“Rushed to death, Joe. Got to arrange an audition for you at FWWO. We won’t bother with the other two stations. Quick now on a pick-up from yesterday. I come in a door. You’re a little surprised, a little amused to see me. Give.”
Joe caught a chuckling, good-natured, rising inflection. “Hel—lo.”
“Nice,” said Amby. “You’re learning.” He rummaged in a drawer of the desk and brought out a script. “City Boy. You take Al Treacy, Joe. That was Sonny Baker’s part. Always in front of the mike; don’t forget. I’m due at FWWO.”
How, Joe asked an empty office, could an agent coach you if he was never around when you rehearsed? The question bothered him. Of course, Amby knew what he was doing, but.... The “but” gave him his first uneasiness.
He had never before seen a production script. Fascinated, he began to read. Why, it had everything—dialogue, directions, sound. As he read memory stirred and came alive. He’d heard this show. It must have been two or three months ago. He turned back to the first page and there was the date of production. March 18th. Of course!
To-day he became lost again in glamour. He spoke lines as he remembered Sonny Baker, the Al Treacy of the show, to have spoken them. There was one scene toward the end.... He searched the script and found what he wanted:
Sound—Closing of door.
Al: (Earnestly) Listen, Mister. I like you—
Joe began to read the scene to a dead microphone:
Al: Listen, Mister. I like you. I think you’re all right. But this neighborhood can’t make you out. It’s a friendly neighborhood; there’s a lot of music, and singing, and loud talking and visiting back and forth. You don’t talk much, Mister. You don’t make friends. The neighborhood’s beginning to whisper about you. They say you’re not their kind. They say you’re queer. Don’t you see? You got to snap out of it....