and hand motions came to him as easily as breathing. All the hours of practice and honing, just to appear completely natural and at ease during the performance.
Nerves were not a problem for him. He smiled at the thought. No, he had lived through much tougher things – things that made a live standup routine in front of a television audience of millions a task of the utmost ease.
"Mr. McSteinburg." The stage manager called to get his attention. "You're on in five. And watch the light for the commercial breaks."
Joe nodded and gave him the thumbs-up sign. There would be no problem with the red light for the commercials as the routine had been built around the constraints of the merchandising of the show to the television market. He had already worked up special material to try out on the house audience during the commercial breaks.
He always looked forward to that portion of the show, playing to the house audience rather than the invisible television viewers. That and the chance to try some new stuff without the pressure of depending on it to carry the show.
Not that he would have much trouble with that. His success was pretty much assured. Starting years ago with his own material, he now had a crack staff of comedy writers helping hone the persona of Ol' Joe McSteinburg.
His feet took him to the wings where he awaited his introduction. Adjusting his posture and setting the countrified twang in his vocal chords.
Moments later, he was introduced.
The practiced patter, hitting his marks with the proper pacing, awaiting the wave of laughter to begin subsiding before speaking a follow-up. It was a very standardized dance and he knew it well.
So well that now and then he had a tendency to drift off mentally while performing. This was the first time he had ever done it during a televised performance and he repeatedly tried focusing on the script.
It was a lost cause. Someday he was certain he would come out of his woolgathering to find he had lost his place and the silent crowd would be staring at him expectantly. That had not come close to happening yet, but it would probably happen someday. But not tonight; of that he was certain.
Normally he could force his attention back to the present but tonight was different. Not different in the location or the material, nor even the television crew.
Today he had found out his daughter was in Cincinnati.
He had spent years trying not to think about her – and her mother – and learn to live without them. Without them or anyone else held close. Ol' Joe was a persona who had no close associations. And for more than one reason.
He knew from experience that thinking about it would only make him morose and short-tempered with everyone so he did not make a habit out of it.
But she was so close.
The mother he no longer felt deep pangs about. Jessica had surely gotten remarried by now and no one could possibly blame her for it. She had a right to happiness even if her first attempt had been destroyed by forces beyond either of their control.
That thought caused the bile to rise and he quickly returned his attention to the performance lest some of the bitterness slip out.
She would probably be in high school now, he calculated. When he left them Ariel had still been in the crib. The last time they had a family reunion, she was only two. Since that time he had only seen her once – she must have been about ten at the time – and he had his chauffeur drive past their house so that he might see her. But he did not – could never – consider stopping to talk to her.
Funny thing about life, he mused, was that it was so goddamned un-funny, and so unfair. But you learned to roll with the punches or you lay where you were knocked down and died.
And he was no quitter.
His foray into his psyche was put aside. The finale was approaching and he needed to pay attention to what he was doing. He only had one very physical bit of humor in the show and it was at the end, accompanied by a one-hand stand.
Who the hell's idea was that, anyway?
Ooops! That one was his own.
"Great show, fellas." Tony, the head writer, came into the packed dressing room where the entire staff was meeting. He had spent the entire show at the back of the auditorium to better gauge the reactions. "And talking to some of the critics – who always seem to be seated close to the exits – I think we get another passing grade on this performance. Jessup at Reuters said it was the best performance yet and wondered how we'd ever be able to maintain at this level."
Cal Minter laughed. "He doesn't know us too well then, does he?" Everyone else laughed. They usually took the time to deconstruct the performance and the audience response while it was fresh in their minds and this little bit of news would lighten their task considerably. Only a few points needed tweaking and they were able to adjourn shortly to their beds.Hardball Romance
“Go to hell, McSteinburg!"
"Well, if that's the way you feel about it…" He rose from the chair and started for the door without another word or backward glance. There were plenty of other producers in Hollywood and he could find one who would make him the deal he needed.
He stepped out of the office and had almost pulled the door closed behind him when, "All right! All right! Get back in here and I'll see what I can do."
Ol' Joe smiled quickly to himself but had wiped it from his face by the time he turned back into the room. "I'm glad we can work together, Mr. Franklin." He paused while he returned to the chair. "I've heard you were the best in the business and I was anxious to see what sort of noise we might make."
"Yeah, yeah, but I'm letting you know right now that I don't think we'll even be able to get any network to agree to that sort of deal. No one gets complete artistic license anymore, no one. I don't think anyone's had it since Lucille Ball and the 'I Love Lucy' show certainly never pushed any censorship boundaries. The Smother Brothers had a heck of a show but they were finally canned because of their constant run-ins with the censors. Since that time," he shrugged, "the networks have kept the upper hand. And I really don't think they're going to relax it in your case either, even if you are bigger than Lucy and the Smothers combined."
"Well, David, I can assure you that my writers will be running everything they do past the censors. We'll have complete approval of everything before it's in the can. If there is some material the network finds objectionable, I don't mind reworking it or removing it. But once the script is finalized, there can be no editing out of any material." He smiled. "Call it my artistic temperament, if you like, but when I go with a product I expect it to be presented in its entirety. So many of my routines refer back to material used in setting up other jokes and to lose any of it is to lose the punchlines. And that sort of outcome is deadly in my line of work."
The producer nodded. "Okay, Joe, I'm willing to give it a try. It's your nickel. But if we can't get a network interested in your ground rules, you won't hold it against me if I bail?"
"Absolutely not. Since I'm calling the shots, I can't hold you responsible for it failing, can I?"
"You'd be surprised what people get blamed for in this industry." He leaned back in his chair. "Why, just a couple of years ago there was a project floundering at Altamount Studios and they hired me on to salvage what I could. Oh," he shook his head and rubbed his forehead, "I can tell you it was a mess! And before I even had a chance to get my feet wet, they announced to the media that the project was cancelled and I was fired."
