“Sure. The grandest people in the world. Many of them are artists, real artists. That’s what makes it all the tougher.” The hand of this new Vic Wylie was on Joe’s shoulder. “Don’t let it tear you apart, kid. You can’t change it. It’s show business.”
Vic Wylie said, “Don’t let it tear you apart, kid. You can’t change it. It’s show business.”
But show business had changed for Joe Carlin. Pop Bartell’s appearance at Miss Robb’s desk to ask for mail or telephone calls became poignant with pathos. And the loungers were no longer a happy-go-lucky group of care-free Bohemians, snapping their fingers at to-morrow and laughing at to-day. Knowledge had come to the boy, and with knowledge had come, also, a stark understanding. The bright chatter was all at once a little too bright and brittle, and the gaiety was tarnished. Listening and watching, he caught the hidden nervous tension, the moments when smiles faltered, the meaning of those swift glances to the closed door behind which Vic Wylie had shows in the making and parts to be given out. He knew now how unsure were all their to-morrows, how precarious, how uncertain. All the light-hearted magic of their easy fellowship was gone and they were stripped of their masks, of what Archie Munn called “a front.” They were ordinary human beings, men and women beset by the everyday worries of getting a job and never knowing how long the job would last.
Joe thought, with the knot back in his throat, “Oh, but they’re brave!” That was what hit him hardest—their unquenchable optimism, their unbreakable hope. To-morrow they might crash the big time. It was always to-morrow. Hadn’t it taken Frank Bacon thirty years to reach Broadway with Lightnin’? Pop Bartell had been the first to tell him about Frank Bacon; remembering the day, he could also remember the wistfulness, the yearning in Pop’s eyes. Brave, gallant people who, forever living in uncertainty and doubt, could nevertheless put on a mask each day and live out each day with a smile.
Panic touched Joe Carlin. He didn’t want to live like that. The gallant heart of show people, yes; but not the constant uncertainty. He wanted the feeling of security, if there was such a miracle as security in radio. He couldn’t go on forever talking of a mythical to-morrow and never having an actual to-day. He couldn’t go on loafing in an outer office and having his father leave money each week on his bedroom dresser. He couldn’t let somebody else support him.
Then what was he doing all day, every day, at Vic Wylie’s? There were a few other independent producers, there were radio stations, there were advertising agencies with accounts that bought shows and radio time. Wasn’t it common sense to make the rounds? Why didn’t all those gay, idle show people make the rounds? He asked Archie Munn.
“You don’t make a dash for the 5:30 train at 4:30,” Archie told him. “Radio’s dead until the end of August. If something breaks suddenly, the producers know where to find the people they want.”
“How many producers know me?” Joe asked, anxious.
Archie Munn said: “Vic takes care of his people. Leave it to Vic.”