30
Although it’s been almost six months, it feels as though time has stood still in the office of Barney Sparks. He’s wearing the same blue sport coat he had on the first time, and when he pounds his chest to help a cough escape, dust explodes like tiny fireworks in the rays of the late afternoon sun, just as it did on the day we met.
I’ve been seated for about twenty minutes now in the familiar giant chair that makes it impossible to sit up straight, and over a cup of the extremely weak coffee he poured for us both (“I’m not supposed to be having this—Mrs. Sparks would have my hide.”), I’ve managed to explain much of what’s happened since the day I first climbed the creaky stairs to his office. It all tumbled out in a rush: how I booked my first audition and signed with Joe Melville, how I got fired from the club and had to go back to catering, the movie I turned down and being dropped by the agency. I even told him about going to my first premiere and how exciting I thought it would be, but how disappointing it ultimately was—although I didn’t tell him all the reasons why that night was so painful.
“Horrible way to see a movie. All that glad-handing. I avoid them like the PLAGUE,” he agreed, shakily raising his chipped white mug to his lips for another sip.
And with that, we arrived at the day I called him—just last week—when I stammered and struggled to get out even the most basic information—my name and why I was calling.
“Franny BANKS. My favorite KLUTZ,” he’d bellowed cheerfully into the phone that day, and then asked if I’d like to come by on Friday around four.
So here we are, Friday a little after four, and I’m comfortably sunken into the ancient chair, wondering, but afraid to ask yet, if Barney Sparks still might want to be my agent.
“My episode of Kevin and Kathy is supposed to air next week,” I tell him, trying not to sound too naively optimistic. “Could that be a—do you think that could mean anything, or uh, do anything for me?”
Barney tips precariously back in his chair, the hinges creaking in protest. “GOOD NEWS,” he yells to the ceiling. “It’s the first episode back on the air and there’ll be lots of press. BAD NEWS—the show is in its ninth year and has lost some juice—but HEY, you never know.”
“It’s just that, well, I set a sort of deadline for myself, and it just passed actually, and I swore I wouldn’t be one of those people who stays too long, and I’m wondering if I’m fooling myself into thinking that I’m—”
I stop, unable to even say the words.
“GOOD enough?” Barney barks the words in a matter-of-fact tone, as if I’ve just said the most obvious thing in the world.
“Well, yes.”
“My dear,” he sighs, leaning forward on his desk and clasping his hands. “My father, the great theater director Irving Sparks, often asked his actors: ‘How do you get to Carnegie Hall?’ ”
I stare at him, not sure if he’s joking. “Um. Hold on. Are you telling me that ‘practice, practice, practice’ was your father’s saying?”
“Well, he never got the CREDIT for it, but do you think Jack Benny came up with that line himself? HA! A talented comic, yes, but a wordsmith like my father he was NOT.”
“Wow.”
“YES. And it seems to me perhaps you’ve not yet had enough practice. That comes with time. And AGE.”
Barney seems positively cheerful about my age, as if approaching twenty-seven years old isn’t a time to panic. He’s talking to me as though I’m young. Doesn’t he know Diane Keaton was twenty-four when she understudied the lead in Hair on Broadway, and Meryl Streep won an Academy Award before she turned thirty? But for some reason, he doesn’t seem to think I’m behind at all.
“But even with all the auditions I’ve had, and being in acting class—I just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m doing wrong, or something I’m not doing right—either way, there’s a trick I haven’t learned, a secret that other people know but I don’t. It’s like these nightmares I get sometimes: I’m onstage and I don’t know what play I’m doing, or there’s a song or a speech I’m supposed to perform but I open my mouth and nothing comes out. And I’m not sure if I have that feeling because I don’t have enough experience, or practice, like you said, or if it’s that I don’t know the secret … the secret language …”
I’ve lost the point I was trying to make and I’m out of breath, as if I’ve just climbed Barney’s four flights of stairs a second time.
I look up from the threadbare spot on the worn Persian carpet where my gaze has been fixed, to see that Barney’s hands are folded neatly on his desk, and his blue eyes are bright and focused, as if he’s very interested in what I’ve been saying and has all the time in the world in case I’d like to continue. He raises his eyebrows and smiles encouragingly, but I realize that, for once, I’ve actually said everything I can think of—at least for now.
“My dear,” he says, taking a shallow breath that sounds like two pieces of sandpaper being rubbed together. “It’s sad but TRUE. Even IF you’re talented, this business is NOT for everyone. Think of dear Marilyn. She was just TOO sensitive.”
“Like me?”
Barney frowns for a moment as if I’ve confused him. But then his frown lifts a little and his eyes light up, and his shoulders start to shake up and down. He allows a thin whistle-like wheezing sound to escape from his chest, signaling that either his respiratory system has shut down completely or he’s laughing—I can’t tell which. For a precarious moment, I’m truly unsure whether I should smile at him or call for emergency help.
“On the contrary. You may be sensitive INSIDE, but what I see on the outside is a SOLDIER. You fell down on that stage that night and stood right back UP, better and more focused than before. You didn’t CRY, or forget your place, or ask to start again. ALL of which I HAVE seen. You think there’s a trick, something the successful people out there know that you don’t know. I understand the feeling, but I’m here to tell you there is NOT.”
Barney stretches his hands over his head, which causes his office chair to lurch back so far that I’m certain he’s going to flip backward and land on his head. But it stops at an impossible angle, almost parallel to the floor, and he somehow avoids tipping over.
“My DEAR. Did I ever tell you what my father, the great Broadway director Irving Sparks, always said?”
“Well, uh, yes, you have mentioned a few …”
“To his actors, I mean. Before each run-through? The best advice for actors I can think of.”
I try my best to lean forward from the sunken seat of my chair. My throat feels dry. My heart is beating fast. I don’t want to miss a word.
Barney looks into the distance with a dreamy expression from his almost prone position, and then turns to me and speaks so softly I have to strain even farther forward to hear him.
“He said: ‘Remember, kids. Faster, funnier, louder.’ ”
I’m trying my best to stay forward but the chair finally wins and sucks me back into its depths, the cushions deflating with a sigh. I’m sucked backward but I’m still gripping the arms of the chair tightly, waiting for him to continue, but he’s turned his face away now and seems lost in a happy memory.
“Wait, I’m sorry. That’s it? That’s the best advice he ever gave?”
He returns his chair with a lurch to its regular upright position and wheels himself back to his desk, clasping his hands again and returning his light blue gaze to me. “Yes, dear. That’s the advice. Why? You’ve heard that before?”
“Well, yes. I mean, of course. It’s a famous expression. Everyone’s heard that.”
“Have they, dear?” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “How wonderful!”
“But, I guess,” I begin, fumbling for the word. “I guess I always thought it was sort of a, a joke?”
Barney looks confused.
“I mean, not a joke exactly, but, well, it makes it all sound so simple, I guess. Too simple.”
He gives me a long look, then draws in a breath so deep it whistles. “FASTER—don’t talk down to the audience, take us for a spin, don’t spell everything out for us, we’re as smart as you—assume we can keep up; FUNNIER—entertain us, help us see how ridiculous and beautiful life can be, give us a reason to feel better about our flaws; LOUDER—deliver the story in the appropriate size, DON’T be indulgent or keep it to yourself, be generous—you’re there to reach US.” Barney takes a few gulps of air and beats his fist just once on his chest. “There you go, my dear. It might SOUND simple, but if I know you, you’ll spend your life dedicated to getting it right. And that’s it, my dear. THAT’S the whole banana.”