Did things ever get so outlandishly rock-bottom rotten that you went around muttering, not necessarily out loud, but muttering nonetheless: I don’t believe it! Then you might surprise yourself by a short, spastic burst of laughter, half expecting everyone to jump out shouting: “Surprise! Ah-hah, we had you fooled! All over!”
But they didn’t and it wasn’t. Wasn’t over by a long shot.
For instance and to be blunt: if you were not successful at your profession (and had been trying your ass off), if you’d been robbed twice within three months, if your best friend had died and you were breaking up with your girl and your cat was sick and you got fired from a job, mightn’t you start muttering: I don’t believe it!
You’d try to keep your sense of perspective and humor, wouldn’t you? You’d do your best to stave off thundering paranoia.
I tried.
But these, the above listed, they qualify more or less as major events. They stood up and spoke loudly for themselves. They barked.
It was the little things that indicated there might be a cosmic plot afoot.
The last time I went to the theater before the holidays had been with Kate. As we sat in the darkened orchestra minutes before the curtain went up, a loud sneeze broke the silence. It came from several rows behind us and it got a slight giggle. Kate and I had had several drinks and we were not fighting, so I was buoyed into a good mood. Without turning around I said in an audibly jovial voice: “God bless you!”
The sneezer, a woman, shouted back: “Oh, mind your own goddamn business!”
This earned a howl from the nearby rows of people. Kate laughed, so did I. But as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose and the play began, my disposition turned sour. I wanted to find that woman and punch her in her stuffed nose.
On the subway early in December, a crazy man—one of the army of sad crazy persons to be seen nowadays—teeth like Roquefort cheese, popeyed, balding, perhaps sixty-five, wearing three overcoats, and laden down with bags, papers, string-tied bundles, and one umbrella that had not survived a hurricane, took a seat across from me.
He was having a talk with God, rather at God, in a childlike, somewhat mincing voice that came from directly behind the bridge of his nose. “God! God!” he snorted. “God, you are a bad boy! Naughty God, bad God!”
I could not help grinning, out of nervousness, out of annoyance, that this crazy person had picked a seat directly opposite me. I was, also, not feeling in top shape. Kate and I had racked up a few nasty rounds that morning.
He went on. “Bad God, dirty God!” Despite what he was holding, his bundles and all, he managed to reach over and slap his own wrist. “Bad, bad, dirty God!”
The wrist slap did it. I smiled. In slapping his wrist he had dropped his umbrella. He snorted, reached down to retrieve it, then abruptly looked up and—caught my smile.
“Funny? Funny?” he demanded in his high nasal voice. He picked up the black and metal shredded mass that had been an umbrella and shook it at me. “You—you’ll think it’s funny when God takes a Fleet enema on you!”
He sputtered, settled back in his seat, then swiveled round to the man next to him. “He’ll think it’s funny when God takes a Fleet enema on him!”
I was close to extreme nervous laughter. The train slowed, I got up and quickly walked to the exit door, and when the train stopped and I was getting out—it was not my stop, I merely wanted to change cars—I could hear this poor deranged person shouting: “You’ll think it’s funny when God takes a Fleet enema on you!”
At the time, I did not happen to know what a Fleet enema was. I did not know whether it meant a fleet enema, as in the Navy. I had a mental picture of the entire crew of an aircraft carrier lined up out on deck...
Or else it could be fleet, as in swift. He could have meant: God is going to take a very quick enema on you.
Whatever, during that dangerous week between Christmas and New Year’s, that treacherous period so overburdened with memories of brighter better happier times, imaginings of what-should-be, what-might-have-been, of missing those relatives and friends who’ve died, or those lovers or friends who’ve parachuted from your life, or perhaps just drifted away hard on the heels of so many of your fondest dreams—during that week it became clear that someone, God or whoever, was taking an enema, Fleet or otherwise, and it had something to do with me.
There I sat, quietly, grimly, in total darkness, just sat there in the dark, in my old brown leather easy chair. Waiting. Waiting, but was the waiting—well, realistic? I was asking myself.
