The Music of Your Life (13 page)

“Ouch. That. Hurt,” Ethan says, in what sounds like the deliberate flat tone of a robot in old '50s sci-fi films. “Please. Don't. Do. That. Again.”

“You're an asshole,” whispers Toby, and leans down and kisses the place he just swatted. “Can I get anybody another drink?”

“Merlot?” says Ethan, back in rewind phase.

“Uncle Will?”

“Nothing for me, Toby.”

He goes off, and Ethan and I sit in silence as Desi (Dessie) enters the scene.

“Lucy! What do you think you're doing?” he bellows from the screen, and the studio audience emits an unseen cloud of laughter. The showgirls look at each other in the background and titter mildly. I notice what's-her-name … God, what
was
her name, the lesbian? Oh well. She keeps glancing my way in the scene, trying, I guess, to make some sort of eye contact, something I certainly hadn't noticed at the time. She really must have been into me from the get-go. God. Where on earth would she be now? Oh, if I had only been able to tell her right then and there what the deal was. I've thought about that many times over the years. She might have gotten a big kick out of it. Or not.

“Will,” Ethan says, Toby-less from the sofa. “Tobias said you can also be seen in a film with John Wayne, is that true?”

“Yes, that's true, believe it or not. John Wayne, of all people.
The Searchers
.”

“Directed by John Ford. Very impressive. Any relation?”

“Yes. He was my grandfather.”

“Oh my God,” he says, and this little tidbit seems to get him in a tizzy. “I can't believe Toby didn't mention—”

“I'm kidding, Ethan.”

And his mouth opens slightly, then closes again, trying to figure me out. Then he smiles wanly, though rather condescendingly; it's clear he realizes that, well, yes, I've kind of gotten him back, and he turns his pretty, self-involved gaze back to the television.

“I'm very interested in traditional Hollywood portrayals of masculinity,” he says, composed and scholarly once more. “I'm actually writing my thesis on it. I don't know if Tobias told you that. And, of course, Wayne is a huge benchmark in this particular area.”

Toby returns with a tray of three drinks. He carries it beautifully, like the Manhattan cater-waiter he sometimes has to be when his freelance magazine assignments get scarce.

“Brought you a vodka soda anyway,” he says, and as he hands me the drink, he leans down and kisses me on the forehead. “Thanks for being patient,” he whispers. I wink no problem, and he rejoins Ethan on the couch, scooting in, I notice, even closer this time.

“You wouldn't happen to have a copy of
The Searchers
around, would you, Will?” Ethan asks. “I'd really like to see you in it. Of course, I've studied the film several times, but that was before I met you.”

“Yes, Ethan, I do, as a matter of fact, being such a huge fan of John Wayne's. He was my all-time favorite actor, you know, he was so brilliant, such a consummate interpreter of text, really, and, of course, politically, he represented everything I stand for.”

Ethan is clearly not quite sure how to take anything I say at this point. Toby glances nervously at me with his
What the hell are you doing, Uncle Will?
look.

“I'm kidding, Ethan. Again.” For all their supposed sophistication, sometimes the younger generation just doesn't seem to grasp irony. Or maybe what they understand is post-irony, and I'm still stuck in irony. Or sarcasm. “Yes, I have the damn
Searchers
,” I say, suddenly feeling testy and—
mildewed
. “I'm in three very minor scenes, and Toby knows exactly where they are.”

Toby goes over to the video cabinet and finds
The Searchers
, and begins to switch the tapes in the VCR.

“John Ford mastered quite a few genres, didn't he?” Ethan begins, as if giving a lecture. “There was the western, of course, of which I believe he was the undisputed master. Then, the war films,
What Price Glory, Mister Roberts
…”

CALIFORNIA, 1955

“Why can't they get this stupid shot set up, anyway?” I say to Luke, who's definitely become my best friend on the set of this picture. We're on location, in the desert, near Baja. “We've been waiting forever.” I've done enough extra work by now to talk shop, the way I used to hear other extras carrying on when I was just starting out. I was always too intimidated to say anything myself back then.

