The Autograph Hound by John Lahr Read Free Book Online Page B

Mansfield’s first name.”
    â€œIt’s unbelievable.”
    â€œThat was a tough one. I wasn’t expecting someone from the dead file.”
    â€œYour mind’s a trap.”
    â€œI’ve trained it for autographs. Sometimes I forget my own apartment number, walk right past it. But figures of the performers are gummed into my skull …”
    Gloria wants me to do some more. I don’t want to. After spending so much time with entertainers, some of their secrets sink in—get on, get your laugh, and get off. As a favor, I tell her to take two cards and read me the names. David Merrick and Wayne Newton are her picks. I do the Merrick with short, broad lines. I keep the letters crammed tight together. I take my time, but try to make it look like I’m in a terrible hurry.
    â€œTadah! David Merrick at your service.” I put my impersonation next to the real thing.
    â€œThat’s interesting,” she says.
    â€œInteresting! That’s a perfect imitation.”
    â€œMr. Merrick’s signature slants to the left. Yours is all the way to the right.”
    â€œYou’re a tough critic. My Wayne Newton will surprise you.”
    â€œI’ve really got to go, Benny. It’s been nice making your acquaintance.”
    â€œWayne Newton coming up. Please?”
    The trick to Wayne Newton is to remember he’s a singer and he’s short. Like most smallies in the business, he signs very large and swirly. I use a ball-point pen for this one. The pen skates along the paper.
    â€œDon’t ask me, Benny.”
    â€œIt’s a dead ringer.”
    â€œFlattery gets you nowhere.”
    â€œI’ve been doing him for years. Let me try another.”
    Gloria buckles on her ‘Chase Me’ shoes. She stands up tall as Cyd Charisse, and walks to the door. “Thank you for a nice evening.”
    I pull out another card. “It’s not over.”
    â€œI said I’m not playing.”
    â€œI got this at the Pepsi-Cola Convention. I knew she’d be there. She’s on the Board. I have triples. This one’s yours.”
    She looks at the Joan Crawford for a long time. This is the part I hate—the happy ending. She takes my hand and holds it to her cheek.
    The door clicks shut. No “thank you.” Nothing.
    I sit on the edge of my bed. I sniff the perfume off the back of my hand the way I used to smell glue. I’m dozy.
    I lock up the collection for the night. I turn on the television. Abbott and Costello. I turn it off.
    Should I curl up in the chair or take the bed? I remember Mom’s letter. I’ll take the bed.
    Benny:
    Your last two letters have been about these muscle-boy football players. There must be more news of the big city. Are you a faggot? Keep well. All love.
    Francine/Mom
    P.S. Good contacts are good business.
    I turn out the lights. I put the shell to my ear. Soon I can hear Ocean Beach and my eyes get very heavy.

Chapter Two
    THE MORNING NEWS HASN’T been the same since Jack Lescoulie retired. At 7:30—the TV’s saying that it’s Monday, that Hollywood’s dying, that theater attendance’s falling off, that the air’s killing us, that the Mets lost. That’s hooey. I’ve talked to thousands of healthy, happy people. I’ve got autographs to prove it. Americans take the word of one man sitting behind a desk who hasn’t even seen what he’s talking about with his own eyes. These young announcers think they know it all. They talk with the man in the street, not stars. The man in the street doesn’t know shit, that’s why he’s in the street.
    I cut the announcer off. I watch his head shrink to the size of a pin. I think nice thoughts. The perfume’s still fresh on my hand. I go back to sleep.
    At 9:00 things are looking better. The announcer says the astronauts are on their way to the moon. Five days, 263,000 miles away. Think of that.
    I clock in. My