Get into a show, and let us know about it. We go see everything.

He'd give an embarrassed grin. "Get into a show" yes . . . "Get into a show." To attempt this, he'd answer any open casting call. These affairs were most often at mid-town rehearsal halls, centrally located in the city's busy, busy theatre district. There'd be a room with a mirrored wall, sometimes a ballet bar, sometimes benches along a wall, sometimes folding chairs; but always a sameness. The waiting rooms would become incredibly crowded. Actors, actresses, would-be actors, would-be actresses sitting, standing, leaning, pushing. There'd be an overflow into the corridor and stairway long before the auditioners arrived. Well... I'm sure going to keep trying.

His scenes done for a weekly scene-study class had been going well—and he was "really learning." He'd have a partner and scene assigned to him. The two of them would learn their lines, study their roles, rehearse together and enact the scene before the class for a teacher who would give suggestions; criticism which they'd incorporate into their second week's work sessions. Already he'd worked on and presented excerpts from "Fourposter," "Lady's Not For Burning," "Night Must Fall." With Mary Rawlings, a large-framed, blonde girl, he was preparing "Country Girl." The role of Bernie Dodd was giving him trouble, both in the understanding and execution. But this was a kind of trouble he loved to think about and attempt to overcome.

He saw "Shane" again.

It started to rain and as he walked home, feeling himself deep and protected in his raincoat, he thought about the movie. She doesn't make movies any more .. too bad too... but she certainly had her day . . . last I read, she did “Peter Pan” on Broadway. Palance takes twenty minutes to take off those gloves . . . what a great bit.

•

Once again home, he re-arranged the magazines on the coffee-table . . . the Look peeping out from beneath the Life and the New Yorker on top. . . his college "Oscar" standing on the right. No . . . shift the magazines over . . . stand "Oscar" on the left . . . the ash-tray further over . . . there, that's it. Then he went to bed.

It was a Tuesday, and walking hurriedly down Lexington Avenue-not that he was going anywhere in particular, but it was the time of day when the hectic pace on the city sidewalks is infectious-he met a fraternity brother, Gordon. Gordon McElroy, who had been a big wheel in that organization when he'd pledged. That first year in school, Gordon was a real help to him. That had been wonderful, having such a top man on campus interested in helping him. During those great-for-the-ego rushing days, Gordon was always in the Sigma Nu group who had wined and dined him and his friends in an attempt to win their favor. And it was Gordon who laughingly-but constantly-cornered him on campus, adding to his pledge demerit card when he couldn't recite that never-to-be-learned Greek alphabet. They had never become very friendly because, after all, there's a world of difference between a freshman and a senior. But they did chat amicably at chapter meetings, and he'd always thought Gordon "a great guy"-one of the few in the frat to be admired and emulated. Following year, he'd seen Gordon briefly one Homecoming Weekend. Year after, same Weekend, even more briefly. That was when Gordon waved to him across the dining hall. And now, here he was, in the middle of Manhattan, looking so at ease and comfortable, so prosperous. Gordon was first quite surprised and then seemingly pleased with their chance meeting. As for him, he was just overwhelmed with pleasure and a strange gratitude.

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