“Sure seems like it,” says Luke. He and I have gotten along real well since we met a couple of weeks ago, when we got hired as extras in the new John Wayne picture. He's a southern boy too, from South Carolina. Told me nobody in his family has had anything to do with him since he left the farm two years ago to come to Hollywood. “They didn't have too much to do with me before that, anyhow,” he said, “so it don't make all that much of a difference.”

Luke's just about everything I like in another guy: he's handsome, looks kind of like a young Clark Gable, but in a down-home sort of way, big ol' movie-star grin and these wide-set brown eyes that are just perfect for staring off onto the prairie in the final shot of a western—no wonder he got hired! I told him I thought he had what it took to be a big star, and he smiled at me sheepishly and chucked me under the chin, then slapped me on the back. Much as I hate to admit it, that little gesture sent a hot rush all the way through me, and endeared him to me like crazy, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about him since, even in bed at night with Arthur. I feel pretty guilty about that, so I've been trying to make myself not think so much about Luke. At least at night.

The things I don't tell Luke are: that I was a showgirl on
I Love Lucy
last year, and that Arthur is my special friend. (Arthur says we're “lovers,” but somehow I can't learn to use that word.) Arthur is the second assistant director on this movie—he helped me get the job; out here, it's always who you know—and he's also personally in charge of handling Mr. Wayne. This means the two of us have to be real, real careful about the way we act around each other on the set. Arthur has basically said we should behave kind of like we don't even know each other, or like we're just friendly, working acquaintances. (“But you know I love you, Willie. You know that, right? Who loves you, Willie? Huh? Who loves you?”) Fine with me, I guess—it gives me more freedom to spend time with Luke. Besides, Arthur's been real edgy on this picture. He's afraid that big he-man types like Mr. Wayne and John Ford will think he's “light in the loafers” (that's how he put it) if he's not careful. But I guess I shouldn't be too hard on him; he's promised me he'll get Mr. Wayne to autograph a picture to my brother Aaron, who loves the “Duke” more than anything. I would have asked Mr. Wayne myself, but on this picture word has come down that no extras are allowed to approach the stars unless approached or spoken to first.

“That Natalie Wood sure is growing up to be a pretty girl,” Luke whispers to me, as Natalie walks past us-friendly but shy—with her on-set tutor on the way to her trailer. We're still in our cowboy outfits, and hanging out in the little coffee and doughnut tent that the production people have set up for day players and bit-part players. Luke and I both got upgraded yesterday when one of the AD's made us part of a posse of five. This means that I've graduated from the extras tent, which is nice, because the extras tent is usually a much farther walk from the set. I should know; that's where I've been on my last two pictures.

“Yeah, she's pretty, all right,” I say. “But lots of girls in Hollywood are pretty. Besides, she's too young for you, Luke. She's jailbait.”

“Shit, in Hollywood there ain't no such thing as jailbait,” he says, and we both laugh hard at this. “If she's jailbait, then you are too, Pretty Boy.”
Pretty Boy
. Those words just kind of hang there for a few moments; they ring in my ear.

“Well, still,” I say back, finally. “You better keep your distance there, pardner.” I mean from Natalie Wood, of course; I hope he doesn't think I mean from me. I wouldn't want Luke to be distant at all, even though I know I should.

And he grins up at me, then laughs and claps me hard on the back, which sends another hot little shiver running all the way through my body. I don't know why he makes me feel like this; sometimes I can't even look at him, and sometimes I can't
stop
looking at him.

In the distance, we can see all the cables, the riggings, the light poles, the crew running around, fixing things, the extras hovering all around. Mr. Ford confers with the first AD, who then barks something at Arthur, who then runs around and barks at everybody else. Arthur is not a barker most of the time; I guess he thinks that being gruff and loud makes him look more manly in the presence of Mr. Ford and Mr. Wayne. Maybe so, but it sure doesn't make him more likable. At least not to me.

