“Give me some light!”
Cry: tormented, half–moan half–chant, cast out against a whispering darkness; a man wound in white, arms upflung to roistering shadows, sooty sockets where eyes had been, pleading, demanding, anger and hopelessness, anguish from the soul into the world. He stumbled, a step, two, faltering, weak, the man returned to the child, trying to find some exit from the washing sea of darkness in which he trembled.
“Give me some light!”
Around him a Greek chorus of susurrating voices. Plucking at his garments, he staggered toward an intimation of sound, a resting place, a goal. The man in pain, the figure of all pain, all desperation, and nowhere in that circle of painful light was there release from this torment. Sandaled feet stepping, each one above an abyss, no hope and no safety; what can it mean to be so eternally blind?
Again: “Give me some light!”
The last tortured ripping of the words from a throat raw with the hopelessness of salvation. Then the man sank to the shadows that moved in on him. The face half–hidden in chiaroscuro, sharp black, blanched white, down and down into the grayness about his feet, the circle of blazing white light pinpointing him, a creature impaled on a pin of brilliance, till closing, closing, closing it swallowed him, all gone to black, darkness within and without, black even deeper, nothing, finis, end, silence.
Richard Becker, Oedipus, had played his first role. Twenty–four years later, he would play it again, as his last. But before that final performance’s curtain could be rung, twenty–four years of greatness would have to strut across stages of life and theatre and emotion.
Time passing.
When they had decided to cast the paranoid beggar in Sweet Miracles, Richard Becker had gone to the Salvation Army retail store, and bought a set of rags that even the sanctimonious saleswomen staffing the shop had tried to throw out as unsalable and foul. He bought a pair of cracked and soleless shoes that were a size too large. He bought a hat that had seen so many autumns of rain its brim had bowed and withered under the onslaught. He bought a no–color vest from a suit long since destroyed, and a pair of pants whose seat sagged baggily, and a shirt with three buttons gone, and a jacket that seemed to symbolize every derelict who had ever cadged an hour’s sleep in an alley.
He bought these things over the protests of the kindly, white– haired women who were doing their bit for charity, and he asked if he might step into the toilet for a few moments to try them on; and when he emerged, his good tweed jacket and dark slacks over his arm, he was another man entirely. As though magically, the coarse stubble (that may have been there when he came into the store, but he seemed too nice–looking a young man to go around unshaved) had sprouted on his sagging jowls. The hair had grown limp and off–gray under the squashed hat. The face was lined and planed with the depravities and deprivations of a lifetime lived in gutters and saloons. The hands were caked with filth, the eyes lusterless and devoid of personality, the body grotesquely slumped with the burden of mere existence. This old man, this skid from the Bowery, how had he gotten into the toilet, and where was the nice young man who had gone in wearing that jacket and those slacks? Had this creature somehow overpowered him (what foul weapon had this feeble old man used to subdue a vital, strong youth like that)? The white–haired Good Women of Charity were frozen with distress as they imagined the strong–faced, attractive youth, lying in the bathroom, his skull crushed by a length of pipe.
The old bum extended the jacket, the pants, and the rest of the clothing the young man had been wearing, and in a voice that was thirty years younger than the body from which it spoke, he explained, “I won’t be needing these, ladies. Sell them to someone who can make good use of them.” The voice of the young man, from this husk.
And he paid for the rags he wore. They watched him as he limped and rolled through the front door, into the filthy streets; another tramp gone to join the tide of lost souls that would inevitably become a stream and a river and an ocean of wastrels, washing finally into a drunk tank, or a doorway, or onto a park bench.
Richard Becker spent six weeks living on the Bowery; in fleabags, abandoned warehouses, cellars, gutters, and on tenement rooftops, he shared and wallowed in the nature and filth and degradation of the empty men of his times.
For six weeks he was a tramp, a thoroughly washed-out hopeless rumdum, with rheumy eyes and palsied wrists and a weak bladder.
One by one the weeks mounted to six, and on the first day of casting for Sweet Miracles, the Monday of the seventh week, Richard Becker arrived at the Martin Theater, where he auditioned for the part in the clothes he had worn for the past six weeks.
The play ran for five hundred and eighteen performances, and Richard Becker won the Drama Critics’ Circle Award as the finest male performer of the year. He also won the Circle Award as the most promising newcomer of the year.
He was twenty–two years old at the time.
The following season, after Sweet Miracles had gone on the road, Richard Becker was apprised, through the pages of Variety, that John Foresman & T. H. Searle were about to begin casting for House of Infidels, the new script by Odets, his first in many years. Through friends in the Foresman and Searle offices, he obtained a copy of the script, and selected a part he considered massive in its potentialities.
The role of an introspective and tormented artist, depressed by the level of commercialism to which his work had sunk, resolved to regain an innocence of childhood or nature he had lost, by working with his hands in a foundry.