The phone rang again. Had been ringing off and on all afternoon. Without thinking, I grabbed the arms of the chair, swung forward and screamed across the room at it. “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Really screamed, wrenching wartime, over-the-top, scare-the-achtungs-out-of-the-Nazis screaming.
The phone obliged. My throat hurt. Without thinking, I’d screamed, but now I thought, as I sat there suddenly aware of the unsteady heaving of my chest, the panting breaths. I thought: I am perhaps waiting for two things. I am first and foremost: waiting for the burglar to return. I knew he would; I was willing him back. The Return of the Burglar.
And, oh, Jesus, will he get a reception!
The other thing, this, somewhat spookier, had just seriously occurred to me. I might also be waiting to Join Aunt Jemima. Joining Aunt Jemima was the euphemism my best friend Pete Williams had coined for flipping out. It translates easily enough: Aunt Jemima, pancakes, flipping.
Yes, it seriously occurred to me I might be extremely close to Joining Aunt Jemima! The little hairs scattered around at the top of my spinal column—Kate liked to tug on them; “Here, let me give you a comb-out,” she’d say—stood up and touched my shirt in serious acknowledgment of this.
I kept sitting there in the dark. Maybe that was the unanswered phone call that would lure him back, as he’d been coaxed back two nights earlier. The phone had rung about eleven in the evening. I’d been in bed asleep and did not answer. Fifteen minutes or so later, after I’d gone back to sleep, I was awakened by footsteps coming up to the landing. Out of reflex, I switched the lights on from my bed. The footsteps quickly left. I cursed my reflexes. Oh, how I cursed them.
But I had not imagined I would be robbed again. I had been robbed twice that fall, once in September and then the final maddening ripoff in mid-November. Surely twice was a fair quota. By this time I’d had the door steel-backed, Fox-locked, etc. Yes, too late, I know, but still we do these things.
It had not occurred to me another attempt would be made— third time’s a charm—but then two nights earlier the footsteps.
So there I sat in the dark—I’d even turned off the Christmas tree lights—waiting.
I moved my leg and kicked the looseleaf binder that contained my journal, not a serious journal, more of a day-by-day diary-journal. I rarely read back in it, except to look for the name of someone I’d met, or a date, or a record of when I’d done something.
This afternoon I had. I could not believe the grimness that had settled down like a great gray killer smog. I wanted to make sure I was not overreacting, so I read back, here and there, bits and pieces.
The documentation was present and accounted for. I could not believe it. I would alternate, sometimes the accent would be: I don’t believe it, I don’t believe it. Sometimes: I don’t, I don’t believe it.
I had also taken to saying out loud: “Add ’em up. Add ’em up, Bobby!” This, a recurrent line from the musical Company.
So while I’m sitting there on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve day waiting for the burglar to return—and I guarantee you he will not disappoint either of us—I will tell you who this shaky person in the dark is.
The following sheet was put out by my agent.
James Zoole, 17 Cork Street, NYC Phone 243-4313 Service LE-2-1500
Age—32· Accents—English, French, Spanish···
Height—6 ft.·· Hobbies—swimming, tennis, skiing
Eyes—blue Voice—light baritone
Hair—dark brown Dance—soft shoe····
•Although I was 38, I brought it down a few years. I rationalized it was because I looked younger, always played younger parts. This was true, but the prime reason was this: lopping off a few years gave me more time in which to succeed. At 32 if you have not become a household word, well, there’s a bit of time. 38 is dangerously close to 40. If you haven’t made it by 40—well, the reason for part of the shakes.
• •Actually 5 11½.
• • •I was once fired from dubbing a Japanese horror film for my lousy Japanese accent, so Japanese is not, over the objections of my agent, listed.
• • • Barely.
