“Give me work! I must have something to do. I want a job! My father needs work badly....”
Joe was stone, carved and motionless. It was coming to his part. The announcer said: “And now we’ll hear from you, Mr. X....” His own voice was in his ears.
He shook, and went hot and cold, and hot and cold again. He saw Lucille watching him and tried to stop shaking.
“We’ve all had the thrill,” Lucille whispered, “of listening to our first platter.”
It was over. His voice still rang in his ears. If he could only go off some place, and sit down, and rest! Radio certainly took it out of you; you earned what you got. The cast was drifting around, breaking up. He went out with Amby. He could still hear his voice. After all, what difference did weariness make? It passed away. And Vic Wylie wanted to talk to him, and FKIP owed him about fifty dollars. The fifty dollars was more than money. It was a symbol, a promise for all the future. It meant that a radio station thought he was a good enough actor to pay money to.
“Amby,” he said, “when do we get paid?”
“For what?” Amby was startled.
“The show.”
“This I Want Work show?”
“What other show did I work?”