When the first night critics called Richard Becker’s conception of Tresk, the artist, “a pinnacle of thespic intuition” and noted, “His authority in the part led members of the audience to ask one another how such a sensitive actor could grasp the rough unsubtle life of a foundry–worker,” they had no idea that Richard Becker had worked for nearly two months in a steel stamping plant and foundry in Pittsburgh. But the makeup man on House of Infidels suspected Richard Becker had once been in a terrible fire, for his hands were marked by the ravages of great heat.
After two successes, two conquests of Broadway, two characterizations that were immediately ranked with the most brilliant Schubert Alley had ever witnessed, Richard Becker’s reputation began to build a legend.
“The Man Who Is “The Method”, they called him, in perceptive articles and interviews. Lee Strasberg of the Actors Studio, when questioned, remarked that Becker had never been a student, but had the occasion arisen, he might well have paid him to attend. In any event, Richard Becker’s command of the Stanislavski theory of total immersion in a part became a working example of the validity of the concept. No mere scratcher and stammerer, on a stage Richard Becker was the man he pretended to be.
Of his private life little was written; he let it be known that if he was to be totally convincing in a characterization, he wanted no intrusive shadow of himself standing between the audience and the image he offered.
Hollywood’s offers of stardom were refused, for as Theatre Arts commented in a brief feature on Richard Becker:
The gestalt that Becker projects across a row of footlights would be dimmed and turned two–dimensional on the Hollywood screen. Becker’s art is an ultimate distillation of truth and metamorphosis that requires the reality of stage production to retain its purity. It might even be noted that Richard Becker acts in four dimensions, as opposed to the merely craftsmanlike three of his contemporaries. Surely no one could truly argue with the fact that watching a Becker performance is almost a religious experience. We can only congratulate Richard Becker on his perceptiveness in turning down studio bids.
The years of building a backlog of definitive parts (effectively mining them for other actors who were condemned to play them after Becker had said all there was to say) passed, as Richard Becker became, in turn, a Hamlet that cast new lights on the Freudian implications of Shakespeare . . . a fiery Southern segregationist whose wife reveals her octaroon background . . . a fast–talking salesman come to grips with futility and cowardice . . . a many–faceted Marco Polo . . . a dissolute and totally amoral pimp, driven by a loathing for women, to sell his own sister into evil . . . a ruthless politician, dying of cancer and senility . . .
And the most challenging part he had ever undertaken, the re– creation, in the play by Tennessee Williams, of the deranged religious zealot, trapped by his own warring emotions, into the hammer– murder of an innocent girl .
When they found him, in the model’s apartment off Gramercy Place, they were unable to get a coherent story of why he had done the disgusting act, for he had lapsed into a stentorian tone of Biblical fervor, pontificating about the blood of the lamb and the curse of Jezebel and the eternal fires of Perdition. The men from Homicide East included in their ranks a rookie, fresh to the squad, who became desperately ill at the sight of the fouled walls and the crumpled form wedged into the tiny kitchenette; he became violently ill, and was taken from the apartment a few minutes before Richard Becker was led away.
The trial was a manifest sadness to all who had seen him onstage, and the jury did not even have to be sent out to agree on a verdict of insanity.
After all, whoever the fanatic was that the defense put on the stands, he was not sane, and was certainly no longer Richard Becker, the actor.
For Dr. Charles Tedrow, the patient in restraining room 16 was a constant involvement. He was unable to divorce himself from the memory of a night three years before, when he had sat in an orchestra seat at the Henry Miller Theater, and seen Richard Becker, light and adroit, as the comical Tosspot in that season’s hit comedy, Never a Rascal.
He was unable to separate his thoughts from the shape and form of the actor who had so immersed himself in The Method that for a time, in three acts, he was a blundering, maundering, larcenous alcoholic with a penchant for pomegranates and (as Becker had mouthed it onstage) “barratry on the low seas!” Separate them from this weird and many–faceted creature that lived its many lives in the padded cell numbered 16? Impossible.
At first, there had been reporters, who had come to interview the Good Doctor in charge of Becker’s case; and to the last of these (for Dr. Tedrow had instituted restrictions on this sort of publicity) he had said, “To a man like Richard Becker, the world was very important. He was very much a man of his times; he had no real personality of his own, with the exception of that one overwhelming faculty and need to reflect the world around him. He was an actor in the purest sense of the word. The world gave him his personality, his attitudes, his facade, and the reason for his existence. Take those away from him, clap him up in a padded cell — as we were forced to do — and he begins to lose touch with reality.”
“I understand,” the reporter had inquired carefully, “that Becker is re–living his roles, one after another. Is that true, Dr. Tedrow?”