“Do you date many girls out here, Will?” Luke asks, in his deep, country-boy voice, but wearing a puppyish expression on his face.

“Nah, I don't have much time. I have a job at a flower shop, too, when I'm not working in the movies.”

He studies me a bit, but says nothing.

From the PA system: “THE SHOT IS NOW SET. WILL ALL PRINCIPALS, KEY PLAYERS, AND BACKGROUND REPORT TO THE SET AT THIS TIME?”

It's Arthur on the loudspeaker, of course. I can tell he tries to make his voice more manly when he speaks on that thing.

Luke and I go to mount our horses, although we won't be riding them. In this scene, Mr. Wayne and his men receive instructions from a “friendly posse” (that's us, that's how they call us in the shooting script—Luke kept calling it “friendly pussy”) on how to reach the next town beyond the mountain range, so the shot here is all talk, no riding. Luke and I are side by side on horseback in the shot, and all we have to do is pay attention to the principals; one of the other posse guys has the lines. Mr. Wayne emerges from his trailer, in full makeup and with a white protective cloth tied under his chin. He is helped onto his horse by two assistants. It's Arthur, in fact, who runs up to untie Mr. Wayne's makeup cloth, and I try to catch his eye, but he doesn't look over at me, just attends to Mr. Wayne and rushes off. I decide to not feel guilty about paying so much attention to Luke after all.

“OK, let's nail this sonofabitch before we lose the light, everybody,” Mr. Wayne says.

And the shot, which lasts all of thirty seconds, gets a take. Mr. Wayne doesn't fuss around, and usually gets a scene in one or two takes.

“Cut!” More talking among Mr. Ford, camera people, and ADs. All of us, even Mr. Wayne, stay in place.

“Anybody got a cigarette?” he asks, to nobody in particular, and several starstruck extras reach like lightning into their prairie purses, saddlebags, and costume pockets hoping to find one. Anything to do something nice for the star, hoping he'll remember them for it later. While we wait, I feel Luke kind of shuck his horse over closer to mine, but real subtle-like, so that no one, including Arthur, will yell at him for disturbing the shot composition. He smiles at me, that old country-boy way that I know so well from guys back home. Then suddenly I sense something that makes me sit up a little straighter. I'm not sure, but it feels like Luke's leg is rubbing up against mine, blue jean calf to blue jean calf, cowboy boot to cowboy boot. I look over at him; he doesn't look back at me this time, but he doesn't move his leg either. I look at Mr. Wayne and hope he won't notice. The same goes for Mr. Ford. That wouldn't be good; I'm counting on my folks being able to see me in this one, but not with a boy's leg rubbing up against mine. Damn. But I figure they probably won't notice that. Especially if pros like Mr. Ford and Mr. Wayne don't. I keep my calf and boot right where they are, and so does Luke.

The shot gets tried again. “Action!”

“Cut!”

And again. Finally, another time. We hold for clearance.

Arthur on the PA: “BACKGROUND STAY IN PLACE, PLEASE. WAITING.”

Then: “SHOT IS GOOD. THANK YOU.”

Luke's leg stays on mine the whole time we're waiting for clearance. Finally we break, and I breathe again.

On our way back to the trailer, I wave bye at Arthur, but he gives me only a small flick of his hand, then looks around to see if anybody noticed. It's funny about Arthur; he's acting so different on this picture from the way he usually does, which is usually friendly, laughing with everybody, real relaxed. And away from movie sets, he gets even more relaxed than that, and sometimes even acts nellie at parties, especially those that we've been to in West Hollywood, and at George Cukor's house. But being around “men's men” seems to make him jumpy and scared. I'm sure he's probably none too happy to see how much time I'm spending with Luke, either, although he may not have even noticed. I'm starting to think I have more in common with Luke anyhow, both of us being actors and all.

“Hey, come over here with me, Will,” Luke says. “I've got a picture in my suit pants of my girlfriend back home that I wanna show you. I think she looks like Natalie Wood, if you wanna know the truth.”