"They can do that?"
"Absolutely! They never once blamed me for the failure of the project, mind you, just said they were canceling it for various and sundry reasons and that since I was in charge of it, I was being released. Still, they paid pretty well for me to be the fall guy."
Joe chuckled. "And I take it all this chicanery had a reason?"
"Absolutely! The failure didn't hurt my reputation none – well, a little I guess, but I only had one cancellation – and more importantly it did not hurt the reputation of the young producer they were grooming to be a major player. It was his first project and a failure would have doomed him. And I should mention that he has since become very successful. It was just a case of first time jitters, I suspect."
"So, I suppose I could blame you if this fails, but I can promise that I won't. Either blame you OR fail."
"With you riding the wave of popularity that you are, I can't see a reason why it would fail. But you don't know networks and sponsors like I do. The sponsors are the worst! If you have one line that makes people think less of their product – even less of something associated by the wildest stretch of the imagination with their product – they can pull their ads, and their money, and the network don't need you as much as the sponsors' money! And it's not just one sponsor we're talking about. There's usually a dozen or more for an hour slot in primetime. You gotta keep all them happy as well as the network." He stopped and stared at the young man across from him. "Actually, I'm amazed any show ever gets aired seeing all the strictures to be followed and all the hoops to be jumped through. Man!"
After the deal was arranged, Joe sealed the contract with a handshake. The contract would be drawn up by their lawyers and they could get to work. The day seemed brighter when he walked out on the street. He motioned to his driver.
"Sammie, I think I'll take a bit of a stroll. Meet me in about an hour over at Grauman's, okay?"
"Sure thing, Joe. You want I should pick you up something to eat?"
"Nah, I'll just grab a dog somewhere. But go get yourself something while you wait or go see your sister. Whatever you want."
"Thanks, boss." He went around the limo and headed off into traffic.
Now, what to do for an hour? He was not sure what to do but being outdoors in the southern California sunshine felt like what his soul needed. He looked up. Fortunately the smog did not seem to be bad today. Better than it had been when he was younger, that was for certain.
He began down the boulevard, idly noting the names inscribed in the stars as he moved along. All the great names of yesteryear emblazoned for eternity. Would his name be there too someday? Would anyone ever remember his career as a comic?
People said he was more famous than Lucy, Jerry, Seinfeld, Murphy or Carlin. Some sycophants even said he was greater than all of them combined! He doubted it. But maybe someday he would be, if he lasted that long.
Two years ago, the deal he had just made would have been an impossibility. He had been working in a small improv club in Albany of all places when good fortune came to imprison him. His meteoric rise to fame had followed so quickly that he was still waiting for the other shoe to fall.
Most the time everything seemed to be completely out of his control. The meeting he had just finished and the deal he had made were not his idea. Cal had brainstormed it with the guys last night – he suspected over a bottle of Scots whiskey – and presented it to him this morning, saying the producer in question had already been contacted a week before to feel him out.
The mechanics of how the deal came about were a mystery to him. But it was much like the finished routines he performed. His people devised a course for him to follow and he took the steps to accomplish it. Not like he was an unthinking machine, of course, as the final decision was always his to make.
That had been the deal, the arrangement he had been given in Albany two years ago when he had effectively sold his soul. To who? The devil? Certainly the devil in one of his many forms, he was sure of that.
He heard a familiar voice and turned to a storefront. Televisions lined the counter behind the glass and they were showing a tape of one of his performances – available at most outlets for the amazing low price of only $19.95! – the last one in Albuquerque if he recalled correctly. He watched it and looked for the audience responses.
Looking at the tapes was something usually done by Tony or Donny, maybe Richard too. He himself rarely saw them.
The tape was showing the short interview before the routine started. It was only slightly humorous but set up a lot of the material in the show. Fairly standard stuff and it was usually included on all his tapes.
"My granddad told me we were descended from one of the lost tribes of Israel. I know it sounds crazy but that's what he told me – senile, I guess he was. And they fled from the Philistines" the last word said to rhyme with 'signs' "and migrated to Scotland. Someone once asked granddad if the mixture was 50:50 Scots Jewish, or 70:30 or what. Granddad replied it was more like 20:20... in hindsight, I think that was correct.
"Really, though, mom was from the MacRosenzweig clan and my wife, Mabel, from the MacBurnbaums of Airlie. But that's just the short form of the name. Originally she was 'Mabilia Helena MacBurnbaum of Airlie to bed and Airlie to rise'. Try putting that on a wedding invitation – so she shorted it to Mabel MacBurnbaum.
"Mabel was always a little sad that we had no little tykes to raise for our own. But she is happy that so many people have embraced our clan that it should not die out so quickly. With all the money I've been making, she sends a great portion back to the Highlands for the relief of the lost tribe still surviving there. She plans on writing a book about it someday so everyone can learn of our plight. And that's per Mabel."
'Per Mabel', he mused, now who had come up with that one? He couldn't remember but it had become a standard in his routines to signify something that was gospel. Any news item or tidbit however outlandish was usually followed by 'and that's per Mabel', at which a portion of the audience would always call back 'Per Mabel'.
He chuckled. Audiences were certainly strange critters. They usually responded to another comment as well. When a portion of his tale became outlandish, but not to the degree of requiring Mabel's intervention, he would end with his right hand on his heart and his left forefinger raised and say the vernacular 'and that's fer dang sure!' at which point the audience would join him on the 'fer dang sure' portion.
It was almost like leading some weird kind of cult, performing ritual ceremonies and bizarre codes. The only differences that he could see were that they wore no robes or danced around an altar, just his homespun duds and his rocking chair, and he had no clue about the ritual he was initiating. |
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