Charles Tedrow was, above all else, a compassionate man, and his fury at this remark, revealing as it did a leak in the sanitarium’s security, was unlike him. “Richard Becker is undergoing what might be called, in psychiatric terms, ‘induced hallucinatory regression.’ In his search for some reality, there in that room, he has fastened onto the method of assuming characters’ moods he had played onstage. From what I’ve been able to piece together from reviews of his shows, he is going back: from the most recent to the next and the next and so on.”
The reporter had asked more questions, had made more superficial and phantasmagoric assumptions, until Dr. Charles Tedrow had concluded the interview forcibly.
But even now, as he sat across from Richard Becker in the quiet office, he knew that almost nothing the reporter had conceived could rival what Becker had done to himself.
“Tell me, Doctor,” the florid, bombastic traveling salesman who was Richard Becker asked, “what the hell’s new down the line?”
“It’s really very quiet, these days, Ted,” the physician replied. Becker had been this way for two months now: submerged in the part of Ted Rogat, the loudmouth philandering protagonist of Chayefsky’s The Wanderer. For six months before that he had been Marco Polo, and before that the nervous, slack–jawed and incestuous son of The Glass of Sadness.
“Hell, I remember one little chippie in, where was it, oh yeah, hell yes! It was K.C., good old K.C.! Man, she was a goodie! You ever been to K.C., Doc? I was a drummer in nylons when I worked K.C. Jeezus, lemme tell ya — ”
It was difficult to believe the man who sat on the other side of the table was an actor. He looked the part, he spoke the part, he was Ted Rogat, and Dr. Tedrow could catch himself from time to time contemplating the release of this total stranger who had wandered into Richard Becker’s cell.
He sat and listened to the story of the flame–hipped harlot in Kansas City who Ted Rogat had picked up in an Armenian Restaurant, and seduced with promises of nylons. He listened to it, and knew that whatever else was true of Richard Becker, this creature of many faces and many lives, he was no saner than the day he had killed that girl. After eighteen months in the sanitarium, he was going back, back, back through his acting career, and re–playing the roles; but never once coming to grips with reality.
In the plight and disease of Richard Becker, Dr. Charles Tedrow saw a bit of himself, of all men, of his times and the thousand illnesses to which mortal flesh heir.
He returned Richard Becker, as well as Ted Rogat, to the security and tiny world of room 16.
Two months later he brought him back, and spent a highly interesting three hours discussing group therapy with Herr Doktor Ernst Loebisch, credentials from the Munich Academy of Medicine and the Vienna Psychiatric Clinic. Four months after that, Dr. Tedrow got to know the surly and insipid Jackie Bishoff, juvenile delinquent and hero of “Streets of Night.”
And almost a year later — to the day — Dr. Tedrow sat in his office with a bum, a derelict, a rheumy–eyed and dissipated vagabond who could only be the skid from Sweet Miracles, Richard Becker’s first triumph, twenty–four years before.
What Richard Becker might look like, without camouflage, in his own shell, Tedrow had no idea. He was, now, to all intents and purposes, the seedy old tramp with the dirt caked into the sagged folds of his face.
“Mr. Becker, I want to talk to you.”
Hopelessness shined out of the old bum’s eyes. There was no answer.
“Listen to me, Becker. Please listen to me, if you’re in there somewhere, if you can hear me. I want you to understand what I’m about to say; it’s very important.”
A croak, cracked and forced, came from the bum’s lips, and he mumbled, “I need’a drink, yuh go’ uh drink fuh me, huh . . . ”
Tedrow leaned across, his hand shaking as he took the old bum’s chin in his palm, and held it fixed, staring into this stranger’s eyes. “Now listen to me, Becker. You’ve got to hear me. I’ve gone through the files, and as far as I can tell, this was the first part you ever played. I don’t know what will happen! I don’t know what form this syndrome will take after you’ve used up all your other lives. But if you can hear me, you’ve got to understand that you may be approaching a crisis point in your — in your life.”
The old bum licked cracked lips.
“Listen! I’m here, I want to help you, I want to do something for you, Becker. If you’ll come out for an instant, just a second, we can establish contact. It’s got to be now or — ”
He left it hanging. He had no way of knowing if–what. And as he lapsed into silence, as he released the bum’s chin, a strange alteration of facial muscles began, and the derelict’s countenance shifted, subtly ran like mercury, and for a second he saw a face he recognized. From the eyes that were no longer red–rimmed and bloodshot, Dr. Charles Tedrow saw intelligence peering out.
“It sounds like fear, Doctor,” he said.
And, “Goodbye, once more.”
Then the light died, the features shifted once again, and the physician was staring once more at the empty face of a gutter–bred derelict.
He sent the old man back to room 16. Later that day, he had one of the male nurses take in an 89-cent bottle of muscatel.
