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on. Buddy kept looking over at our table—so there probably was. I can’t seem to get a line on Buddy. Older than Russ—perhaps thirty. Handsome. Too handsome. No, not handsome at all. Beautiful. And knows it. Perfectly groomed and combed and clad. I understand that a few years ago he was thought to be one of the best young dancers in New York, with a limitless future. Then he went skiing in Aspen, broke both legs and a hip and ended his career. So now, although he can demonstrate, he cannot dance a full routine. He covers his bitter frustration with an acid, put-down, caustic air. Complicated fellow. Ambitious?
    Larry spoke. “That’s what Clay meant about me doing the plow routine. He’s right. I apologize. These are touchy days. We’re all edgy—worried about getting off on the wrong foot. It can happen. More coffee?”
    “No, thank you.”
    “Well, let’s bail ourselves out of here, then. Check, Joe!”
    I asked, “Shouldn’t I pay for my own?”
    “Yes,” said Larry, “you should. But this time you’re not going to. Just don’t make a habit of it. I can’t afford it. I’m keeping nine women now.”
    Clay came back.
    “Are we off?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. We’ll be right on time.”
    Back to the theatre, and the agony of more auditions. The boy dancers this time. The drama even more heightened. The rejected boys seem to take it even worse than the girls.
    The Waits (boys and girls) are assembled at about 4:00. There are thirteen boys and nine girls.
    To my surprise, Dora Cohen, our rehearsal pianist, appears, and each one of the Waits does a chorus of a song. Some have brought their music, others give the pianist a title and a key, still others sing a cappella .
    “I’m mixed up,” I say to Clay.
    “How so?”
    “I thought these were the dancers .”
    “They are,” he says. “But that’s how it’s done these days. Later on, when we audition the singers, the picked ones’ll be asked to dance. Everybody has to be able to do everything in a musical.”
    Larry and Jenny sat together through all this, discussing each applicant carefully. I was happily relieved.
    “Look,” I said to Clay. “All that noise in the restaurant. As you said—a plow routine—they seem to be doing fine.”
    Clay smiled. “Playing the game, love. Playing the game. Right now, they’re about as sincere as a tap dancer’s smile.”
    In time, the twenty-two were cut down to sixteen. I took names, addresses, phone numbers, agent information—preparatory to the call-backs.
    Two days later. It is still going on. Open calls over. Equity calls over. Actors and actresses are auditioning, playing scenes, reading from our script, singing, performing specialties.
    All morning, members of the staff have been drifting in and out. The songwriters, Mr. Clune, Cindy Sapiro (a money lady), Ivan; one afternoon SHE came in. Big fuss. She thought every audition She saw was awful, and left, saying: “You’ve sure got a long way to go, people.”
    Her husband, Val Belmonte, stays behind and makes a nuisance of himself. He has, of course, no official connection with the show—but everyone cossets him (or pretends to) because he is, after all, Husband to the Star, a standard show-business canker sore.
    A perfectly remarkable girl comes on—sings beautifully, then while she is dancing, this oaf sings out, “No contrast!” Again: “Where’s the contrast?” (What he means is that she faintly, very faintly, resembles his wife, The Star, in type.)
    The dancing girl flushes, misses a step, but goes on gamely and splendidly.
    We all applaud when she finishes. She starts off, and damned if he doesn’t yell again, “Where’s the contrast?”
    The girl on the stage stops, looks out into the auditorium, and says, “The contrast, Mr. Belmonte, is between professionals and amateurs,” and walks off.
    We all feel like applauding again, but no one does.
    Belmonte says, “What’s a matter with her ?”
    “Nothing,” says Larry.