CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

FIFTY ONE
Patti made her entrance into Elaine’s several
steps ahead of me. Once she was inside, I stepped
into the golden light of the saloon and people started
applauding, a few at first but soon the entire joint
turned in my direction and brought their mortal
hands together. I gave a slight bow. The place was
packed. Somebody shouted out, “Speech. Speech.”
I raised my open hands to quiet the room.

“Thank you, everyone. If your response is any
indication, Pretty Lady is a hit.”
There was more applause at this, but it faded
quickly as people wanted to hear what I was saying.
“However, there’s only one way I’ll know
for certain that this production is everything that it
should be.”
“Screw the critics,” someone called out from
further back in the dining room.
“And bless the bloggers,” I added, which
elicited a collective laugh from the crowd. These
people were in a good mood.
“But it is neither the critics nor the bloggers that
are the indicators by which I will judge my success.
No. The only true barometer tonight will be the size of
my bar bill tomorrow. So eat, drink and be merry!”
A few huzzahs were heard and more applause,
then most people resumed their conversations while back and wish me and the show well. There were tons of compliments. Patti brought me a full champagne flute and for a moment I felt quite as bubbly as the elixir of privilege and success. I pretended to take a sip.
I found my path blocked by Joe Franklin.
“I just wanted to thank you for the car.”
“It was my pleasure, Joe. Thank you for coming.”
“There aren’t a lot of people left who know how to do things right, but you’re one of them, Gus.”
“Well, thank you, Joe. Coming from you that really means something.”
“You know, I had your father on my TV show many years ago.”
A man hovering on shifting feet behind Joe’s shoulder spoke.
“That’s right. We did. We couldn’t get Andy Warhol at the time.”
Joe turned to him and spoke sharply.
“Spats, what kind of thing is that to say to the man?”
“It was a joke, Joe.”
Spats offered his hand and I took it and shook it.
“I’m Spats White. I was Joe’s producer for many years. You must have gotten the Andy Warhol comparison before – what with the sunglasses, the hair.”
“I have indeed, but not as often as my father did. He always said he never knew how to respond. I’m always flattered by the comparison. Though I think my hair is more blonde than white and it’s not a wig.”
“You’re right. It is blond. Just ignore Spats,” said Joe. “Anyway, I loved the show. I didn’t think anyone had it in them anymore to make a show shine like yours did tonight. If I had a hat I’d tip it in your direction.”
I could tell Joe was still embarrassed by the Andy Warhol comment. I wanted him to feel comfortable.
“Thanks so much, Joe. . . Spats White? You’re a ukulele player, right?”
“Yes I am.”
“I hope you’ve seen Ukulele, Baby.”
“Twice.”
There was no hurry. The entire evening was in front of me and I took a further moment with Joe Franklin, the man once known as the King of Nostalgia, who had the longest running talk show ever on TV, rather than plunging right into the crowd.
“Joe, I hope you’re going to give Pretty Lady a plug on your radio show.”
“You know I am. I want you to come on the show and talk about it.”
He reached into the breast pocket of his sports jacket and then handed me his business card.
“Call me this week, please. Call me Wednesday at two p.m. and we’ll set something up.”
I pocketed the card.
“I’ll do that.”
A circle of onlookers was forming around this meeting of the minds, and Joe was enjoying his moment with me.
“You know, your father was a very good looking man. You look a lot like him.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re taller than he was. He’d have been proud of you. I know that.”
“Thank you, Joe. I’m sure he’s up there watching over me, and smiling.”
“Well, you’ve got his genes and his eye for a hit, and that’s what counts.
“Joe, you’re the best.”
I clapped him on the arm.
“I don’t want to keep you from the rest of your guests. Remember. Call me. Wednesday. Two p.m.”
“I will call you, Joe.”
I moved further into the crowd and peered over their heads toward the back. My table was empty and beckoning, a waiter stationed to shoo away interlopers who might think to sit there. Patti was right at my elbow.
“Let’s see if we can find a seat. It looks like my table is open.”
She giggled at that.
Everyone was a well wisher tonight. The enthusiasm was genuine and the nagging tension that plagued me for the last two months was ebbing, draining from my body. We got through the crowd and settled in at the table.
Jeff Tuttle came over as soon as our order was placed with the waiter. He pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Great job, Gus. I have to tell you, Pretty Lady seemed a little obscure to me. But you proved me wrong. Welcome to the winners’ circle, young man.”
He offered his hand and I smiled and shook it.
“Thank you, Jeff. You’re very gracious.”
In my mind, I refer to Jeff Tuttle as the Energizer Bunny of Broadway. He blogs. He also organized a league of theatrical bloggers. He hosts seminars. He tweets, he posts messages about his blogs and tweets on Face Book. These messages come from all over the world, as he travels to check on productions of his shows in South Korea, Japan, Argentina, London and beyond. He hosts a lively winter holiday party for his on line followers. He also invented the TKTS app for iPhones. His energy seems boundless. He seems to welcome my presence on the scene, as it provides him an opportunity to impart worldly-wise wisdom to someone he thinks of as younger.
“Gus, I just want you to know that it would be a pleasure to partner with you on a production. I know you have my office phone number and email. Let’s get together one of these days soon.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m here for you. Having a hit can present its own set of problems – welcome problems, no doubt; sometimes an experienced hand can show you some short cuts, save you some time.”
“Thanks, Jeff. That’s very kind of you. Have you got a drink? Did you have some food yet?”
“I had a glass of champagne, and I’m sure I’ll have another. I’ll get to the food, too. And thank you for inviting the competition, so to speak.”
“Thank you for coming. I’m glad you liked the show.”
“Like It? I love it.”
He rose from his seat.
“You’ve got a great future ahead of you. We need more young people with your kind of vision, and guts.”
I laughed.
“Not to mention money, right?”
Jeff smiled.
“If it was about the money, we’d both be doing something else. You know that.”
“Very true, my friend.”
Jeff shook both Patti’s and my hands and turned to work the crowd.
Matt Dunleavy was next to offer his congratulations. He approached the table with a gorgeous young woman on his arm.
“Gus, great show. I loved every minute.”
“Thanks, Matt. Glad you could make it.”
“I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine,” he said, indicating the young lady. I did not ask where his wife was. Some things never change.
As our food was served, the lead actors and actresses from the show arrived. They came in en masse and their entrance led to another round applause, which Patti and I joined in on.
I ordered the dead flesh entrée and pushed it around on my plate with knife and fork. For a change I sat with my back to the wall, so I could see who was approaching the table. The actors eventually found me and there were warm hugs all around. After them, chorus girls from the entourage Page Six chronicled a few weeks ago arrived and swarmed Patti and I.
Jacob Macklin was all smiles when he came by with good wishes. He loves to see a show succeed, especially his clients’. Tony Crakow came by the table, all smiles.
A playwright has got to do what a playwright has got to do. Mac Watson was there. He was sort of a crasher. Patti and I realized we had forgotten to invite him. I was glad to see him. I was glad to see everybody who came.
The show is a smash and the party was a success. How could I ever have doubted myself?