“Speak up, man! What in the name of God is going on out there?”
“I — I can’t explain it, Dr. Tedrow, but you’d better — you’d better get out here right away. It’s — it’s oh Jee–zus!”
“What is it? Stop crying, Wilson, and tell me what the hell is wrong!”
“It’s, it’s number 16 . . . it’s . . . ”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Keep everyone away from that room. Do you understand? Wilson! Do you understand me?”
“Yessir, yessir. I’ll — oh Christ — hurry up Doc . . . ”
He could feel his pajama pants bunched around his knees, under his slacks, as he floored the pedal of the ranch wagon. The midnight roads were jerky in the windshield, and the murk that he raced through was almost too grotesque to be a fact of nature.
When he slewed the car into the drive, the gatekeeper threw the iron barrier back almost spastically. The ranch wagon chewed gravel, sending debris back in a wide fan, as Tedrow plunged ahead. When he screeched to a halt before the sanitarium, the doors burst open and the senior attendant, Wilson, raced down the steps.
“This way, th–this way, Doctor Te — ”
“Get out of my way, you idiot, I know which direction!” he shoved Wilson aside, and strode up the steps and into the building.
“It started about an hour ago . . . we didn’t know what was happ — ”
“And you didn’t call me immediately? Ass!”
“We just thought, we just thought it was another one of his stages, you know how he is . . . ”
Tedrow snorted in disgust and threw off his topcoat as he made his way rapidly down the corridor to the section of the sanitarium that housed the restraining rooms.
As they came into the annex, through the heavy glass–portaled door, he heard the scream for the first time.
In that scream, in that tormented, pleading, demanding and hopelessly lost tremor there were all the sounds of fear he had ever heard. In that voice he heard even his own voice, his own soul, crying out for something.
For an unnameable something, as the scream came again.
“Give me some light!”
Another world, another voice, another life. Some evil and empty beseeching from a corner of a dust–strewn universe. Hanging there timelessly, vibrant in colorless agony. A million tired and blind stolen voices all wrapped into that one howl, all the eternal sadnesses and losses and pains ever known to man. It was all there, as the good in the world was sliced open and left to bleed its golden fluid away in the dirt. It was a lone animal being eaten by a bird of prey. It was a hundred children crushed beneath iron treads. It was one good man with his entrails in his blood–soaked hands. It was the soul and the pain and the very vital fiber of life, draining away, without light, without hope, without succor.
“Give me some light!”
Tedrow flung himself at the door, and threw back the bolt on the observation window. He stared for a long and silent moment as the scream trembled once more on the air, weightlessly, transparently, tingling off into emptiness. He stared, and felt the impact of a massive horror stifle his own cry of disbelief and terror.
Then he spun away from the window and hung there, sweat– drenched back flat to the wall, with the last sight of Richard Becker he would ever hope to see, burned forever behind his eyes.
The sound of his sobs in the corridor held the others back. They stared silently, still hearing that never–spoken echo reverberating down and down and down the corridors of their minds:
Give me some light!
Fumbling beside him, Tedrow slammed the observation window shut, and then his arm sank back to his side.
Inside room 16, lying up against the far wall, his back against the soft passive padding, Richard Becker looked out at the door, at the corridor, at the world, forever.
Looked out as he had in his first moment of life: purely and simply.
Without a face. From his hairline to his chin, a blank, empty, featureless expanse. Empty. Silent. Devoid of sight or smell or sound. Blank and faceless, a creature God had never deigned to bless with a mirror to the world. His Method now was gone.
Richard Becker, actor, had played his last part, and had gone away, taking with him Richard Becker, a man who had known all the sights, all the sounds, all the life of fear.
What can I tell you? When I was a kid in Painesville, Ohio, and involved in the intricacies of Jack Armstrong, The Green Hornet, I Love A Mystery, Hop Harrigan and Dick Tracy, anything was possible. Under the side porch of our house, magic lands of adventure and intrigue made themselves known to me in the pages of comic books that chronicled the adventures of the Sandman, Captain America and Bucky, the Human Torch, the Boy Commandos, Captain Marvel, Starman, Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, the Flash and (my favorite) Hawkman. My Saturday afternoons of quivering joy were secretively spent in the Utopia Theater, that stood next to the Cleveland Trust, where Kresge’s 5 and 10 now looms. And in that tiny movie house I saw my first Dick Tracy serial, starring Ralph Byrd. I saw the Shadow with Victor Jory. I shivered at The Clutching Hand and cheered Don Winslow Of The Navy and hissed as The Crimson Skull doomed the hero to a room whose walls came inexorably together. It was a golden time, before TV, in which the imagination and the need to be young were coupled with a world of wonders. In my world, at the corner of Harmon Drive and Mentor Avenue, was a wonderful dark woods, just like the one in