atta girl: Tales from a Life in the Trenches of Show Business by Peggy Pope Page B

great if they’d played music before the show, during the intermission, or maybe around the explosion at the end of the first act. I never suggested it because even I knew the stage manager wouldn’t have cared for the extra cues he’d have to give.
    Once, during a setup at a new theater, I saw a light fall from the flies (the area where the backdrops are raised up and stored), knocking the hat off a stagehand’s head.
    “Where is the stage manager?” I asked.
    “Out securing towels somewhere,” said one of the crew.
     
    The leading lady prefaced her notes on how to play the nurse with: “You’ll never be able to do what I’m doing with the part, but here are a few tips.” She gave me a list of pauses, poses, and looks that I found intimidating and useless at the same time. I was sure I could do better. “I won’t be able to watch you rehearse,” she said. “You probably won’t be very good, but do my notes and you’ll catch on to it.”
    Horace, the leading man, put her on the train and wept as he saw her off. I ran into him as I was crossing the platform to the train that was loading our company. He stopped in front of me and stared through me as if in a state of shock. Then he went on, and I didn’t see him again for the rest of the day. He kept to himself in a private drawing room.
    My phone rang the next day.
    “It’s Horace,” he said. “How about coming over, and we can discuss the scene we have together?”
    “Aren’t we meeting with the stage manager later?”
    “Oh, he’s not going to help you.”
    “He isn’t?”
    “No, but I will. I’m good at it.”
    “Oh.”
    “Come by at four,” he said. “We can have some lunch here while we talk about it.”
    “Well, I don’t know—”
    “Sure you do. We’ll run some lines. That’ll be a big help to you.”
    “Oh, I see. Well, okay.”
    It was broad daylight. What could happen? I’d certainly learn more from him than from the stage manager, and it was nice of him to want to help.
    When Horace opened the door, he had an x-ray picture in his hand.
    “Look at this. They finally sent it to me.”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s an x-ray from when I had my appendix out. I think I’ll have it framed.” He showed me a white spot on the negative where his appendix used to be.
    “Oh, my goodness, you had appendicitis?”
    “No. I was going into rehearsal for my first Broadway show. I had the lead, and I thought it would be a good idea.”
    “Why?”
    “Just in case. I didn’t want it to burst when I was about to become a star.”
    “Aha. Well… good.”
    His room was a lot bigger than mine, with a view of the orange trees that perfumed the air everywhere. Years later, when I returned to California, I found that oil wells had replaced them and the air tasted metallic.
    Horace wheeled in a luncheon table with a white linen cloth, steak, salad, and rolls on it. He pulled my chair out, and we sat down to eat.
    “I like steak,” he said. “I have it every day… and a vegetable. Very important. Good for you. Protein. How’s yours? Okay?”
    “Yes,” I said, “thank you.”
    “So tell me about yourself.”
    “Well, I’ve been studying at the Berghof School.”
    “Bergdorf? Bergdorf Goodman has an acting school?”
    “No. Herbert Berghof. He’s Austrian. He’s a wonderful actor, and he has this school—”
    “I don’t believe in taking classes,” he interrupted. “Just get up there and do it. I never took a lesson in my life.”
    “Really?”
    “My first director taught me everything I needed to know. It comes naturally to me.”
    “Really?” I’d never had filet mignon before, and the salad was full of raisins. It looked like a rabbit had run through it. I wasn’t eager to eat it.
    “Eat your salad. You need greens,” he said.
    “Okay.” And I did.
    When the meal was over, Horace said, “Come over here and make yourself comfortable. I’ll run some lines with you.” He motioned to the bed.
    He propped some