BAD EGGS—featured, Broadway
A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS—Broadway
THE PLASTIC LOVE—featured, Broadway
BAREFOOT IN THE PARK—featured (replacement) Broadway
NEVER TOO LATE—(understudy for Orson Bean) Broadway
THE ANGELS OR WHOEVER—featured, off-B’way
THE STRONG SUIT OF THE LADY-BUG IS NOT FLYING—off-B’way
MY CERTAIN TOYS—starred, off-B’way
SOMETHING FOR NO ONE!—featured, off-B’way
JOAN OF LORRAINE—tour, Sylvia Sidney
CALL ME MADAM—summer tour with Martha Raye
CALL ME MADAM—summer tour with Elaine Stritch
WONDERFUL TOWN—Dallas, with Imogene Coca
PANAMA HATTIE—Dallas, with Vivian Blaine
WELCOME DARLINGS—tour with Tallulah Bankhead
WONDERFUL TOWN—N.Y. City Center, with Kaye Ballard
NEVER TOO LATE—featured, South African tour
MARY, MARY—summer tour opposite Kathryn Crosby
THE GLASS MENAGERIE—Ivanhoe Theatre, Chicago
BAREFOOT IN THE PARK—tour with Myrna Loy
COMPANY—bus and truck tour
TELEVISION
Four years featured part of Mickey Emerson on VALIANT LADY, CBS-TV.
GARRY MOORE SHOW LOCK-UP
ED SULLIVAN SHOW PERRY MASON
(sketch, Nancy Walker) ODYSSEY
G.E. SUMMER THEATRE LAWMAN
LAMP UNTO MY FEET SHOTGUN SLADE
I SPY STUDIO ONE
ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS THE BIG VALLEY
KRAFT LAW AND ORDER
DIVORCE COURT TRUCK ROUTE
DAY IN COURT VERDICT IS YOURS
NIGHT COURT LOVE OF LIFE
COURT MARTIAL LOVE IS A MANY
AS THE WORLD TURNS SPLENDORED THING
COMMERCIALS: Coca-Cola, FAB, Ralston-Purina, Snow White, Breck Shampoo, Brite-Rite, Texaco, Tropicana Orange Juice.
INDUSTRIAL SHOWS: General Motors, N.A.M.S.B. (National As-soc. Men’s Sportswear Buyers) (five seasons), Coca-Cola, Life, DuPont, Simco Products, Prudential Life, Norelco
OTHER: Dubbed films for TITRA, Army Training Films (7), Teenagers Unlimited, 26 weeks co-hosting with Lee Goodman, Mutual Network
STOCK COMPANIES: Lambertville, Oakdale, Newport, Westport, Kenley Players, Westport, Newport, Dennis, Skowhegan, Worcester, Bar Harbor, Neptune, Crag moor, Long Beach, Ivoryton, Guber-Ford-Gross circuit, Ogunquit, Buck’s County, Pawtucket, North Shore Players, Grist Mill Playhouse, etc.
so this person sitting in the dark is/was an actor. But along about this time, if someone were to ask, “What do you do?” I would not proudly, as once I had done, announce, “I’m an actor.” I would either have avoided a reply by sideswiping into another topic, or lied, or perhaps, according to my opinion of the questioner— prerequisites: honesty, sincerity, definitely no trace of smartass—I might have mumbled the truth, “I’m an actor.”
Yet you might say from the list of credits, Well, now, that’s quite a list, he’s been busy as a switch engine, he has been working.
Yes, but have you ever heard of the name—James Zoole?
After twenty years in the business when your biggest credit is four years as “Son” of “Valiant Lady” on the now defunct television soap opera of that name, you—no, to put it more succinctly, if you’ve been an actor twenty years and have to be asked what it is you do—you have not got it made.
The phone rang again. I sat very still and counted the rings. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. Sixteen. Someone wants through. It could have been my only living relative, my Aunt Claire. It could have been Kate. It could have been my agent, Phyllis.
Or it could have been the Burglar.
After the phone stopped, I sat there for a while until I heard, in a loud voice: “Add ’em up. Add ’em up, Bobby!”
When you haven’t planned to speak, when you haven’t known you’ve spoken until you actually hear your very hollow voice, it can get to you.
As if to clear the air, I spoke again with full consent and knowledge. “Add ’em up. Add ’em up, Bobby!”
Herewith a few of the events I was adding.