THE AUDITION

"Lock the gates! Call security! Don't let this guy off the lot!" I was in the office suite of Bill Orr and Hugh Benson, VPs at Warner Brothers and the heads of television. Benson was yelling into the phone, his blond mustache twitching and his blue eyes examining me.

I had just finished reading a scene I'd already done several times that day for producers under Orr's command, lower-echelon types who occupied correspondingly lower floors in the tan stucco producer's building at the studio in Burbank. The character I'd just read was a sniveling cavalry deserter and would-be rapist. I must have been pretty convincing, because Benson became very excited.

"Get Eddie Foy in here! Get a contract ready! This kid doesn't leave the lot! He's ours!"

. . . . . .

Hugh Benson was yelling like he'd just discovered sex. Was he nuts? Was I that good?

I began to entertain thoughts of thespian genius. Then a flash of reality kicked in. If Benson got this agitated over a cowboy type who could ride a horse and maybe speak his lines with some honesty and emotion, what did he do when a Brando or Olivier walked in the door.? Who was he kidding?

Casting director Eddie Foy, Jr., a scion of the famed vaudeville family, sprinted into the room. He stood between Benson and me, and while they huddled, my agent took me aside.

"They want to sign you," he said. "You're the luckiest guy in he world."

. . . . . .

WHAT WAS IT?

I didn't need a second invitation. She went in ahead of me. Her dress fell to the floor. She slipped into bed and I followed. This enchanting delicate nymph was mine. My busy hands roamed from her arm to her back to her waist-and then to a shocking reality: I had passionately caressed a cold, hard plastic cup. I leapt out of bed swearing.

"What's wrong?" she cooed.

"Who the hell are you?" I was shaking.

"I thought you knew, you rogue." She seemed hurt and surprised. She told me who she was. Or he did. Or both.